Umam’s Sea: An Original Short Story

One of my greatest memories was when Umam Nikan took me out to find the sea. It was a long trek, longer than any we had ever taken outside of our city. We lived in the south so we would not have to go around mountains to see it. Lots of flat land and good hunting to be had since it was so close to the great sea. It would have been nice to live closer to the mountains so we would not have to walk so far to get our water. But it is as Umam said, usually when chewing her foul smelling blackleaf and when no one else was listening, ‘the chief said to make their home there and his great boar-head is carried on the people’s back’. I knew even then that there was much wisdom in Umam’s words, but I could not help but think that much of it came from gut-hate.

We did not see too much as we were traveling to the sea, but we saw more as we got closer. At the start it was all sand and dust, sometimes a great cat looking over the dunes or a pack of laughing dogs tearing at a kill. But as we got closer we could smell the great land-surrounded sea. We could see the fringes of green life, like the mane of the great cat that we had seen. Trees sprouted from the dirt and the sharp triangular leaves scraped the sky like claws, chirping smallbirds huddling within them as they called to their brothers and sisters. I remembered turning to my Umam and asking her so much about the smallbirds. Why the smallbirds are so small when so many of their cousins are so much bigger? Why do the smallbirds sing so marvelously in the sun? Why do the smallbirds fly away when one gets close to listen to their song?

Umam sat back in the low scrub, the light of our campfire brighting up her wrinkled skin, showing of the age that comes with wisdom. ‘You ask many questions, Kiki. This is good. Never stop. It is when we stop asking questions that we forget why we must ask them.’ she said with a wry, black-toothed smile. ‘But I can answer your questions. The first is that they are like you, like all the animals living on the dirt, but in their way. They are small like prairie mice as the divebirds are big like lesser cats, so they may hide in the ground from bigger things. They have their own reasons, ones we do not know for sure. Maybe it is to peek into places too small for their bigger cousins. Maybe it is just so they do not have to eat as much food. In any case, they are as big as they are because our Earth Umam wants it that way. You ask why they why they sing in the sun? Why shouldn’t they? The sun is a glorious thing, Kiki. It gives us life when there was none before. It helps feed our crops and lights our way. Why shouldn’t the smallbirds sing when it comes over from yonder? But as for why the smallbirds flit away when we come close, it may because they are more like us than we realize. Whenever another comes close, a little one might be nervous. It is the constant fear of the small. If you are small, you might get eaten by something bigger than you. It is why we tell you to run from great cats. But you will one day grow big enough to help fight any great cats that threaten our small ones. Smallbirds will never get to be big and so they must fly away from everything.’

I remember this knowledge well. It made me sad to think about and little tears of not understanding dripped from my eyes. ‘That sounds not fair.’

‘There is much that is not fair in this world. But that is our lot in life.’ her Umam said. ‘It is all we can do to make fair the things we can.’

Back then, I did not understand again what Umam said. I thought It must be one of those things I will understand when I am older.

Days passed as we kept walking, the sun watching our passage through the scrub. A glowing eye of a god high in the sky. It hurt to look at for too long, so I did not stare back. But soon we passed through a place where the sun could not stare, the once thick and stocky trees and brush coming together into a jungle. It was so much cooler there, so much more full of life as well. Umam said many places this close to the oceans are. But there was much life I did not like. The blood bugs and little crawly things that scuttled and stung when they could. Umam showed me how to keep them at bay. She took her big knife, the kind made of metal from the earth by our tribe’s shaman, and split the skin of one of the trees. She drew out its ichors, slathering it on her skin before doing the same to mine. My nose wrinkled at the smell and Umam clicked her tongue at me.

‘This sap smells bad, yes. But it smells worse to those little biters. While you wear this on your skin they will not come near, see?’

To prove her point Umam swung her knife, splattering the sap on the ground, covering one with stingers and claws. It writhed and scuttled like a thing taken by ghosts before vanishing into the scrub. I was impressed.

‘Is that magic? Did you use magic Umam?’ I had asked.

Umam just chuckled. ‘No, child. Magic is creation. I just used something everyone has. Creativity. Now come here. You need some of this sap to keep the blood bugs off.’

I finally relented, allowing Umam to wipe the sticky green sap onto my skin. It prickled my skin and the inside of my nose. But it would be better than scratching and disease from the blood bugs.

