NaNoWriMo

I'm writing this on my Droid since I already shut my computer down for the night and this is something I need to say.

I'm doing NaNoWriMo this year. I've never done it before, but I've wanted to do it for years. I figure that, now that I'm done with school, I have enough time to really have a chance.

I've given much thought to what I wanted to write. It would need to be something that I can write a novella about, not just some random one-sentence idea. It would need to be something I could really care about, so I wouldn't get bored and drop it halfway through. It needed to be something good.

I'm going to rewrite Star's Light, a story I've been trying to write for about four and a half years, now. This is the story I, for lack of a better word, need to write. This is the Dark Tower to my Stephen King. If there's one thing I need to accomplish creatively in my life, it's to write this story. NaNoWriMo might give me the chance to finally finish it, at least the first story.

Star's Light began in freshman year of college. I was sitting on the Astro Lounge couch, surfing the internet, when I had one of those sought-after moments of epiphany. I imagined a man, some kind of space pilot, relaxing in the flight chair of his empty starship. And I felt consumed by a need to know this man: to know why his ship was empty, to know how he got it, to know why he even existed, somewhere out amongst the stars. Why his was a story worth telling. I began the first words of the story of Christopher Hayes and his female companion Anara Seline, almost immediately. That story has grown into a 63-page, single-spaced Word document that I've been writing and editing on-and-off for four and a half years.

Come November, I'm going to scrap that draft and start entirely anew.

There are a few reasons for this. As it is, the story is a bloated mess that combines a number of different writing styles, and would not look too good to the average reader. My writing style has gotten much, MUCH better up to now, and I think I can give the story the justice it deserves. I've also mulled over the setting quite a bit by now, as opposed to when I started writing, so hopefully the universe won't seem so haphazard and slapdash.

It also gives me a hell of a lot of incentive to write for NaNoWriMo, and I have a base to fall back on which should help me a bit in writing the new story. I don't think it's against the rules; I don't intend to follow the old story exactly. It'll be more of a guideline, more like a glorified outline.

The basic plot of Star's Light is that Christopher Hayes, wandering space thief, meets an attractive bartender, Anara Seline, after a successful job. As he heads back to his ship, the Star's Light, she runs into him as she's escaping from some angry, and armed, debt collectors. She's able to convince him to let her stay with him on his ship, and they quickly come to find out that they don't like each other very much. Hilarity and space thievery ensue.

It's basically a love letter to all the space sci-fi media that has captivated my imagination for literally my entire life. All that good shit from the late 80s to the early 00s, from Outlaw Star and Cowboy Bebop, to Andromeda and Firefly, to Star Wars and Star Trek; that kind of lighthearted, quirky feel, the kind that wasn't so obsessed with deconstruction and realism, before that became the mainstream. It's also my attempt to write an engaging, thoughtful relationship, not to mention a strong, believable female protagonist, things that I feel are handled too poorly on far too widely a scale.

Again, this is the one story I need to write. I won't ever be able to call myself a writer if I leave this unfinished any longer. NaNoWriMo might finally be the thing I need to get this done.

To whoever reads this (and I'll be posting this to Facebook to make sure people do read it), help me actually write this thing. Force me to finish it, in the middle of November when I hate myself and question why I'm even bothering. Remind me why this stupid little tale means so much to me.

I owe it to myself, after all the shit I've been through, to see Chris and Anara finally have a story. Even if it turns out to be shit. But I don't think it'll be too bad.

Not sure about the title, though.

Ruins in the Desert

I do a lot of thinking when I'm traveling. Then again, I do a lot of traveling, so I guess you could say I just do a lot of thinking.

Thinking is really all I can do. There's nothing out here in the desert; nothing I've seen, at least. Sure, there are probably ruins and ancient strongholds deep in the dunes, maybe even little trinkets half-buried in the sand, but you just don't see all that when you're walking in the desert heat. You just see the dunes, and when the entire world is just one big desert, you start to stop expecting something new over every crested hill.

