The Writer's Guild

[Becoming-Bane]

http://www.blotsandplots.com/blog/write-on-paperThis is some advice that helped me. Also I have been listening to a podcast about writing called the dead robots society and they are also helpful.

[petefeet]

 

“I wonder,†Jose said. His white teeth clashed with his latte colored skin. His dark stubbles (stubble) twitched as he spoke. “Why there are no hairpins in (the) pinball machine? I mean-- hairpins are everywhere.â€

 

“Aha-aha-ha-Hah†Xiaoying produced a sound similar to a coughing fit. She place (placed) a hand on Jose’s thick shoulder and rubbed it through his green t-shirt. “Jose, you are so funny!â€

 

He wasn’t-- really not. His jokes always made almost no sense at all (found this awkward to read) , but Xiaoying laughed anyway.

 

They were in a dimly lit bar, in front of the troublesome pinball machine. It was Wednesday night, and the crowd were moderate.

 

“Let’s see here,†Jose lifted up the lid of the electronic thing. Red and yellow lights flashed, illuminated his profile. His straight nose was bathed in yellow light.

 

“Hmm, I don’t think there is any new problems. It’s just dusteeeeeeey.â€

 

He pronounced it like it meant something, so Xiaoying laughed again, and now it sounded like a mammal’s mating call, “Eeeeh, eh, iie, eheheh.†(liked this bit)

 

She walked toward the counter. His image still projects (projecting?) brightly in her mind. Slim. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow, narrow hip. His lips were devious, and his eyes were flashing madness.

 

Even so, he didn’t seem to understand the advance she was giving him over the years of working in this bar together. She asked him to solve silly little problems she could do herself-- like fixing a faucet. She made cookies for him. Somehow, Jose just stayed polite and friendly. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive enough.

 

Xiaoying sat down behind the counter, assessing herself. She wasn’t bad looking. Her glossy hair was done well and fashionable. Her get up today was blue flannel and a pair of just-right jeans. Was she doing something wrong-- like was there a cilantro at (in) her teeth or something?

 

Never mind those. (Those what?) Tonight, she was going to ask him for a date. A movie. She would make sure they would go to dinner afterward and talked about the romance. She would know, then, what he liked most in women, what he found as a turn on. The thought made her flush. She felt a little vulnerable. It would be okay, she thought, now it’s 2015, a girl could ask a guy out.

 

She walked back to him, and noticed Jose was talking to Charles, the bar accountant. They were laughing. The nerd tipped his head backward from laughter so much the glasses almost fell off on the other side of his head.

 

“And-- the ball. How is the pinball not made of pin? Who knows! Right?†Charles said.

 

“Ahhuehuehue huehuehue Ahhuehue†Jose answered, and he squeezed Charles arm.      “That’s so funny! Charles, you’re so funny you know that?†Jose said.

 

“No, you’re funny,†Charles replied, a giant grin on his face. “You’re so funny it’s crazy.â€

 

Xiaoying smiled. She decided she would clean the tables for a few minutes before joining them. After all, it was not a busy night, and no one was playing pinball. 

 

 

The above are just a couple quick suggestions Phyto, please treat them in the spirit they are given <g>.

 

Based off the above, this is what I see.

 

-We have a woman named Xiaoying who along with Jose and Charles works in a bar.

-Xiaoying seems romantically interested in Jose though he doesn't look at her that way and she doesn't know why.

-It's possible that Jose and Charles are interested in each other romantically.

[leglocker]

http://www.blotsandplots.com/blog/write-on-paperThis is some advice that helped me. Also I have been listening to a podcast about writing called the dead robots society and they are also helpful.

This.  This was going to be my submission, but instead of adding a link, I would have just typed, write on paper.  It allows you to just write.  Neil Gaiman says that he likes writing on paper because to him, it doesn't feel real yet and he has more freedom.  On a get shit done note, you aren't distracted by whether or not something sounds good or if you need to add a little more detail. You just write. 

[Annabelle]

February 1 - 29, 2016 Challenge mini-challenge

 

B. Share a piece of writing advice that has really helped, or inspired you.

 

Ironically, one of the best pieces of advice came from my Archaeology professor about being overly wordy.

 

"Don't put a hammer into the story unless you plan on using it."

 

Sorta speaking to the depth some people go to set a really vivid scene that ultimately... doesn't effect or influence the story itself. It's helped me reign in some of my instinct to get into too much detail with inconsequential scenery.

[leglocker]

Ironically, one of the best pieces of advice came from my Archaeology professor about being overly wordy.

 

"Don't put a hammer into the story unless you plan on using it."

 

Sorta speaking to the depth some people go to set a really vivid scene that ultimately... doesn't effect or influence the story itself. It's helped me reign in some of my instinct to get into too much detail with inconsequential scenery.

That's pretty damn good.  Sometimes you write something and no one really gives a shit.  You should either give the reader a reason to care about the detail or remove it.  Otherwise it's just details for details sake and no one wants to read that.

[Phytomancer]

The above are just a couple quick suggestions Phyto, please treat them in the spirit they are given <g>.

 

Based off the above, this is what I see.

 

-We have a woman named Xiaoying who along with Jose and Charles works in a bar.

-Xiaoying seems romantically interested in Jose though he doesn't look at her that way and she doesn't know why.

-It's possible that Jose and Charles are interested in each other romantically.

 

Thanks, Pete. I imagine there is some text cutoff? If not, then you get the grasp of the story well. Thanks for the response!

 

EDIT: I saw the texts editing above now. These are pretty helpful. Thank you very much!

[petefeet]

Hey kids, sorry I haven't been very active this past couple of weeks, I'll try and pick it up in the future. Happy writing everyone!

[jesslance]

Hellooooo Wayfarers. I am an amateur writer (as you would probably guess) that has been writing for a long while now. At least it feels that way when I want to put my head through a window because the words are full of mold and snake sparkles. I enjoy writing YA and NA, much of it with a healthy amount of sci fi and/or fantasy. However, I do enjoy the occasional urban contemporary, especially when dealing with sexuality and such. But that is neither here nor there. 

 

I am considering doing an "Open Masters" program to make my own MFA as I spend the next two years teaching HS English in the US and really focusing in on my writing as it seems to keep falling by the wayside. Lately, I've been channeling all of my creative energy into cooking, and while that is awesome for all parties except my waistline, it gets me no closer to my dream of sharing stories with the world. 

 

And so here I am. I'm looking forward to a new challenge for this month and seeing what comes of it =)

 

 

[petefeet]

February 29 - March 25, 2016 Challenge mini-challenge

 

(Take part or not, just a little bit of fun. I think it goes without saying that being polite and respectful is expected.)

 

The challenge this week is to either...

 

A. Dig out an old story (or story idea) and give it a fresh look. Feel free to share!

 

OR...