But finally we arrived. The sea. It was so beautiful, the small waves lapping against the stone shores. We made our way down and the rocks turned to coarse powder, tiny creatures of shell and scale flitting in the water and on the sand. I cupped my hands and pulled some water from the sea and drank. But it did not act like normal water should. It clawed for purchase and made its taste foul before making me feel sick for drinking it.

‘Ah, it seems you learned a lesson yourself, child.’ Umam laughed. ‘It is good. Learning yourself is sometimes better than hearing it from others. You should not drink straight from the sea. The sea’s water is beautiful, but in its jealousy it has made its water undrinkable.’

‘Then where does the water we drink come from?’ I asked before trying to wipe the taste from my mouth.

‘The shamans dig around below the dirt, even below the dark rock. There, below even that, they may find caves full of water untouched by the sea’s jealousy. That is the water we drink.’

There I played, dancing with the tide and watching the little creatures in the sand. When it got dark Umam cut coconuts from the jungle and split them open with her knife. We shared them by the campfire, looking out to the sea as it turned glassy with colour.

‘Umam? What is this place called?’ I asked. ‘I want to know so I can come here again.’

‘Ah, a question with a future! Very wise.’ she chuckled. ‘Let me think… Ithemba Bay. Yes, that’s what it was called.’

‘And what does Ithemba mean?’

Umam smiled. ‘Good Hope. It’s part of the reason I brought you here.’

Umam looked up at the stars. How beautiful they all were that night. Gleaming like thousands of sparks from our campfire. The night sky was without clouds, leaving only the stars to shine through.

‘I have great hopes for you, Kiki. Great good hopes. When your father passes, you will become the chief of the Atlanteans. I hope that you have more wisdom than he has.’

‘But why do you say these things, Umam? Why do you hate the chief so much?’

Umam took a deep breath through her nose. ‘Because he ignores you, child. He ignores so much you cannot bring yourself to call him father. I cannot stand for that. No one should. But you will do better. This I know.’

I looked up to the stars again. I did not know why Umam had such faith in me.

Perhaps it is something I will understand when I am older.

Tiny Tales #6: Zombie

Something a little different from my usual Tiny Tales, this short story was not inspired by any previous image or anything like that. But still, it is interesting. I hope you enjoy!

—–

I awoke to the sound of groaning and the rattling of metal against rusted metal. The room I had found myself in was barely lit by a single bare light globe hanging from a wire above, casting its glow onto the grubby once-white tiles of the room. A poorly kept radiator -probably broken- was bolted to the wall opposite me and handcuffed to that was the source of the room’s god awful stink. Rotting eyes lolled in a broken skull as a zombified corpse strained against the handcuffs that kept it chained. Seeing it and smelling it, I bolted upright with a scream. Its fervent hunger intensified at this as it tried to grasp at me with a claw of broken nails and mouldy flesh.

I looked around the room, scanning it for anything that could be useful in an escape. The door was solid steel, its hinges rusted. Not only that, but it was well within the reach of the carrion-hungering cadaver. On the other side of the room was a small bundle of hessian cloth with some heavy shapes silhouetted by the fabric. It took only a single step to move over to it and throw back the fabric.

It was a handgun. Or at least, it might make one. Its metal parts lay in a carelessly dumped pile on the cloth along with a single bullet, its brass casing in stark contrast to the steel and chrome of the disassembled weapon. It became clear that however I got here, the person who was responsible wanted to give me a fighting chance. Meaning they wanted entertainment.

I knelt down by the gun, a nervous sweat beginning to wet my skin and hands. As I tried to pick out the pieces I could recognise I recalled the frustration I’d experienced in my childhood when my friend gave me a Rubik’s cube. Somehow I always knew that puzzles would be the death of me.

It took me some time but I eventually began to figure out the weapon’s construction. I slowly began to assemble it, stumbling at most stages of its assembly. It was as I had just assembled the grip itself that I heard a loud snap from behind me. I whirled around and saw that the zombie, in straining as hard as its atrophied muscles would allow against the handcuffs, had begun to break the ligaments, tendons and bones in its hand as it slowly came apart from the arm. Cold sweat gushed from my pores as I looked back to the weapon and hastened my hands. Another crack told me the wrist had been dislocated. One more that another decayed tendon had gone. Only strands of flesh remained between me and it.