I've been told the world hasn't always been this way. They say that there was a Fall, eons ago. They say that things actually used to be pretty good, that there were oceans, forests, gleaming cities. I find it hard to believe. When you spend your entire life living in desert, only sand and rock, the only hint of something else existing solely in your imagination, you begin to think that there was always desert. When you can only see the spindle forests, the vapor farms, the fortresses built in empty husks and hollowed-out mountains, it's really hard to imagine that there could have been anything else.

Could we really have screwed up enough to turn our entire world into this? Sometimes I don't think so, that humanity couldn't really be that cold, but then I remember the things people have done to another simply to survive, the things I've done just to see another sunrise.

But I know that there was something that came before. I just came from a village formed in an old fallout shelter, buried deep underground. I stayed in the ruins of some kind of building only a few days ago, ravaged by the sands and the passage of time, still holding some old relics of the past. I walked the halls of the place, its original purpose long-forgotten, and through the sounds of my footsteps and the lonely moan of the desert wind, I could almost hear the murmurs and shuffling of long-forgotten people, back when this place was still alive.

As I strode through the ruins I began to think of what had happened to it. What it had seen, in all the years it stood silently watching over the sands, a lonely reminder of an ancient people. Was it really important enough to have had to endure these countless years? Or was it simply just some twist of fate that allowed it to survive until I came? I wanted to know the story of this place, and yet I knew I never could. All I could add to its history was a night or two of rest, silently moving through its corridors and letting my imagination run wild, like I have done so many times before, as it had seen so many others do before me.

I guess you could say that this is why I keep traveling. I live for places like this; I immerse myself in them, losing my sense of the present as I try to learn whatever I can about the past. By thinking about why these buildings are still here, I wonder why I'm even here to see them in this state. If there had really been an End, why were there still survivors? If everything was always like this, who had come before to build this lonely place in the endless dunes? Smarter people than me have said that we can look to the past to understand ourselves, why we are, who we are. As I wander through these ruins, I know exactly what they mean.

Maybe I'm just looking to define myself here. Maybe that's all anyone ever wants to do: understand and define themselves. They just go about it in different ways. Exploring these places is really all I can do with my life. Nothing else could ever seem to compare.

-----

Another Rachel Aensland story. I read an article about the appeal of post-apocalyptica, and got inspired to write about why my favorite wasteland-wandering gunslinger is wandering in the first place. I imagine this takes place while she's still traveling to Dahn.

The High Provost's Morning

Adam Quinn was a man who enjoyed his routine

He awoke at precisely 7:03 A.M, every day. No earlier, no later. He rose in a smooth but slow way, like a stone sliding down a path of moss. His bed was always an otherwise empty one, and while this left a sort of a tugging sensation at the back of his mind, one that almost seemed to urge that this was a thing not quite right, it was something that Adam often forgot.

He went about his morning routine always in the same way: dressing in his favorite midnight velvet dining robe, grooming himself, and taking his morning tea (with exact amounts of mint and lemon) in his oaken chair, next to the big window that displayed the lovely garden outside. He often relished these brief moments of relaxation and quiet contemplation, though he never got much contemplating done.

Right at 9:46 A.M., one of his aides knocked on the large, mahogany door that led into his room, and Adam put down his almost-finished tea and went outside to his duties. It was convenient that his place of work was in the next room over, where his councilors and viziers were always waiting for him, dressed in their colorful and exquisitely-ornate robes of office.

Adam Quinn much relished his career as His Altitude the High Provost, Sovereign of the Republic, Defender of All that Lies Within. The list went on, of course, and it was all said whenever he entered the room, all nine pages, each page representing a year of his reign. Adam quite enjoyed thinking of new titles to give himself in preparation for his awaited tenth year.