 

B.  Share a piece of writing you are struggling with and are willing to have critiqued upon by the rest of us.

[petefeet]

February 29 - March 25, 2016 Challenge mini-challenge

 

 

B.  Share a piece of writing you are struggling with and are willing to have critiqued upon by the rest of us.

 

"Hurry Anna, they're catching up." Tommy yells, his knuckles popping from gripping the machete the only outward sign of his fear.

 

"Tommy's as scared as I am, but doesn't want to show it, like hiding your fear denies it." thinks Anna.

 

Throwing Tommy a smile that fails to reach her eyes, Anna skirts a mortar blast in the concrete floor of the mall, the rust on the exposed rebar giving evidence to the years since the hole was made.

 

"Must have been done back in the early days when people still had hope, but what did we do to inherit their sins?"

 

As if thought given form, one of the horde burst from a storefront window, the tattered and faded displays knocked over like so many dreams. It might have been a woman once, now it's nothing more than a skin and bone puppet to the virus that has decimated the old world and left us nothing but used up remains.

 

The above is the opening to a bit of flash fiction I've been working on for months now, looking for feedback kids. Grammar, content, anything.

[Oramac]

I just found this thread!  I'm about as new as new gets with regards to writing anything other than a term paper.  

 

February 29 - March 25, 2016 Challenge mini-challenge

 

(Take part or not, just a little bit of fun. I think it goes without saying that being polite and respectful is expected.)

 

The challenge this week is to either...

 

A. Dig out an old story (or story idea) and give it a fresh look. Feel free to share!

 

OR...

 

B.  Share a piece of writing you are struggling with and are willing to have critiqued upon by the rest of us.

 

Option A, I suppose.  It's an idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a while, but never really put on paper until a few days ago.  It's about a (soon-to-be) Paladin named Oramac.  I haven't really sorted out the setting, exactly, though it's going to be basically D&D-ish.

 

It all started on a night not unlike any other.  Sitting in a rickety oak chair, Oramac sighed to himself for what felt like the millionth time.  Was he ever going to get what he wanted in life?  For that matter, what did he want?  It's always so hard to really define that. 

 

 

“do what you loveâ€, his mother told him. 

 

“follow your dreamsâ€, said his father. 

 

All well meaning, of course, but short on real substance.  He sat there, staring out across the landscape, if you could call it that.  He lived in a small one bedroom house on a smaller plot of land in a complex of houses that looked exactly like his.  Wooden, crudely built, with a creaky floor and windows that leaked when it rained.  But at least it was his.  He wasn't particularly proud of it, but it was his.  Bought and paid for. 

 

Still lost in thought, Oramac got up out of his chair and began walking.  To where, he didn't know.  He left the house and kept walking along the tidy dirt road.  Idly, without really thinking about it, he felt for the knife he always carried.  In times like these it was common for normal people to do this.  Bandits roamed the streets night and day, though they typically left Oramac alone.  He didn't have anything they wanted anyway. 

 

Still moving, he kicked a rock just to watch it tumble across the road.  Before long, he came to the towns general store and walked in.  It was a simple place.  Milk, eggs, cheese, and meat lined the shelves, most of it fresh, even.  The farmers in this area were quite good.  Which of course made them targets of the bandits too. 

 

Greeting the storekeep, an older man named Frank, Oramac walked to the shelf and picked up a bottle of ale.  Only one.  He didn't care much for the parties in the tavern down the road, but he occasionally fancied something stronger than milk.  Paying Frank and thanking him, Oramac walked out the door and continued along the path, still not paying attention to where he was going. 

 

After some time, he began to notice the sky getting lighter.  'But the sun just set an hour ago', he thought to himself.  Musing on the eerie flickering light, he decided to keep walking towards it.  If not for the eerie blue, he would have sworn it was a fire at one of the farmhouses.  'In fact', he thought aloud, “Johann does live right in that direction...â€

 

As he said it, he heard a bloodcurdling scream from over the hill.  It had to be Johann!  Breaking into a run, he poured out what was left of the ale and headed towards the mans house.  He'd always like Johann.  The man was kind, and kept up to date on most of the happenings in the kingdom, though he was sometimes a bit long-winded. 

 

Rounding the corner, Oramac came upon a sight he'd never seen before.  Johann, suspended in air with nothing to hold him up, arms and legs spread out in an X, his head lolling back in weakness and fatigue.  Directly below him, three men stood.  Two clearly a bit nervous, as the third extended his hand towards Johann, apparently in control of the mysterious.....whatever.....holding him aloft.  Even before Oramac could react, the man made a fist towards Johann and said,

 

“I'll give you one more chance, farmer.  Tell me where it is, and I may let you live!â€

 

As if by the last of his strength, Johann pulled his head forward and spat on the ground.  “I don't know where it is, and even if I did I still wouldn't tell you!  You're not the first one to threaten me with death!â€

 

Oramac had no idea what that meant.  He'd spent quite a bit of time with Johann, and knew he'd retires from the King's Guard many years ago, but never had Johann spoken of death threats.  Not towards himself anyway.  He'd heard of threats against the king once in a while, but they never amounted to much. 

 

Even as he remembered the time spent with Johann, he was torn back to reality by the unknown man laughing.  A horrible sound, high-pitched and just as eerie as the blue light all around. 

 

“You're right, Johannâ€, the man said as he finished his laugh, “I'm not the first to threaten your death.  But I will be the...last.â€

 

The final word was said with a clear poison that froze the blood in Oramac's veins.  Watching in horror, he saw the man opened his hand, showing his palm to Johann, before forcefully motioning his hand towards the ground.  Johann barely had time for his eyes to widen before he was thrown to the ground with enough force to break bones.  He quivered once, and was still.

 

“Monster!â€, Oramac yelled without thinking.  Before he knew what he was doing, he'd broken into a sprint towards the man, forgetting all caution at the murder he'd just witnessed.  Turning to see him, the man just laughed again, muttered something under his breath, and disappeared. 

 

Sliding to a stop, Oramac stared at Johann's body, wondering what he'd stumbled onto, when all of a sudden, he felt a painful crack across his back.  Wincing, he turned to see the two men who'd been with the Sorcerer.  Fuming with anger, Oramac got up and yelled with all his might at these two men.  Before he know what was happening, they'd drawn swords and Oramac held the empty bottle in his hand. 

 

It wasn't much of a fight.  The two men easily defeated Oramac, but not before he broke the bottle across one mans face, and cut the others arm.  Left for dead, bleeding on the street, Oramac slowly succumbed to unconsciousness, but not before he felt a pair of hands under his shoulders, pulling him away...

 

The above is the opening to a bit of flash fiction I've been working on for months now, looking for feedback kids. Grammar, content, anything.

 

Needs a pause after the word "machete" in the first line.  Otherwise, I'd say it looks pretty good! 