The last piece was within my reach as I quickly attached the slide to the handgun and jammed the single shot I had into the magazine. The flesh finally broke as the zombie lunged at me with a single hand and slavering mouth. I turned. My weapon wasn’t loaded. My foot came up, uninvited by my intention, and slammed into the zombie’s chest and me against the wall.

The zombie hit the floor as I hit the wall but was back up in less than a second. I had only just gotten the magazine in the weapon. I took aim right as it lunged again and squeezed the trigger. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space, the bullet smashing into the zombie’s head and the reverberation bursting inside my ears. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning as I saw the undead monster laying dead on the floor. Tentatively, I moved over to the door and tried the handle.

Locked.

 

Tiny Tales #5: Last Stand at Stonegate Fortress

Back for another Tiny Tale I see. Well, I hope to never disappoint. Hope you’re in the mood for some dark and gritty fantasy! Enjoy!

(Bone Dragon by Meago)

“Dragon!”

The call went up moments before the ones who made it were burned to cinders. Green flames swirled around me as I clutched tight to my crossbow, my kettle helmet absorbing  heat from the hellish blaze only to be instantly cooled by the pelting rain and hail. My teeth chattered not from the cold but pure fear, the sound of the crashing bone and heavy rain almost drowning out the roars of the Sergeant.

“Retreat! Back to the fortifications!” he bellowed.

The unit swarmed back to the stone fortress like ants scurrying from a flood. I dared to look up to see the shadow overhead had looped around. It was coming back for another assault.

“Sergeant!” I screamed. The beast was directly bearing down on us.

“Hell’s bells. It’s coming right for us! Scatter!”

The men of the unit did just that. The dragon breathed its infernal flame again, the blaze incinerating those too slow to move. I had only just managed to dive out of the way in time, crashing into the muddy plain before rolling over with my crossbow at the ready. The dragon had already soared by, denying my chance to shoot back. But it was not as if my attacks would be at all effective against this foe.

The dragon was unlike any I’d ever seen. As a guard of the Stonegate Fortress I had helped my fellows fight no less than three of the giant fire-breathers, but this one was nothing like any of the ones before. It was purely skeletal yet still moving and somehow flying. Where its heaving belly should have been a great orb of vivid green flame was burning, the same colour as the fireballs that served as the creature’s eyes. Normal dragons were an abomination of nature already, but this? There was something terrifying and wrong about a titanic skeleton such as that held aloft by its own foul will, breathing hellish flame into the sky and roasting men and women I had served with for months to nought but a black smear in the mud in an instant.

“Come on, get up! You’ll never get out of this if you wallow in the muck!” the Sergeant belted again, stirring me from my position as I took off running once more.

The dragon’s fire was still blazing, even with the rain. In fact it was causing the rain to turn to mist and fog, obscuring the battlefield and the dragon even more than the dark clouds. But the fortress of Stonegate loomed large in the mist and dark, standing defiantly above the craggy ground below and before the sheer cliff of the mountain. Its square towers and intimidating ramparts protecting the lands of the king and all his people for hundreds of years against the constant threats from the dragon lands. Along the ramparts giant ballistae stood at the ready, trying to draw a bead on the menacing shape when out of the mists their target sprung and smashed a ballistae with its mighty ivory claws. Men screamed as they fell against the smashed rock and were crushed under the wood and iron of the destroyed ballistae.

The other ballistae crews took aim at the great beast but they were not fast enough. The fearsome skeleton had disappeared back into the hail and mist, leaving them quaking in anticipation and cold. My feet thudded against the paved stones of the fortress as the iron portcullis crashed down behind me. I bent double, coughing and wheezing from the effort as I tried to breathe.

“You’re out of shape.” the Sergeant said beside me, similarly out of breath but hiding it better than the other men whom he turned to address. “Alright men, it’s looking bad out there. But have no fear! You are the king’s best men, every last one of you! I expect you all to be worthy of such a title!”

The men were still shaken. Afraid and cold, their morale was in danger of being shattered with their nerves. The Sergeant took another breath of air as he continued his speech.

“Now I don’t know where this monster has come from. All the beasties that’ve attacked us up ’till this point have been fleshy enough for our crossbows to work. But that just means we’re going to have to change tack. Remember lads, with the wall at our backs we can never be knocked down! Sigmund, Berthold, Chelsea! I want you three on the net trebuchet! Knock that infernal thing out of the sky!”

