azureye's writing journal

Light, Lost Already

2012-01-18T09:07:23Z

Strange little ficlet I wrote while on an airplane, as a response to the writing prompt "Light, Lost Already." 882 words.

He's got everything all the fantasy epics require of a hero: a wise, quirky old uncle, an ancient sword, and a charming-sweet good-friend girl-next-door to serve as his lady. Hell, he's even got a perky animal companion to boot.

Only — the perky animal companion isn't a loyal pooch or a chirpy sparrow, but an overgrown rat named Spike. And the sword isn't stuck in stone somewhere or blessed by elves; it's been collecting dust in a closet for the past three years because who the hell needs a sword in 1990's Detroit? (The 1990's are a bit of a snag, obviously, but Detroit's the real problem here — because years upon years of fantasy tradition tell us that heroes come from small seaside villages, little country hamlets, and other places with tight-knit nuclear families and lots of trees. Obviously.)

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Candlemaker

2011-11-21T08:23:18Z

i.
it's hard to be poetic about
games. screen-games,
electric spasms on a static screen,
motion videos, electric realms —
these are not poetic, because
they cannot be described the same way
as birdsong or featherfalls,
so it is not poetic.
it is poetic.

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Dagurmarben

2011-10-26T07:59:15Z

Shadrak has recently returned home after serving four years in his nation's civil war. He is attending dagurmarben, a night in which the members of a town gather to remember those who died in the past year.

As the night drug on, Shadrak felt himself starting to shiver despite all the rabbit-furs he had draped over him. It occurred to him then just how early dagurmarben was this year — so early, and winter had lasted so late this year. This was the first time he'd had to wear these boots into this grove, wasn't it? And shouldn't the sun have started rising by now? Above him, the sky was still pitch-dark, and around him, no morning-creatures could be heard stirring in the wood — just the occasional soft wing-flap of an owl, or a distant toad-croak.

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I Write Like

2011-09-29T05:22:44Z

I write like
Neil Gaiman

I Write Like by Mémoires, journal software. Analyze your writing!

I am a-okay with this comparison.

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White Crane

2011-09-15T07:04:10Z

An unprovoked ambush on a sector of Daein's military has rendered several thousand men dead or gravely wounded. Shadrak notices that one of the court's healers, Tordyn, is driving herself to exhaustion in healing the soldiers, and approaches her to try and convince her to rest.

"Tordyn," Shadrak called softly, standing awkwardly a few paces from her. She seemed to be in almost a trance, muttering a few healing words under her breath as she brushed a hand over the unconscious soldier's back-wound — a wound that was large, muddy red and brown, and seemed to be oozing a sickly pale yellow ooze. She didn't so much as twitch in acknowledgement of Shadrak's presence, her eyes fixed on that pestilent lesion, tracing the edges of the gash with her tiny fingers. He took the moment to watch her: her motions seemed so precise, like one of those flower-court dancers. No. No, those motions were too light, airy, insubstantial — Tordyn's stance was grounded, low, like one of those Crimean martialists, and her hands on the soldier were deliberate rather than airy; precise rather than light.

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Camp Nanowrimo

2011-07-31T08:29:20Z

I haven't updated this in a while, partially because I've been busy trying to outline and plan out my novel for Camp Nanowrimo (basically, the same thing as Nano, but takes place in relatively-unbusy August instead of horrifically-busy November).

I have a semi-respectable outline going, and I'll be posting little excerpts here as the month clops along. You can check out my Camp Nanowrimo profile here. I've never done a Nano before, but I really hope I'll be able to finish, so wish me luck!

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Lorento's Gambit

2011-07-12T03:04:12Z

It had been a week, and Lerato hadn't spoken more than three sentences to Malkia that whole time.

Malkia's first reaction was blisteringly typical — anger. This stupid Femeref boy; he was trying to make her life miserable on purpose! He was just as bored as she was, he had to be, and he was only acting all aloof and distant to try and gall her. Or maybe he'd been offended by her words. But in that case, oughtn't he grow a thicker skin? All the village kids said worse things about him regularly; they just didn't have the dignity to say it to his face. How stupid of him to think he could gall her into an apology!

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Remember when we were children, herding the sheep together

2011-07-11T09:18:51Z

Quick bleh-ish post. I need to get something out this week >_>

Malkia eyed the Femeref boy across the field in a lazy, vaguely ponderous sort of way. She'd heard enough about him from others — how he wore those funny clothes, heavy robes, even on the hottest days, how he muttered weird chants over his meals, how he did not stand to honor the warriors when they had returned from Kiingal four nights prior. With all the furor over him, she was hoping maybe he could liven things up, but having spent all morning alongside him, she could only conclude he was boring. Those robes seemed frumpy and plain and stodgy, rather than exotic. His chants sounded like hurried prayers rather than some kind of exciting incantation (or better yet, a curse!). And for someone who made so bold a move as not standing for the warriors, he certainly seemed mild and quiet.

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Arubella

2011-07-04T05:33:10Z

At this edge of the desert, things became more rugged — the smooth, rolling dunes of sand were starting to be punctuated by tracts of brown dirt and clumps of ragged weeds. At least the sun wasn't quite so cruel in these parts, but she found herself tripping more, over rooty reeds or stray rocks as Sakhir hauled her along. She'd given up nagging her captor, though that fiery, defiant glint hadn't yet left her eye.

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Senseless and Stubborn

2011-07-03T23:54:34Z

"Just let me go," Tordyn hissed for the upteenth time. There was no begging or wheedling or whining in her voice; just peevishness and pushiness. "I promise I won't say a damned word about your stupid little club. Hell, there were a dozen other people in that alleyway; why aren't you dragging them across the fucking desert, too?"

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What's This All About?

2011-07-03T23:51:03Z

Is this a blog or something? Sort of. It's a creative writing journal, where I'll be updating at least once a week with rough bits of poetry and prose. Don't expect anything too grand or polished -- think of it as an artists' sketchbook, but with words.

Do you think anyone will actually read this? Who knows? Anyway, I've been on a bit of a writer's slump lately, and I've found that forcing myself to hurl bits of writing into the void of cyberspace on a regular basis motivates me for some odd, probably narcissistic, reason.

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