[Phytomancer]

"Hurry Anna, they're catching up." Tommy yells, his knuckles popping from gripping the machete the only outward sign of his fear.

Another quick description of the scene might be helpful as well. Is it dark? Is it hot or cold?

 

"Tommy's as scared as I am, but doesn't want to show it, like hiding your fear denies it." thinks Anna.

Not sure if I understand her thought. Esp, "like hiding your fear denies it." Does she mean it in a sarcastic term (as if hiding it is gonna make it go away) kind of thing or does she explain it to herself? Without the phrase, the thought is much stronger.

 

Throwing Tommy a smile that fails to reach her eyes, Anna skirts a mortar blast in the concrete floor of the mall, the rust on the exposed rebar giving evidence to the years since the hole was made.

What's the space like? Where are they in the mall? 

 

"Must have been done back in the early days when people still had hope, but what did we do to inherit their sins?"

 

As if thought given form, one of the horde burst from a storefront window, the tattered and faded displays knocked over like so many dreams. It might have been a woman once, now it's nothing more than a skin and bone puppet to the virus that has decimated the old world and left us nothing but used up remains.

I'm pretty sure you're describing my math teacher in 5th grade, but other than that, this is pretty descriptive.

 

From what I understood from the story:

- Anna and Tommy are doing something in the mall with a machete when Tommy senses a... zombie?

- This is a post-apocalyptic world fallen to a virus

 

Overall, it's pretty gripping. The pace is exciting, and Anna's voice serves her well. 

Your grammars are on point.

Since this is the first time we're in the story and the world, having no orientation of where things are can be confusing to me. I'd like more description. Is it bright? Dark? Hot? Cold? What kind of a scene are they in?

We don't know much of the characters to relate to/ care about them yet.  

With the name 'Tommy' I imagined him as a little boy. Don't really bode well with the machete in his hand. (Although that might be interesting.

 

Will stop by and do the challenge later!

[Phytomancer]

I just found this thread!  I'm about as new as new gets with regards to writing anything other than a term paper.  

 

 

Option A, I suppose.  It's an idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a while, but never really put on paper until a few days ago.  It's about a (soon-to-be) Paladin named Oramac.  I haven't really sorted out the setting, exactly, though it's going to be basically D&D-ish.

 

It all started on a night not unlike any other.  Sitting in a rickety oak chair, Oramac sighed to himself for what felt like the millionth time.  Was he ever going to get what he wanted in life?  For that matter, what did he want?  It's always so hard to really define that. 

 

 

“do what you loveâ€, his mother told him. 

 

“follow your dreamsâ€, said his father. 

 

All well meaning, of course, but short on real substance.  He sat there, staring out across the landscape, if you could call it that.  He lived in a small one bedroom house on a smaller plot of land in a complex of houses that looked exactly like his.  Wooden, crudely built, with a creaky floor and windows that leaked when it rained.  But at least it was his.  He wasn't particularly proud of it, but it was his.  Bought and paid for. 

 

Still lost in thought, Oramac got up out of his chair and began walking.  To where, he didn't know.  He left the house and kept walking along the tidy dirt road.  Idly, without really thinking about it, he felt for the knife he always carried.  In times like these it was common for normal people to do this.  Bandits roamed the streets night and day, though they typically left Oramac alone.  He didn't have anything they wanted anyway. 

 

Still moving, he kicked a rock just to watch it tumble across the road.  Before long, he came to the towns general store and walked in.  It was a simple place.  Milk, eggs, cheese, and meat lined the shelves, most of it fresh, even.  The farmers in this area were quite good.  Which of course made them targets of the bandits too. 

 

Greeting the storekeep, an older man named Frank, Oramac walked to the shelf and picked up a bottle of ale.  Only one.  He didn't care much for the parties in the tavern down the road, but he occasionally fancied something stronger than milk.  Paying Frank and thanking him, Oramac walked out the door and continued along the path, still not paying attention to where he was going. 

 

After some time, he began to notice the sky getting lighter.  'But the sun just set an hour ago', he thought to himself.  Musing on the eerie flickering light, he decided to keep walking towards it.  If not for the eerie blue, he would have sworn it was a fire at one of the farmhouses.  'In fact', he thought aloud, “Johann does live right in that direction...â€

 

As he said it, he heard a bloodcurdling scream from over the hill.  It had to be Johann!  Breaking into a run, he poured out what was left of the ale and headed towards the mans house.  He'd always like Johann.  The man was kind, and kept up to date on most of the happenings in the kingdom, though he was sometimes a bit long-winded. 

 

Rounding the corner, Oramac came upon a sight he'd never seen before.  Johann, suspended in air with nothing to hold him up, arms and legs spread out in an X, his head lolling back in weakness and fatigue.  Directly below him, three men stood.  Two clearly a bit nervous, as the third extended his hand towards Johann, apparently in control of the mysterious.....whatever.....holding him aloft.  Even before Oramac could react, the man made a fist towards Johann and said,

 

“I'll give you one more chance, farmer.  Tell me where it is, and I may let you live!â€

 

As if by the last of his strength, Johann pulled his head forward and spat on the ground.  “I don't know where it is, and even if I did I still wouldn't tell you!  You're not the first one to threaten me with death!â€

 

Oramac had no idea what that meant.  He'd spent quite a bit of time with Johann, and knew he'd retires from the King's Guard many years ago, but never had Johann spoken of death threats.  Not towards himself anyway.  He'd heard of threats against the king once in a while, but they never amounted to much. 

 

Even as he remembered the time spent with Johann, he was torn back to reality by the unknown man laughing.  A horrible sound, high-pitched and just as eerie as the blue light all around. 

 

“You're right, Johannâ€, the man said as he finished his laugh, “I'm not the first to threaten your death.  But I will be the...last.â€

 

The final word was said with a clear poison that froze the blood in Oramac's veins.  Watching in horror, he saw the man opened his hand, showing his palm to Johann, before forcefully motioning his hand towards the ground.  Johann barely had time for his eyes to widen before he was thrown to the ground with enough force to break bones.  He quivered once, and was still.

 

“Monster!â€, Oramac yelled without thinking.  Before he knew what he was doing, he'd broken into a sprint towards the man, forgetting all caution at the murder he'd just witnessed.  Turning to see him, the man just laughed again, muttered something under his breath, and disappeared. 

 

Sliding to a stop, Oramac stared at Johann's body, wondering what he'd stumbled onto, when all of a sudden, he felt a painful crack across his back.  Wincing, he turned to see the two men who'd been with the Sorcerer.  Fuming with anger, Oramac got up and yelled with all his might at these two men.  Before he know what was happening, they'd drawn swords and Oramac held the empty bottle in his hand. 