I saluted with the other two guards. Berthold and Chelsea were good soldiers. I’d served with them since I was enlisted in the army. The three of us turned and ran for the towers as the Sergent barked orders at the rest of the unit. Our feet fell heavier than the rain around us as we ran, the chaotic cacophony of battle echoing against the impassible granite face of the mountain. The trebuchet tower was the tallest spire of the fortress, the large wooden machine of war permanently fixed into the tower to launch giant nets at the dragons that menaced civilised lands.

“By the king’s quivering thighs why do there have to be so many stairs?!” grunted Berthold in frustration.

“Shut up and keep climbing!” Chelsea said, her own exhaustion coming through in her voice.

Despite the stairs and the grunts and colourful oaths of exertion from the others we made it to the top. The roar of fighting and the roar of the beast hastened us as we loaded the net into the sling. I took lookout while the others worked, gripping my crossbow tighter than ever. I heard something above me and I saw the beast whoosh by overhead, a dark shadow in the rain. It landed on a lower tower to the trebuchet, its claws pulverising the ancient stonework as it clung like a skeletal gargoyle. It reared its mighty head towards us and I felt my innards droop.

“Get down!” I screamed as I dropped behind the ramparts.

Dragon fire seared overhead. It lasted only a few moments but it felt like an eternity of heat and smoke. The rain turned to mist before falling once more as if trying to pin me to the floor. Despite that I got up and looked behind me. My crossbow slipped from my grasp. Berthold, Chelsea and the trebuchet were no more. From the waist up my friends, my companions I had served with since the beginning, were nothing but ash and char. The once mighty trebuchet was now black embers and half-melted bolts. I suppressed my grief, but my anger and despair broke loose and flowed hot through my veins. I drew my sword and looked to the dragon preparing to take flight once more. It was going to pass directly under the tower.

That would be its last mistake.

Without a moment’s hesitation I leapt from the tower, as did the dragon. I fell as heavily as the rain as the skeletal dragon soared underneath me. I crashed into its ribcage, grabbing a hold of one of its spines for stability. The blaze within its ribcage scorched my skin despite the cold, but that mattered not. I saw the wing beating furiously as the dragon looked behind itself at me. It would try to shake me off if I gave it a chance. That chance would not come for it.

With a furious yell I thrust my blade through the storm into the dragon’s joints, where the wing met its titanic body. Lightning tore across the clouds as we fell, the dragon’s cry an ear-splitting shriek and mine a defiant scream.

I was one of the king’s best men. I was a guard of Stonegate Fortress. And I would never let a dragon burn the lands I swore to protect.

Tips, Tricks & Tropes: Keeping it Up

So you’re writing and everything’s going great. You’re having fun, you’re planning the story as it flows and your characters are coming to life before your very eyes. But then you go to bed one night and the next morning you stop. It could be for really any reason, all of them valid. And you say you’ll start again but you just… don’t. And if you don’t realise it quickly it’ll have been weeks or months since you last worked on your project. This is a different problem from the notorious writer’s block, when you just can’t think of what to write. This is a problem of motivation.

Sadly a problem like this isn’t quickly fixed, but it can be relatively easy. And it can be done so in a number of ways. Be sure to use them or the guILT IS SURE TO DRIVE YOU MAD.

Let’s begin.

Method #1: Return to your inspiration.

This one is a fairly straightforward solution. Usually you write best when you’re operating with your head in that sphere of what you’re writing about. Your project is bound to be inspired by a whole lot of things, so see if you can remember what those thins are. Go back and give them a look again. Enjoy them, savour them. And once you’re done you’ll realise that you’ve come up with a whole lot more to write about while you were watching, reading or listening. For extra points be sure to write them down when they come to you so they don’t fly by you.

Method #2: Retrace your steps.

This one is another easy method which is very similar to Method #1. Just going back to the start of your project and giving it a read through is good for building up enthusiasm for your project. It also gives you time to comb through and pick out little grammatical errors or reflect on if a scene really works for you. Then once you’ve found yourself back at the beginning, you might want to keep writing so you can read more of your own story. And once you’re done then everyone can read your story!

Method #3: Preventative measures.

This one is a little trickier but doing it can prevent a lack of motivation from being a problem altogether. Just writing for a period of time every day can help your productivity a great deal. Stephen King gave this exact advice in his book On Writing (what a clever pun) and I can definitely see its merits. King has written more books than I have living family members and that’s no small feat. Even if you physically can’t write on your project that doesn’t mean you should stop writing. Make a short story about a bear lost at sea. Scribble up a first-person exploration of a sunken ship on paper under a shady tree. Make a haiku using fridge magnets. Write upon the walls like a crazy person!
All of these (well, except maybe that very last one) can help boost your productivity as a writer and in doing so also hones your skill. Practice makes perfect, to drag out a tortured phrase.

