Such emotions could never be expressed in words. They could, of course, be translated—could be called happiness, sadness, jealousy, lust—but could never be adequately described. There was too much ignorance in the world for one to ever truly put words to the things people felt on a day-to-day basis. A laugh could be a child, a frown the sea, a smile the world encapsulated in the sun’s shining light—the utter sorrow of one’s death could signal the very end of the world, who’d cometh on dark wings and shroud over the distant horizon. Whatever way one managed to describe it—whatever words one happened to use—they could never be correct, as it seemed in the natural scope of things that such emotions were too elaborate to ever be condensed into words.
Could they, as humanity, really look upon any stretch of territory and say that a road was theirs—that a forest, tall and strong, could be cut down; that a pond, full of fish, could be exploited; and that a valley, soft and sweet, could be drudged up and made into farmland? It could be said that no man owned any land, for he was arrogant and without refute, and though he was indeed the smarter one in the world full of flesh, no rightful creature could claim that everything was theirs—that a world, large and wide, could be made for only one creature; or many, he could add, for even Elves and Dwarves and even those Leatherskins with intelligence beyond that of a simple mule eventually took something and made it their own.
His voice, so small as it was in the large room, sounded something like a child muttering to himself in the night—when, surprisingly, the monster he had seen in his closet that his parents so vicariously said was not real turned out to be something of the true and physical sense. It would first peek out from behind the doors, its clawed hands retracted and its cold nose sore, and then would reach around and sink its nails into the door. They would click, of course, as if playing a drum, and then they would fumble, practically, with the doorknob, of which it had not used to push the door shut, before the door came open and the creature stepped from the shadows. It would then—very, very slowly—step forward, its arms pulled back, its elbows at its ribs, its wrists limp as though gay, and toward the bed, where it would then lean forward and whisper in a very, very soft voice, Hello, because true monsters, whether one liked it or not, were the ones that could speak: were the ones that, ultimately, could climb into your head and whisper things of joy and peace and tell you that everything would be just fine when, in truth, nothing was fine, for there was a monster in the room that would begin to eat you from the feet up before swallowing you within its gaping maw.
He could just imagine it now—a creature, tall and emaciated, hunchbacked and shoulders low, watching him with eyes that gleamed yellow in the darkness when reflecting the light of a white fire. It would, he knew, be watching his hands, his black sword, his silver hilt, and it would be examining his face for any kind of emotion: fear, possibly, or maybe even terror, which currently plagued his heart to the point where he could barely even breathe. This creature would take slow, deliberate steps toward them and open its mouth, dead or not, into a twisted yawn, and it would reach out with both outstretched hands in order to try and embrace him, for things dead and human and devoid of any companionship always wanted to be loved.
She would have been beautiful, were she harmonic and not in the least bit threatening, as from the waist-up and from the shoulders to the elbows she appeared to be nothing more than a beautiful maiden, fire-haired with gleaming golden skin that seemed to shine like tens of thousands of gold pieces laid out in the sun. Further down, however, she lay covered with down feathers—mostly in hues of black and blue, resembling something of a raven that had taken on a human form, but also bearing shades of purple along her midsection and the finer aspects of her wrists and ankles. Nature had set her eyes slanted upon her head and beneath the folds of her eyelids shone nothing more than pits of pure darkness, while upon her wings lay five long feathers that resembled something like human hands encapsulated in an avian form. These reached out for both him and Virgin as she thrust herself forward with her clawed feet up and her mouth open to reveal a gaping maw of razor-wire teeth, but as soon as Virgin shot an arrow toward her, she spun, with supernatural speed, to the side before thrusting herself into the air and back with her flock.
A few writers on Facebook are writing eleven-word stories for 11-11-11. Here’s mine.
The little girl woke up and remembered that she was alone.
For those of you who love fantasy fiction dark, epic, with a strong emphasis on character development and a vast, complex world filled with many a people and things, you might be interested in my soon-to-be-released dark fantasy novel Blood, which chronicles a young man’s attempts as he first plans to enlist within the military, then has a chance meeting with a high mage and is given special passage to train as a knight due to his gift. The Brotherhood: Blood is the first in a series of five dark fantasy novels that covers a hero named Odin Karussa’s journey across the vast world of Minonivna, where not only is magic prevalent, but where dark creatures and secrets make their home.
I am happy to write in this blog that the book is nearing completion, and you can now read the prologue and first chapter for free either in PDF or eReader formats. That’s seventy pages of fantasy fiction, people—seventy!—and let me tell you, though the excerpt is short in comparison to the five-hundred page novel, it offers a glimpse into not only the world, but the plight and consequence that our main character quickly falls into.
It would be an honor if those of the Tumblr community would help spread my excerpt and help it gain some notice. I want this novel to succeed and your help would be greatly appreciated.
From his heart, his mind, his soul and his body, he summoned the most horrible feelings he had ever experienced—as a child, when no one would play with him; as a teenager, unsure of just who or what he was; as a mortal, living in the world with a power he could not control; as a runaway son, whom had abandoned his father and left him to his own devices. From these emotions he pulled his pain, his agony, his frustration, his fear, his consequence, his desire and, most importantly, his joy, and in these emotions he ground himself in reality—in, what many considered to be, the supernatural. A flame of passion rose within his chest and began to channel down his left arm, slowly but surely extending into his fingers and alighting his palm in white, and when that passion turned into a strong fire upon the surface of his hand, he raised it to his own eye level, then thrust it into the air: where, above him, it burst into life and raged a firestorm directly above his head.
His dialogue needed no further clarification, no primer from which to decipher his words and to string them into finely-written, eloquent sentences. No. For that to be the case, his friend would have had to have spoken in tongues—Elvish, possibly, of which he could only narrowly understand, or maybe even Dwarvish. Did the creatures in the east speak in drawls, grunts, maybe even slangs when speaking their native language, or had they resorted to humanity’s spoken word simply for the fact that it seemed easier to say, to write, to dictate and, for the most part, to recite. Though he could not know—and, possibly, did not want to—he pushed his horse forward with a simple flick of the reigns and continued to watch the distant horizon, all the while dreading just what it was that would become of them within the next few moments.
How could it not be when it seemed never to end—when outside, the world appeared torn and bleeding its wool? It would have been fit to say that the ground beneath them was not, in fact, ground at all, and instead was the back of a creature made of things soft and worldly. Shifting, it would have been, for the things it carried were impure, and moving forward it would have continued, attempting to shake them free to devour them whole. The very snow that rained down around them could have been its fur, lost to the torments of mange and freed by agitation, while the cold itself could have been this grand thing slowly but surely succumbing to the reality of the darkened world it currently walked through. It would have seemed perfectly capable, as such things are usually possible especially in extreme situations, but it seemed not to matter in a moment where everything seemed to come together and eclipse as one major whole.