 

It wasn't much of a fight.  The two men easily defeated Oramac, but not before he broke the bottle across one mans face, and cut the others arm.  Left for dead, bleeding on the street, Oramac slowly succumbed to unconsciousness, but not before he felt a pair of hands under his shoulders, pulling him away...

 

This is an intense opening scene. Quickly turned from a teenage crisis in to an Oh Shit moment pretty fast. I really enjoy it. Your way of describing magic makes D&D fans follow pretty easily.

 

One thing I noticed was that we didn't get to know how Johann is related to Oramac. Is he his best buddy? Love rival? Kind uncle? Lover? If Johann is just a farmer who lives down the road, how is he important to Oramac? Or is it justice that was more important? Because if I was Oramac, my best bet was to sneak back to the woods and get help. His reason to get involve so quickly has to stem from his personality, which we didn't get to understand. Maybe later on in the story?

 

Sorry if I babble too much. Please share more in the future!

[Phytomancer]

So... for option A.

 

I have this idea stuck in my head for a while now... about how to make an immortal.

 

My story follows an Indian girl living in Chicago, Satya. She who grew up reading mythologies across the world. She really liked the stories of the gods. And she marked similar patterns across cultures. 

 

One day, when her father was diagnosed with terminal cancer-- Satya saw the patterns across the all stories and come up with a theory of how to become an immortal. She set out with an idea to become a healing goddess in order to prolong her father's life-- with some help of an Ambassador of Death who was assigned for her father. 

 

It is a fun project that I keep. But I can't work on it yet because I want to finish my current project first. And I am done with giving up things half way through.  

 

Hope you guys enjoy the glimpse of this idea!!

[Becoming-Bane]

I have a question for y'all. I've been having trouble writing lately so my question for you is this, how do you set the "writing mood" for yourself?

[Surakha]

I have a question for y'all. I've been having trouble writing lately so my question for you is this, how do you set the "writing mood" for yourself?

 

 Music is really important to me.  I like things without words or things in languages I don't speak. That and actually scheduling writing time.  Even if all I do during that time is write  snippets of poetry or journal, that's fine but  if I don't set aside time I will literally never write anything but work emails. 

[Oramac]

This is an intense opening scene. Quickly turned from a teenage crisis in to an Oh Shit moment pretty fast. I really enjoy it. Your way of describing magic makes D&D fans follow pretty easily.

 

One thing I noticed was that we didn't get to know how Johann is related to Oramac. Is he his best buddy? Love rival? Kind uncle? Lover? If Johann is just a farmer who lives down the road, how is he important to Oramac? Or is it justice that was more important? Because if I was Oramac, my best bet was to sneak back to the woods and get help. His reason to get involve so quickly has to stem from his personality, which we didn't get to understand. Maybe later on in the story?

 

Sorry if I babble too much. Please share more in the future!

 

Thanks!!  I appreciate the feedback, and I'll definitely add some background for Oramac's relationship with Johann.  I kinda dig into it in the next "chapter" (if you can call it that), but not quite to the degree you're talking about.  

[Phytomancer]

 Music is really important to me.  I like things without words or things in languages I don't speak. That and actually scheduling writing time.  Even if all I do during that time is write  snippets of poetry or journal, that's fine but  if I don't set aside time I will literally never write anything but work emails. 

 

[TurtIe]

I have a question for y'all. I've been having trouble writing lately so my question for you is this, how do you set the "writing mood" for yourself?

There is a guy named Herb Elliot who was an Olympic runner. There's a quote by him that says: 

 

"Poetry, music , forests, oceans, solitude- they were what developed enormous spiritual strength. I came to realize that spirit, as much or more than physical conditioning, had to be stored up before a race."

I feel like a reserve of 'spiritual strength' (as Herb calls it) is imperative to creating valuable art (be that writing, music, painting, whatever). So if you want to create a "writing mood", go out and find things that inspire you to the point where you are bursting with inspiration.

[TurtIe]

I'm just gonna leave this here 

[Brawlrus]

I have a question for y'all. I've been having trouble writing lately so my question for you is this, how do you set the "writing mood" for yourself?

 

I find certain ambient sounds trigger thought in me. If I have the sound of a crackling fire, it puts me in the mindset of sitting around an evening campfire and hearing the sounds of wildlife's changing of the guard, as the birds cozy up in their nests and the owls clock in with a hoot. The clownish squirrels bunker down as the night lends way to the darker humor of the trickster raccoons.

 

The sound of a river rushing, brings me to a place of peace, where little anomalies in the terrain it flows over cause little pops and splashes. One cannot help but picture little fish popping up from the water to snag an insect with each tiny crack of the water. My heart races at the larger ones, picturing a bear grabbing a drink not far from me, hoping to snag one of those fish and stumbling on the jackpot meal of the man in the tent, not thirty yards a way.

 

 

I put these sounds on, because it's a lot of what I like to write about, but playing the ambient sounds of whatever situation you want, or whatever fires up your imagination. If you want a New York city setting, maybe playing traffic sounds will help fire up your imagination as you can close your eyes and see the character there. Maybe it's just me, but I'm very aurally sensitive. I've never really been that triggered by visual things, but others may be different.

[Oramac]

OK!  My challenge goal is writing 1000 words a week on my story.  So I definitely hit that goal this week.  Here's the follow up to the first part above!

 

Oramac didn't know where he was.  He saw only a great white expanse in all directions, like snow, but smoother and more solid.  He wasn't dead.  Of that he was sure, but what was this place?  How did he get here? 

 

 

'Am I going insane?' he mumbled to himself.

 

“Not yet, you ain'tâ€, came a familiar voice from behind him.  “But you might wish you were.â€

 

Spinning on the spot, Oramac's jaw dropped as he laid eyes on Johann. 

 

“But.......you're dead!  I saw that...man...kill you!â€, said Oramac in surprise. 

 

As he watched, Johann began to walk, and it was only then that Oramac noticed his appearance wasn't as he was used to it.  Johann looked frail and transparent, as if the lightest breeze would just blow him away.  His clothes were the brightest white Oramac had ever seen, and his normally gray hair was as white as his clothes. 

 

“Indeedâ€, Johann agreed.  “Baslamh did kill me.  And he will most likely try to kill you, now that he's seen you up close.â€

 

“Don't worry,†Johann continued, seeing Oramac's eyes widen at his statement.  “He won't be so brash as to come after you himself.  He's far to arrogant for that, though it's what he should do.  You see, he doesn't know who you are.  Not really.â€

 

Oramac kept watching Johann, listening to him talking about things he didn't understand.  Why would this Baslamh come after him?  And who was he, if not Oramac? 

 

“You have questions, to be sure, so just listen, for time is shortâ€, Johann said. 