And there you have it. Three little methods that might give you a hand if you’re having trouble getting back into the swing of things. Thanks for reading and I’ll be back with more plot next time!

Tiny Tales #4: This is My Life Now

Alright, finally getting more into it. Less preamble, more stories! This week looking at something from artist Zombiesmile. I’m hoping to do something that has a bit more of a lighter tone since let’s face it, the first few of these have been pretty dark.

(Drowning in Pussy by Zombiesmile)

‘Well. I guess this is my life now.’ I thought, completely surrounded on all sides by felines.

Living in a new town meant that for the longest time I didn’t have a job. No job means no money, and whoever said mo’ money mo’ problems clearly hasn’t had a bank account with less than fifty bucks in it on average. But after a few weeks and an entire tree’s worth of resumes with no responses, I decided to try my hand at being an entrepreneur. I know the market usually gets cornered by kids looking for sugar money but it seemed that the lemonade stand industry was booming at the moment and not a lot of people were pet sitting. So seeing my chance, I took it. Being allergic to dogs I decided to throw my lot in with man’s moody housemate instead.

It started slow at first. A few old folks with their overfed cats who paid well enough for me to eat actual people food for the first time in a while. The other moggies were nice enough as well. They didn’t eviscerate anything, barely coughed up any hairballs and my curtains have somehow remained scratch-free. I guess word of mouth spreads fast as my house started to fill up with cats.

I carefully maneuver around all the wriggling felines, having to separate a pair of them that were fighting as I walked to the kitchen. I open the cupboard and pull out a bag of cat food so heavy I can barely hold onto it. I really need to start working out. I close the cupboard door and look back into my living room. Every single one of the cats is standing at attention, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to feed you, just give me a- whoa!”

As I was making my way through the kitchen I had tripped over one of the weightier cats that I take care of. I call her Doorstop. She certainly stopped me as I pitched forward and landed flat on the kitchen floor, the bag of catfood spilling out over the floor. The horde of fur tiptoes around their fallen giant to make sure he’s okay before helping clean up the food that was spilled everywhere. I sigh into the kitchen tiles. Two months of doing this and I still forget about Doorstop.

The sound of purring is like a constant thrumming in my house. It drowns out the noise the neighbours make, but I’m starting to find silence a bit disconcerting. I wonder if I’m becoming a crazy cat person as I roll onto my back, noticing that I am surrounded entirely by cats of all types. A kitten Mrs Daphne has me taking care of while she gets her hip replacement takes a seat on top of my head as all the other cats settle down on top of me. It’s a case of full body cat paralysis. It’s entirely impossible to move. I close my eyes. I might as well accept my fate.

As I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling with the gentle thrum of purring surrounding me, I closed my eyes and gave a small sigh. I probably wasn’t going to be moving for a while. For some weird reason that didn’t bother me at all.

Tips, Tricks & Tropes: Reverse Engineering

Learning how to write is like making a quilt. You start with a lot of different materials, stringing them together to create something beautiful. But the thing about quilts is that they aren’t usually made from just one material and often made out of scraps.

What I’m going to discuss today is the idea of turning ideas from other mediums such as film and adapting them to the written word. It seems like it’d be a difficult thing but many ideas are actually fairly universal from what I’ve seen.

It goes without saying that writing for film is very different for writing for novels. Same goes for TV, comics, newspaper strips and video games. But when you get right down to it a lot of their concepts can be used in pretty much any medium. Take for instance on the YouTube channel Every Frame a Painting Tony Zhou made a video essay on how he creates his video essays. In the video it he plays a clip of South Park co-creator Trey Parker talking about how they properly structure an average episode of South Park using the words “therefore” and “but” (Not “butt”, but that appears pretty frequently too in South Park). This way it avoids repetition or the notorious “and then”, instead favouring cause and effect. This way you can avoid things just happening for no reason and the dreaded Deus ex Machina. By applying something that was intended for TV we can improve our other writing.

In Tony’s video In Praise of Chairs he discusses how chairs are useful analogies of characters and can be extensions of the world around these characters or their situation. While often appearing in a visual medium this can very easily be reapplied to textual writing. The idea of having the scenery reflect the character’s situation is not a new one but it is effective nonetheless.

