The Aspiring Bard

Two quick-tempered characters constantly locking horns. An intriguing new guy who seems to have popped out of nowhere. Plus a war. And debating whether my dialogue is too antiquated. That has been my writing for the month of October. God of Wind and Fire is living up to its rather volatile name.   -- The women saw them off in the dark of morning with subdued farewells and a scattering of milk spread on the wind as a blessing. -- Source -- She stood over him, watching the fire-shadows flicker across his face. The three days’ stubble on his chin shone golden in the light and he looked almost boyish, she thought. Almost as he had when the stubble first started and he’d boasted to her of his manhood. Altan smiled, and bent to drape her own cloak around him. She added fuel to the fire and banked it up against the chill of the night. -- He raised the bowl of kumis in a salute to Altan and sipped before presenting her with the rest. “Another time.” He sa...

“Well, an’ haven’t you got the nerve! Showin’ up like this after betrayin’ the lot of us!” -- Source -- I gingerly eased my shoulders back and forth as I searched for a proper simile. “I feel as though I’ve been run over by a train - a long one - and then maybe drug behind it, just for...laughs.” “What did they do to you?” He asked suddenly, as if the question had been wrenched out, unawares. -- “But. .. but...you were a lad. And...now ‘tis a skirt you’re wearin’?” Thatch laughed. “Well, Janus, you do get about!" -- Thatch shifted his knapsack to his back, then offered me his left arm in a gallant gesture. We proceeded out of the shadowy alley and into the rectangles of light glowing from the windows and doors of pubs and bawdy houses. There had been few people in the back streets, but now the way was full of passers-by and loiterers, all seemingly in various stages of intoxication. “These sailor men certainly do take advantage of thei...

The results of semi-industrious writing during the month of May...in which my poor main character gets stuffed into yet another tiny space. Enjoy! -- “Well, to be perfectly honest, ‘twas your cooking. I pictured to myself the long days of slow starvation. The burnt eggs, the flapjacks, the general blackness of it all.” -- -- [ He ] was handsome in an ordinary way, with features that were good, but not remarkable. He was small and slight, with hazel eyes and long-fingered hands that were both in constant, restless motion; an entirely forgettable man who seemed slightly anxious not to be forgotten. -- “So this is the stuff of legend.” The man commented. Thatch shifted a non-committal shoulder. “More or less.” -- “So we stay with the plan?” I frowned, remembering how sternly Thatch had insisted that I let him do all the talking, at least at first. He shrugged. “Let’s just hope that our enemy’s enemy actually is our friend. And, yes, I see no reason ...

There were 5 people (5 whole people) who were good enough to show interest in the snippet of my novel-in-progress that I posted a couple of weeks ago. I know, I know, that sounds a bit pitiful, doesn't it? But those 5 people are 5 more than have been interested before. And for a writer as unassuming as myself, that level of interest is enormous. It means that, maybe, there are even more (non-relative) folks out there who could possibly care about the people and the worlds and the stories into which I've poured my creativity and prayers and energies. And that is an encouraging thought. I have reached a point where I write mainly for an audience of two: God, and myself. And I am well pleased as long as I know that I'm consistently pushing towards fulfillment of His standards and the increase of my own ability. But still, appreciation from other human beings is rather nice, and of course, the day will come when I'll no longer be able to increase my abilities on my ...