 

“I told you I was a member of the King's Guard, yes?  Of course I did.  It's what I told everyone.  But that was only a small part of my duties.  I was the Executor of the Light, the Hunter of the Damned. It was not my job to play bodyguard to the King, but to go out into the world and actively hunt those who would threaten the very existence of our people.  Not only did I guard the King, I guarded every living soul in this Realm.  Even the King never knew all I did for the Realm.

 

Though you don't know it, your heroic act to avenge my murder has changed you.  In that act, you unwittingly volunteered to take over the position in my stead, and I must say, I am proud that it was you!  In all our talks I always knew you had a seed of Greatness within you, just waiting to be set free.

 

But, alas, my time is up, and I must move on to the Realm of Souls.  Speak to my daughter, Illenia, and she will care for you, if she isn't already.â€

 

And with those words, Johann faded out of existence entirely, leaving Oramac stunned and confused.  But even as he pondered Johann's words, if it even was Johann, he felt himself being pulled in all directions, and again he passed out.

 

==========================

 

Oramac slowly awakened, feeling as if he'd just run many miles, yet invigorated with some powerful feeling he couldn't describe. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light around him, he realized he was in Johann's house. He lay on the bed in what he knew had been Johann's room, a soft, comfortable place with candles shedding a soft light, and finely crafted furniture spread around the room. Turning to his side, he saw through the window that the sun was beginning to rise!

 

 

“Ughhhâ€, he moaned as he tried to get up, falling back to lie down.

 

“Oh dear! You're awake!â€, exclaimed a voice from the doorway. Looking up, Oramac recognized her as Illenia, Johann's daughter. She was surprisingly beautiful, with long blonde hair and soft features, though the fire that burned in her eyes showed a harder side of her. When she heard Oramac, she hurried away from the room and quickly returned with a bowl of warm water, and a tray of food. Setting the food on a side table, she took a sponge and began to dab the water over Oramac's head.

 

“You really shouldn't have attacked those men, you know.â€

 

Oramac winced as he tried to roll towards her and reply, “I know, but I couldn't just stand there and do nothing! They killed your father!â€

 

“I know,†she replied. “Daddy told me it would happen eventually. Made me prepare for it. I think he hoped to talk to you one last time before it happened, but I suppose that didn't happen.†Though she acted strong, her features betrayed that she was deeply saddened by her father's murder.

 

“Listen, Illenia, it's going to be okâ€, Oramac started. “I can't explain it, but somehow Johann did talk to me. Last night, like it was a dream, but more real than anything I've ever felt. He told me I was changed, or something. That I had to take over his position, whatever that means.â€

 

At these words, Illenia gasped and covered her mouth, looking at Oramac with a mixture of fear and admiration. Quickly, almost knocking it over, she moved the tray of food to Oramac and said, “Stay here and eat this. I'll be back soon.â€

 

She got up and hurried out of the room again, and Oramac could hear the floor creaking slightly in her haste to get wherever she was going. Pondering her reaction to his dream, or whatever it was, he began to eat. It wasn't particularly fancy food, just bread and soup and water, but it was good enough, and Oramac found that he was incredibly hungry. More so than he would have expected.

 

After what seemed like several hours, Oramac wondered where Illenia had gone, when he heard a scraping noise in the hallway, as if someone were dragging something towards the room. After several more minutes, during which Oramac couldn't decide if he should move to help or hide, he saw Illenia coming around the corner and into the room again, dragging a clearly heavy bag and making quite a lot of noise doing it.

 

“Get up,†she said without looking at him.

 

“But you just told me to stay here?†Oramac questioned her.

 

She returned Oramac's question with a glare that would make kings do her bidding, and Oramac did his best to get out of the bed, though he was still in pain. Hobbling over to her, he finally saw what was in the bag: an old, slightly rusted warhammer, and a set of equally old and rusty chain mail armor. Both looked like they hadn't been used, cleaned, or even looked at in many years.

 

Illenia pulled the warhammer out and unceremoniously shoved it into Oramac's hands, nearly making him fall over in his weakness. With apprehension, Oramac looked it over and almost at once saw the inscription on the head of the hammer: “While there is yet Darkness in the world, I am the Light that shines against it! – J.W.â€

 

His eyes widening in understanding, Oramac looked up at Illenia and, with a trembling voice, asked, “Illenia, this belonged to your father. Why are you giving it to me? It should be wreathed and set upon his grave to mark his honor!â€

 

“You don't get it, do you?â€, she replied, tears in her eyes. “By attacking those men last night, coming to the defense of Johann, you invoked ancient powers. Powers that have held sway over this land since before man came to be. Your foolishly noble attempt to save Johann marked you as his successor. You are now a Paladin of the Holy Light.â€

 

As Oramac struggled to accept what she said, silence fell over both of them, broken only when the hammer slipped from Oramac's fingers to crash to the floor.....

 

As before, feedback is more than welcome! 

[petefeet]

From what I understood from the story:

- Anna and Tommy are doing something in the mall with a machete when Tommy senses a... zombie?

- This is a post-apocalyptic world fallen to a virus

 

Overall, it's pretty gripping. The pace is exciting, and Anna's voice serves her well. 

Your grammars are on point.

Since this is the first time we're in the story and the world, having no orientation of where things are can be confusing to me. I'd like more description. Is it bright? Dark? Hot? Cold? What kind of a scene are they in?

We don't know much of the characters to relate to/ care about them yet.  

With the name 'Tommy' I imagined him as a little boy. Don't really bode well with the machete in his hand. (Although that might be interesting.

 

 

 

Thanks for the feedback, some of the confusion is because I didn't explain myself very well. This piece that I'm working on (slowly) is only 1000 words, and I'm finding it a bit of a challenge to write a complete "story" within those limits. As such, the details aren't as complete as I would like.

[petefeet]

I have a question for y'all. I've been having trouble writing lately so my question for you is this, how do you set the "writing mood" for yourself?

 

I've also been finding it a struggle to write lately, some of that I could blame on time issues, but even with free time the writing mood isn't always easy to grasp. Reflecting upon the time's that I seem to have been most productive, I just I need to be in a comfortable position, relaxed and cloaked in silence. If my body isn't at peace then I KNOW that no writing will get done.

[Flagwaver]

Hello.  My name is Jason and I’m a writer.

 

**hi Jason**

 

I’ve had an idea for a novel for the past couple of years, but my muse has been on again/off again.  I’ve finally decided to just sit down and write the darned thing from the bottom up.  It’s basically a take on the popularity of MMORPGs, but with a little bit of a more realistic element.

 

I figure, since I’m using your forum and motivation I should give back to the worldly nerddom with a new fantasy epic to obsess over.

 

So, I guess I should end my quick little introduction with a gift.  Here’s the initial first chapter of my novel currently titled: Other World.