Okay, that might be a little too simple. So how about something more complex? Something that logically only applies to film? In his video on ensemble staging he looks at the South Korean movie Memories of Murder and early on makes an interesting observation.
“What a film director really directs is the audience’s attention.”
He then goes on to show how having all the actors in the same frame performing together allows multiple stories to occur at once very smoothly as well as things like how we pay attention to people that are speaking and those who are being spoken to and how emphasis is given to actors who are closer to the lens or moving. But how can we use something like this when writing a novel? Here’s one example I can think of.

Say you are focusing on an intense discussion or an argument between two characters who are arguing about a third character that is present with them. As the writing follows the first two characters getting into their argument focus is given to the third character, but it gradually gives less and less description of what the third character is doing as the argument becomes more heated until all we think about is the argument between the first two. At the high point of their argument it’s revealed that the third character has disappeared, fleeing the scene or being abducted by a fourth party. I feel this mirrors the method of subtly moving the camera to get certain characters out of focus and create emphasis, like Tony explains from 3:12 to 3:37 of the video. Focusing on the argument between the first two characters is a method of not only showing how they are becoming more heated in their argument and paying less attention to the world around them, but it also narrows the focus of the reader as well allowing the reveal to be surprising for the readers as well as the characters.

This is just a tiny fraction of what can be learned from other mediums and you can see it everywhere. Chuck Jones often told his animators to read classic literature to better understand their inspiration when working on Looney Tunes. Inspiration is easy to come by and techniques are very much the same, as common as thread and cloth. Now all you need to make a great story is a needle.

Tiny Tales #3: Coming Home to Old Stros M’Kai

Hello again people of the internet, here I am again with another of these Tiny Tales. If you’re just tuning in now, this segment is where I find a piece of art on the internet and create a story around it. This week I have picked something from the amazingly talented artist Isriana. Now without further ado, another short story for your reading pleasure.

(Springtime in Old Stros M’Kai by Isriana)

It was a darkening evening in Old Stros M’Kai when a white-haired man strode across its shores. The lighthouse in the distance was still yet unlit, but that would change come a little more time. The waves lapped gently against the shores as he walked, his every fifth step punctuated by the gentle rush of the salted shores. He looked up to the sky of Old Stros M’Kai and thought of the place and the time that he loved.

It was peaceful here. A far cry from the fighting that at times seemed all too pointless. He never wanted to be a soldier, but he never had a choice. But now all that he wanted was to be with that woman he saw that last time it was Spring in Old Stros M’Kai.

He could remember her as if she stood before him now. Her skin was as soft as the sand he walked upon, her breath as gentle as the warm breeze. He thought it was too cliche to describe her eyes as the sea or the sky, but without those overused metaphors he couldn’t begin to describe how their infinite depths made him feel. The stars peeking through the amethyst sky could not match the radiance of her smile and her lute could soothe the soul of any beast or man. She was immortal to him, a constant in this world of shifting sand.

He was close now. He could hear her song on the wind, the sight of her smile and the curls of her hair. He quickened his pace. It would not be long until he was reunited with her, his love of Old Stros M’Kai.

And like that, there she was. Sitting where she always was with her hair caught by the wind, holding her lute like a delicate treasure and looking to the horizon for a bright future. He sat down beside her and looked with her, though she did not acknowledge his presence. He did not mind. He was with her now in the place that he loved, in the life that he loved.

He looked to her and saw the flower that he had given her the last time he had visited had wilted away to nothingness. But it was alright. Taking away the withered bulb he threaded a fresh one through her locks. He knew she was pleased with the gesture as she wore her signature statuesque smile. How he adored that smile.

He did not know how long he sat there. It was enough just to be with her in silence, feeling the warmth of the setting sun and watching its light dance on the lapping waves of the ocean, the vibrant air glittering with uncountable stars as her faint music weaved through his mind. He did not care that he would have to leave again, he would hold onto this moment as if it lasted forever. She would always be here for him and he was duty bound to return that favour whenever he could.

He began to cry but he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was joy. Yes, it must be joy. For he was here with his love in Old Stros M’Kai. She would never leave. She could never leave. So he must stay with her for as long as he could. He admired her resilience. All alone, a fortress of stone against the wind and sand and time. He began to lean on her, feeling the weight of the world leaving his shoulders

In Spring he was safe. In Spring he was calm. In Spring he would die in Old Stros M’Kai.