 

Ander stood on the balcony of his stronghold and peered out across the horizon to the setting sun.  The orange ball was just touching the distant waters, setting the heavens ablaze with brilliant colors.  The few clouds that dotted the skyline glowed warmly as they sliced the fading rays in a vain attempt to beat back the encroaching night.  The brilliant image was breathtaking as it slowly succumbed to the darkness.  This kind of sunset was a common sight along the northwestern coast of the continent, but it still held Ander enraptured with its beauty.

 

The stronghold of Warkeep sat on a prominent spire of land that extended into the ocean by a quarter league.  It was defensible and had its own small port, separate from the city that lay a full league to the south.  The keep was magnificent, having been rebuilt from the near ruin the previous owner had let it fall into.  The highest tower was a prominent spire clearly visible to approaching ships, its banners ever waving in the wind.  The freestanding walls surrounded a modest yard with a large oak in one corner surrounded by a small hedge maze.

 

A chill breeze blew across the balcony, turning Ander from his musings.  It was getting on toward autumn and the winds were picking up, promising the stormy season to come.  The draft bit through the blue silk shirt and crushed velvet trousers he wore.  His feet remained warm, though, shod in a pair of rabbit fur slippers.  His head was another story as he kept his hair short, unlike the common style of the realm.  He turned and retreated to the warmth of his master suite, locking the windowed door behind him.

 

The light was dimming as the last rays of the sun struck the windows, but it was still bright enough to see without the use of the gemlights.  Braziers of the clear crystals were on small sconces around the room with a pair of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.  A brass plate near the far door could raise their level of light by sliding a finger up or down, but it was not necessary.  The simple spell that controlled them was set to a very low level.  Too low to cause the glow to be noticed through the refracted rays of the sun that now bathed the room in reds and oranges.

 

The suite itself was fancy, but practical.  A fireplace was centered on each of the far walls.  A large double door was opposite the balcony that led into the keep.  Hanging to the left of the door was a tapestry that was gifted to him by the townspeople upon his coronation.  It was a map of the barony with a wide illumination of local historic events, including his coronation, the defeat of the tyrant, and other significant heroic tales.  What many did not know is that the tapestry hid a door into the armory where his more potent magical weapons and armors were stored.

 

The room was generally rectangular, save for the walled off walk-in closet and the privy to his right.  Between the privy and closet, in front of the fireplace, was a modest iron tub large enough for two.  Beside the fireplace sat a miniature aqueduct that was used to fill the tub from the cistern above the fire.  To one side was a towel cabinet and dressing screen.  To the other was a padded, upholstered bench in front of a vanity.  An array of fine wooden brushes and combs were laid out in meticulous order there.  The vanity was a gift from the staff of the keep, as well as a subtle hint, for him to find a lady to make his baroness. 

 

Opposite the bathing area was a writing desk and, separated from the desk by the other fireplace, a pair of finely carved bureaus.  Another bench sat beside the desk with a third before the dressers.  Unlike the fine clothes in the walk-in closet, one of the bureaus held his adventure clothing; the other was a further hint from the staff.  Dying embers cracked in the fireplace on that side of the room.

 

In the middle of the suite was the bed.  It was sitting in such a way as to have the perfect view of the setting sun through the windows.  The scent of the local pine used to make its handsome frame, and the other furniture in the room, still lingered in the air.  The mattress was filled with a cotton batting and the pillows with goose down.  The sheets were fine white cotton and the blankets soft wool dyed royal blue, Ander’s color.  Two bells rested on matching wooden nightstands beside the head, to summon the valet that sat dozing just outside the door, and a small pitcher of water and goblet sat beside each.

 

All of the furniture was made by the same craftsman, a local that lived in the nearby city.  Each piece depicted the same lovely nymph in relief, especially the headboard.  It sported a life-sized carving of her delicately featured face with hair extending the width of the frame in such detail that it took Ander a moment to realize it was not a dryad whenever he looked at it.  It was, as Ander had later learned, modeled after the craftsman’s daughter in hopes of gaining the lord’s attention for marriage.  Unfortunately, the lord’s heart was taken by another.

 

Ander smiled at the form seemingly asleep under the sheets.  â€˜How could I not smile at such a beautiful creature,’ he mused to himself.  Her smaller stature and the gentle point of her ears marked her as an elf.  Her black hair flowed across the pillows and over her half unbuttoned white silk shirt like the wisps of cloud flowed through the heavens.  Like the stars in those heavens, her silver eyes slowly opened and gazed into his.  A smile crept across her ruby lips as she stretched.  The move was cat-like and graceful, her eyes never wavering.

 

Even if her ears were hidden, those metallic eyes would have given away her race.  Pure Elves had eyes the color of precious metals, reflecting the world they saw.  Those eyes glowed from a natural magic, which made them faintly visible in the night, like the eyes of a predator at the edge of a camp’s firelight.  It was not just for show, Elves could see in even pitch-black darkness.  Their sensitive eyes could pick up the light shown from their own glow, turning even the darkest room into a summer’s afternoon.  In the light, their vision was finer than even the greatest human archer, being able to read a standard on the horizon.

 

Ander slid his feet out of the slippers and crawled under the covers next to the waking beauty.  She purred as he turned to her and lowered his head toward hers.  Her lips tasted sweet as a berry wine and were just as intoxicating.  He lost himself in the softness of their embrace, their bodies pressed together.  He ran a hand down her side, from shoulder to thigh, and let it rest there.

 

After a few minutes, he finally pulled away and laid back, much to the disappointment of his companion.  The light was fading and the crystals were refracting its remains into a conflagration on only the ceiling now.  The elven beauty pursed her lips in a pout before laying partially across him, one leg crooked over his.  She absently twirled her fingers through the hair of his chest at the low neck of his shirt.

 

“You didn’t have to stop.† She sounded disappointed, but her light giggle betrayed the mirth that she usually held.  Her accent softened the consonants and lengthened the vowels as her words poured across him.  It was sultry and seductive brought on by the purring dialect of her native tongue.  Some had likened it to French, but it was softer and lengthened the consonants more.

 

“I did,†Ander replied.  She smelled of roses and honey, a blend of bath salts she had used earlier that afternoon.  He brushed his fingers through her long hair all the way down to her waist.  His fingers stopped there, sliding gently to the small of her back.  “I must depart soon.â€

 

She sighed and tugged at one of his chest hairs, eliciting a breath of surprise from him and a light but firm swat to her rear.  Her smile grew as she wriggled her hips against him, subtly suggesting that she wanted him to continue.  Instead, he let his hand rest there, cupping the firm cheek.

 

“We had four whole days, Dianara†he smiled, reaching up and pushing some of her hair back from her face.  The move exposed her ear that his fingertips traced from tip to lobe.  A small impression of a bite was still fading on her neck just behind her jawline.  “Imagine what the staff must think?â€

 

“Hmm,†she mused and stretched again, her body pressing long over his lean muscular frame.  After a moment, she relaxed and smiled wickedly.  “We have been in here for four days, rarely asking for food or drink, alternately moaning and screaming, and have nary spoken to a soul beyond your valet who has been outside the door the whole time.† Her smile took on a wicked appearance, like a cat about to pounce.  “They must be thinking the most delightful of sinful thoughts of us, I think.â€

 

“They know better.† He paused for a moment in thought.  His hand came off her ear to stroke the light line of stubble that was forming across his chin.  “Though, they will probably be pestering me to take you as my baroness.â€

 

“Would that really be so bad?â€

 

“Well,†he said with a mighty stretch of his own.  He ended it with hands wrapped lightly around the small of her back.  “I was hoping to keep my options opened for someone less feisty.â€

 

She pounced on top of him, pinning his elbows beneath her knees.  She straddled him like that for a moment, allowing him to get a good view.  Then, leaning down, she rested her head on crossed wrists at his chest, staring at him like a cat at a mouse.  “It was my understanding that you enjoyed feisty, n’uma?â€

 

He only smiled at her with a pleasant grin, one that often infuriated her as it hid all of his intentions and emotions.  After a few beats of silence, he pulled his arms free effortlessly and wrapped his hands around her delicate waist.  With little more exertion than his previous stretch, he flipped her over onto her back.  His arms slid up her body, pushing her arms up with them, ending with her wrists crossed over her head, his weight pinning her.  She wrapped her legs around his waist, ankles crossed with that wicked smile growing.

 

The blanket, already dislodged from their play, slid entirely to the floor as she thrashed about.  Her struggles were violent, but false.  Had she truly wanted to get away, she knew how.  The most violent of her struggles came from hips that were thrusting against his as her legs tried to pull him closer.  One more good thrust was all it took before she realized that she could not move the warrior pinning her to the bed.  She ceased her struggle with a purring smile and defiantly flirting eyes.

 

He leaned down, his breath warm against her lips as he kissed her.  Not deeply, but a light pressing of silk to a rose petal.  “I was hoping to tame you, my wild elf.â€

 

“Who is to say that you have not?â€

 

He rolled off her, easily unpinning himself from her legs with a quick movement of his arm, to sit on the side of the bed.  He poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand.  It was cold and refreshing, a light enchantment on the pitcher keeping it that way.  His voice was lowered, as if he was about to do something he did not want to.  “Shall I see you again tomorrow night?â€

 

“No, unfortunately.† Her lip genuinely pouted this time as she rolled onto her side.  She dragged her fingernails lightly up the middle of his back under the shirt.  The move causes a quick and broken inhale from him.  “I am required to be at a celebration which shall last all the day and night, well after you have risen for your duties.â€

 

“Oh,†he looked over his shoulder at her with a coy smile.  He enjoyed their time together, but also enjoyed their playful banter.  “I guess I shall just have to find a servant girl to warm my bed without you.† Glancing at the headboard, his smile widened.  “Perhaps the carpenter’s daughter; I hear she is still unclaimed.â€

 

The elf moved faster than Ander could react, the agility of her race far beyond that of any human.  She jumped to her knees on the bed and grabbed his shoulders through the silk shirt.  With a jerk, she pulled him onto his back, the cup flying out of his hand to clatter on the floor across the room.  Half flipping over top of him, she landed again across his chest, pinning his arms beneath her knees yet again.  This time, though, she raised a pillow into the air that he hadn’t even been aware of her grabbing.  “I think not, malu,†she said with mock insult followed by musical laughter as she landed a coup de grâce in the middle of his face. 

 

Her laughter was cut short as he arched his back, kicking down with legs that were strengthened from marching in full armor for long journeys.  The move flipped her face down on the bed with a muffled cry of surprise.  Before she was able to recover, he was on top of her.  His legs straddled her hips as his weight anchored on her butt.  She reached up to push herself into a better position, or at least getting her face out of the cotton sheet, just as he guessed she would.  When faced with the sensitive skin that was undefended, he lanced out with his fingertips.  They found their mark with practiced ease as he began wriggling them in her armpits.

 

“N’uma, n’uma,†she screamed into the mattress as she writhed in laughing agony.  She thrashed about at random, unable to dislodge his fingers from their mark.  She attempted to hit his legs, but the spastic involuntary jerks of her body made them nothing more than slaps.  He knew it was a surprise to her as she slipping back into her native tongue.  Thankfully, he could understand Elvish.  “Puta!  Im yelen lle†she cried out amid forced laughter, begging him to stop.

 

After a few moments, he finally relented and slid his body down hers, kissing her neck before he rolled onto his back beside her.  She laid there for a few moments to catch her breath after the vicious assault.  With a deep sigh, she rolled over and snuggled against him.  “I guess I shall keep my bed pure for you, huddled alone in the darkness awaiting your return,†he finally said, laying his head back against the one remaining pillow.

 

She looked up at him as he brought her hand to his lips.  He held it there for a moment before holding it to his chest.  Her fingers lengthened to feel the beat of his heart beneath the muscles.  A blissful smile crept across her gentle features as the hair tickled her fingertips.  â€œAnother month and I will be home,†he said wistfully, staring at the last light from the sunset as it danced on the ceiling.  “Three more and we will be together.â€

 

A shiver ran down her arm at the thought of their being together, for the first time.  The shiver was both nervous and desire.  Would she be what he really wanted?  She looked away from him and rested her head beside her hand, the material of his shirt soft to her cheek.  Her skin was warm in the cooler temperatures of the night.  “For that, I cannot wait, melar.â€

 

They lay in silence for a time, just basking in each other’s warmth; the only sounds were their breathing and the occasion crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace.  The last of the light faded from the room and the gemlights soft glow was the only light in the room.  It was not bright, more of a candle without the fickle dance of the flame; enough to prevent an accidental trip in the darkness.

 

“I have to go.† His voice was quiet as he kissed the top of her head where it lay against his chest.  He wished that he could spend the next eternity with her like this.  If there were a heaven that heroes went to, he knew it would never be as comforting as this moment.  He felt her sigh in disappointment.

 

“I know,†she replied quietly.  She didn’t like him leaving, either.  She knew the trials he faced when he left and it made her almost sick with worry.  Though, she also knew that he was a hero.  No, he was her hero, and would best any challenge he faced.  She turned her eyes to him; their silvery glow was soothing with the darkness of the room.  “Take care of yourself.â€

 

“I promise.† He laid his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes, taking one last deep breath, savoring her scent.  She leaned up and pressed her lips lightly to his one last time before snuggling close, feeling him for every moment he was with her.

 

The warmth of her body slowly faded to a coolness all over.  The soft mattress hardened and the pine-scented air became musky and filled with the scent of too few showers in too much heat.  The air, moist with the salty spray of the sea dried and became stale.  The distant waves outside the aged stone castle were replaced by rumbles of gas generators through thin plaster walls and the clopping of heavy boots on old concrete floors.