Ruminations: The Art, The Artist and The Audience

Recently as I was trawling around YouTube I watched a video by MovieBob detailing and reflecting on the idea of separating the art from the artist. It was an interesting video but it did get me thinking more on a similar subject. Separating the Art from the Artist has its own debate going on around it but meanwhile I’m wondering about the audience. When writing a review on something that has such a large input from its audience, is it necessary to include thoughts on the fandom in the review?

If you’ve read my review on Steven Universe you know that for a good chunk of it  I made mention of my thoughts on the more toxic and belligerent part of Steven Universe’s fandom, the ones who tell people to kill themselves if they make fanart they don’t like. It’s really an unfortunate reality that people like that even exist or believe that they’re some progressive crusader instead of a bully trying to cover up their flaws by hiding behind a progressive force. But they honestly don’t represent the fanbase as a whole. But why even bother to mention the fanbase in the first place? It’s not like a book review is just going to pause halfway through to talk about how the Harry Potter fandom is planning on bringing Quidditch to the Olympic Games or how Trekkies are working on technology to make a robot duplicate of Patrick Stewart to play Captain Picard in all future Star Trek movies.

I think it depends. It all really has to do with the level of interaction the audience has with the media. The ways people express their interest in what they love is changing. Cosplay, fanart, fanfiction, music and even full fan productions can be inspired by the original material, and with the internet as an almost instant distributor potentially millions of people can see works like these and share their own. But along with this the internet is also a vehicle for almost instant criticism. Movies with strong opening days can bomb at the box office due to word of mouth spreading faster than it ever could before, or how lesser known works and indie games can suddenly explode with popularity and become world famous in a matter of days or even hours. Just look at the divisive effect Undertale has had on the gaming community back in 2015. Discounting the impact the fans have on the material is ignoring a huge part of what the material even is and how others who are seeking to learn more about it will perceive it. Some material has fanbases so dedicated and connected that people new to the material might be intimidated or even turned off completely from how intense the fanbase for it is.

(A philosophy to live by.)

For an especially literal example, on August 1st this year an original anime called Under the Dog that had been completely funded by a Kickstarter campaign was released, gaining mostly positive reviews from fans and critics alike. Over 12,000 backers put almost $900,000 US into the project, which without that funding would likely not exist. This alone proves how the fans of material or even a media can affect and influence what they love. In an example like this it is entirely impossible to separate the fan reaction and culture from the work since they had such a direct influence in its conception.

All in all, the question of “what is a review” has to be asked for this other quandary to have a clear solution. If your definition of a review is to judge a work solely on its own merits for the sake of the work’s own quality, then details about the fans that support it can be considered irrelevant to what you are trying to say. But if your critique of the material is one that focuses on providing an idea for how much your own audience is going to enjoy a work, then adding in the community that attaches or even dedicates themselves to that particular piece of material is important enough that omitting to mention might seem like a small mistake, but it is a deceptively small mistake. Humans being the social creatures that we are, we want to see what other people feel about the things that we love and see how they express that love or even express it themselves.

It’s one of the reasons why people write reviews in the first place, isn’t it?

Tips, Tricks & Tropes: A Matter of Perspective

So you’ve got an idea for your novel and you’re writing your book. But then suddenly, the person writing the book has a stroke. An out of body experience. My mind begins to wander through the infinite aether and mingles with the stars. Then you realise that I’m not sure which perspective the writer is supposed to be using.

Perspective is a surprisingly useful tool in creating a narrative. Really there are three main types of perspective. First Person, which has the story written as the characters perceiving it, Second Person where the story is being relayed to another, and finally Third Person, which has the story as if it were viewed by some omniscient figure. Legends tell of a mysterious Fourth Person narrative, but evidence is yet to be found of such a thing existing. It’s like some kind of literary Bigfoot.