 

Immediately awake, he opened his eyes to the blackness that surrounded him.  The only light in the room came from the glowing display that lay beside his head, reading 4:57.  Well, almost, the bottom LED of the seven was burned out.  He reached over and toggled the alarm off before sitting up and feeling for the light switch.  A cough escaped his lips as he took a long pull of water from the straw of his backpack canteen to quench his thirst.  The water tasted as stale as the air, with the light tinge of plastic from the bladder that contained it.

 

It was not much of a room that he saw as the light flickered to life, more of a large broom closet.  It was about the same size as his dog’s house when he was a child.  The bare light bulb hung from a hole in the plywood ceiling.  The door did not have a knob, but that was of little consequence as it was splintered from gunfire.  Green duct tape closed the holes for privacy.  His cot and sleeping bag took up most of the space along one wall with a heavy plastic travel box at the foot for a dresser.  His rucksack sat beside the head of the cot, a laptop case peeking out dejectedly.

 

He pulled the bug covers from his boots and slid his stocking feet into them before cinching the laces tight, wrapping them around his boots a couple of times and tucking the remaining length in.  Standing, he stretched lightly and felt the kinks pop themselves out of his muscles.  He was unsure of the creaks that came from the move were his or the cot protesting to the shifting weight.  He pulled on his blouse, a tan t-shirt with the sleeves of an actual uniform, and body armor.  A couple of straps shaped it to his body as he rolled his right shoulder to work out some of the soreness.  He attached his rifle to the buckle on that shoulder, the side-release mechanism snapping loudly off the undecorated walls.

 

He lifted his helmet and checked the inside for bugs.  A poor scorpion was unceremoniously dumped to the floor before it met a quick demise under his boot.  He would have to talk to someone about spraying for those things, again.  The helmet was hung from a hook on his belt with one hand as he grabbed a small mirror with the other.  A quick inspection told him that shaving could wait until after breakfast.

 

Pulling open his door through the door knob hole, he strode across the nearly empty room outside his grand suite.  A Specialist nodded to him from the radio, her eyes looking bleary as she stifled a yawn.  The only reason he knew she was a she was because her blouse was over the back of her chair and no male could ever fill out a t-shirt like that.  He shot her a questioning glance and she pointed to the latrine.  The sound of a toilet flushing signaled the location of her replacement.

 

He walked to the plastic container in the back of the room and poured a cup of coffee.  It was somewhat fresh and steamed a little in the cooler morning air.  Taking a sip to wash the night’s dust out of his head, he immediately regretted it.  He never had a taste for coffee, but in combat a soldier changed their tastes quite a bit.  However, he was sure that the cook made this stuff with water collected from the used sewage line.  He rolled his shoulder again; the weight of the rifle was probably going to give him arthritis.

 

“Sergeant Anderson,†a gruff voice barked out to him.  The quick creaking of the chair in front of the radio signaled the replacement going to attention while seated.  Anderson poured another cup of coffee and turned.  He offered the cup to the lieutenant that was limping into the room.  During the last patrol, the officer caught a graze across his thigh.  It wasn’t enough to send him home, but it did give him a bit of trouble with putting his full weight on his right leg.  The man looked at the brew and the fading line of scowl on the sergeant’s face and shook his head.

 

“No, thanks.† He pulled a bottle of water out of the stack of plastic-wrapped cases on the pallet next to the table.  At least the water was fresh, which brought up the question of how the coffee could be so bad.  “I also won’t bring you up on charges for threatening an officer with that poison.â€

 

Anderson cracked a smirk and nodded to the lieutenant.  He walked over to deposit the cup in front of the new private.  The kid, his blond buzz cut signaling him as being out of training for less than a year, nodded his head with a smile and took a sip.  The same disgusted look smeared itself across his face as he put the cup next to three others on the edge of the table.  Anderson was sure that if they mixed, it would kill everyone in the building.

 

To save his fellow soldiers, he picked each of the offending cups up and tossed their contents out the window.  At least they would be free to do what bad coffee did.  A protest from below betrayed an early morning smoke break interrupted.  Anderson just ignored the insult to the marital status of his parents and turned back toward the officer.  ‘Hell, it might even make some of those knuckleheads smell better,’ he thought.

 

“Good morning, sir.† The sergeant tossed the cups in the garbage, making a mental note to have the private empty it when he got off his radio shift.  He glanced back and touched his forehead in something that could have resembled a salute a couple hundred years prior.

 

“Anderson, what’s your secret?†the lieutenant asked after adding some purple drink powder to his bottle of water.  Alex grabbed a bottle of his own and began looking through an old MRE box near it for something less purple and more red-tasting.  “Whenever you get up in the morning, you look like you just came back from weekend leave.† The man thought for a moment more and chuckled at an inner joke.  “Hell, when you came back from weekend leave, you looked as fresh as some of the FNGs.† A nod indicated the private at the radio who was currently working his way through a game on his phone.

 

Staff Sergeant Alex Anderson was the platoon sergeant for third herd; third platoon heavy weapons.  This was his last tour before getting out of the Army with a nice bit of VA school money and a little post-traumatic disability pay.  The latter didn’t really matter if he had PTSD or not, after three tours in the sand-box and two in the rock pile, he was guaranteed to get at least a 50% disability.  He could have volunteered for more duty, but he was sure Uncle Sam would have just saved itself some money and tossed him in the laughing academy instead.  In another month, though, he would be back in Fort Hood, Texas going through discharge.  Two months after that he would be a civilian and beginning at Pacific Christian College in northwestern Oregon.

 

“If I were to tell you the truth, you’d have me chaptered out, sir,†Alex said.  He pulled open a box of MREs and looked at the tan wrapped meals within.  Trusting his luck to not make a bad decision, he pulled out a meal and looked at it momentarily.  It wasn’t one that he liked, so he tossed it to the L-T.  The man caught it and nodded, apparently he liked the jambalaya.  Alex pulled out a second and put it under his arm, the beef teriyaki wasn’t bad.  He threw a third to the private, who let out a gleeful sound of approval.  It must have been chili-mac; everyone likes chili-mac for some reason.  “Let’s just say it involves a dream girl who is very lithe.â€

 

The officer snorted, “I had a dream like that once.† He smiled as he opened his Army ‘brown-bag’ lunch and started dumping the things he didn’t like in the box beside the water.  Alex did the same.  “Then my wife came in it and it became a nightmare.â€

 

Both men had a nice little laugh as they tore into the packets that held their breakfasts.  The temperature was already nearing hot, which promised a low today of ‘sweat-soaked uniform’ and a high of ‘oh my God, kill me.’  But, that was normal for this time of year.  The map table was as good a place as any for them to eat breakfast while going over the missions the lieutenant got from his briefing with the company commander.