Each type of perspective has its advantages. Third Person allows you to easily show anything you want, as the perspective of the reader is not limited by the characters relaying events or their own senses and perceptions. In this way you can reveal things to the reader without letting your characters know, potentially increasing the tension if done right. Second Person narratives are more of a relay of events as if the reader or the character standing in for the reader was there in the moment as events played out or as they listened to the information relayed to them. This method can created a more personal kind of story, however it is easy to see how this can be done poorly. If done wrong it can come off as gossipy or just be structured like a bad run-on sentence. Nobody likes listening to someone who refuses to breathe. First Person allows the story to become more personal as the readers get to better know the character they follow. Their thoughts, motives and actions all become a bit clearer. However this method also has its restrictions. For one, you’re only able to follow the actions and perceptions of that single character. They are the anchor of consciousness, the camera in the movie. They’re not going to be able to notice that person creeping up behind and still get surprised by them. This raises another point.

Consistency is a key element in any book, and the perspective that it is written in can really take someone out of the experience if it is inconsistent. Very few writers are able to get away with switching the perspectives of the narrative as it takes a considerable amount of skill to not lose the reader and make a convoluted mess of switching viewpoints that collapses under itself.

So now you know, or at least have a refresher for, the importance of perspective in writing. Now go forth and write!

Tiny Tales #2: The Cruel Man

Hello again people of the internet, here I am again with another of these Tiny Tales. If you’re just tuning in now, this segment is where I find a piece of art on the internet and create a story around it. Now without further ado, another short story for your reading pleasure.

(Dream Catcher by alejowar)

“You want to sell me a what?”

“Did you not hear me, little beggar? I asked if you wanted to buy a soul.”

I was shocked. I have seen a lot of things in this world but this man is by far the strangest. The man that stood above me was tall and grim, his face weathered as if it were an ancient temple statue made grey flesh. His clothes shrouded all but his face, and his grizzled beard concealed more of it further. And on his shoulder a raven sat, looking down on me like a judge before a man to be hanged. And in his hand, a lantern filled with a light I had never once seen. A light that looked for all the world like a tiny winged human form.

“What are you, some kind of devil making an offer like that? I won’t fall for demonic tricks!”

The man scoffed. “You don’t seem to understand this world. A devil would barter for your soul. A demon would simply kill you for it. I am but a man, and I have no interest in your soul. After all, I’m offering you this one.”

Saying that, he held up the lamp, its tiny glowing light shining blue and white with wings as iridescent as its body. The tiny thing was scarcely bigger than one’s hand and yet my heart swelled at the sight of it, as if I was looking into the deepest crag below or sitting atop the highest mountain.

“What would I even do with the soul of someone else anyway?”

“A fair question. This world is dangerous, to be sure. Not a single person here isn’t afraid of a violent end. But with this,” he said as he held up the lamp which cast a blue light over his face. “you might stave off that death. Let someone else take the fall if you were to succumb to wounds or illness.”

“Are you talking about… Immortality?”

“Not at all.” he said with a shake of his head. “Immortality is a myth, a trap for the greedy. No, this I offer is an extension to your life. A few more years to live.”

I looked away. “A few more years to suffer.”

The man’s lips split into a smile. “Not from what I can see.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have potential. Not a destiny, far from it. Destiny is a word used to inspire zealots to blindly follow their masters. Potential is what comes from within, remember that.” the man said as he continued to smile. “I wouldn’t sell this to any old fool.”

“Are you sure you aren’t the old fool? The gods will damn you for selling something like that if what you’re selling is real.”

The old man’s smile faded. “If the gods were still alive, then I wouldn’t have something like this in the first place.”

His words hurt me. I wasn’t sure why. I looked again at the bright little shape in the lamp before looking to the raven upon the man’s shoulder, its eyes red as fresh gore. It only just occurred to me then that I had never seen that bird blink. Not once.

“So what is your answer then? Will you accept?” The old man asked, shifting my attention once more as he held up the lantern.

“Even if I wanted to, how could I? I have nothing.”

To this, the old man shook his head. “And already you’ve forgotten what I said. Stupid child. You lie to yourself that your life is over when it has barely even begun. There may come a time when you look back on this day and curse yourself, so foolish as to make the decision you did when you knew nothing and yet acted as if you pulled your own strings. This choice is yours alone to make.”

The man set the lantern down causing the little figure inside to jolt, blue light sparking from it like the union of flint and stone. The light from the unholy lantern shone on me. It revealed the rags that pretend to be my clothes, the dirt and grime from the bottom of the world that clung to my skin. I had fought with dogs and others like me just to survive in this miserable life. And this man. This cruel, cruel man. He comes with a trinket beyond all value and offers to sell it without even asking for anything in return?

“I wonder. Will you will make the right choice?” he smirked.

I looked to the lantern again. What else could I possibly say?