Once the Reading of the Titles was complete, Adam sat down on his beloved blackwood Chair of Office and set to work managing the realm. Magistrates and advisers pelted him with all sorts of queries, complaints, and suggestions, and Adam took them all in, fingering the seam of his dining robe as he listened and didn't listen, waiting for the chance to speak.

"...and it is for this reason, Mr. Quinn, that we are in dire need of new sources of iron production. As it stands, our own supply is most exiguous..."

Adam brought up a hand, silencing the room. "'Exiguous'?"

The councilman, a smaller, stockier man, looked at him quizzically. "Y-Yes, sir. Exiguous."

"Whatever could that mean, dear legislator?"

The poor magistrate's left eye twitched, fearing the wrath this would undoubtedly bring. "I-I apologize profusely, High Provost, it was not my...my intention..."

Adam could hardly tolerate it. He would not permit such an errant word, enigmatic and strange. "Summon the Royal Dictionarian!" One of the aides bowed and quickly left the room.

The mood of the room changed in an instant. Most of the councilors let out soft sighs, some having experienced such an event before, others because it made no sense that there would be a Royal Dictionarian when there was no royalty. The newer councilors, oft-placed on a rotating schedule of administration, as per Adam's decree, were mostly oblivious as to what this could mean. The magistrate who first uttered that mysterious word was one of the experienced members, and moved to stop Adam in his tracks. "My dear Mr. Quinn, surely there is no need..."

He was interrupted by the opening of the main door to the modest assembly chamber, a young man of college age striding in. He was dressed in the official trappings of the Royal Dictionarian, which Adam had declared to be no different than that of any other young man of college age. What differentiated him from his peers, however, was that he carried a large leather-bound tome under his right arm - much larger and grander than any other book that young men of college age bore on city streets - which was labeled very clearly in golden calligraphy, "Royal Dictionary." The Royal Dictionarian walked over to Adam's right side and saluted. "Y-You have need of me, H-High Provost?"

Adam looked on the Royal Dictionarian fondly, reminded of how he had always wished he had held the office when he was that young, despite the fact that the position had only been brought into existence when Adam took office, much later in life. Still, he was envious of the young man's opportunity. "Royal Dictionarian, define for me the word...however was it pronounced?"

One of the younger aides, likely in an attempt to curry favor, enthusiastically spat, "'Exegesis', sir!"

An older aide, with lines of storm-cloud gray in his luxurious facial hair, groaned, "It was 'exeunt,' High Provost."

The original word-utterer, who was resigned to his inner prison of reason and logic until now, raised a stopping hand and sighed, "'Exiguous'. The word was 'exiguous'."

The Royal Dictionarian nodded excitedly and set the tome onto the large redwood Table of the Assembly, making a large slam that resonated through the nearby hallways. He deftly searched for the word, scanning through entries like a navigator plotting a course. The mood was tense, at least for Adam, as he watched the young man work, always afraid that the grand Royal Dictionary would not hold an uttered word, an event that would require either the marshaling of the entirety of the Republican military and a declaration of extreme emergency, or a summoning of the Grand Transcriber who would then add the word and its likeliest definition into the seemingly-ancient compendium. Adam found himself holding his breath, refusing to let it go as a matter of dramatic principle.

"I have found it!" The Royal Dictionarian declared, and Adam did indeed resume the act of regular respiration. The aide continued, "Exiguous, a member of the His Altitude's Adjectives..."

"A most noble group," Adam added.

"...defined in this most majestic guide as 'scanty in measure or number.' It may also be synomized as 'extremely small, diminutive, minute. So ends the definition."

Adam nodded in understanding. "I thank you for your services, Royal Dictionarian. You have once again provided me with the enlightenment that only you may provide. You may consider yourself relieved, and I bid you return to the Stacks, before they find themselves too lonely of your presence."

The Royal Dictionarian smiled and closed the Royal Dictionary. "I wish only to serve, High Provost," he said, bowing. He was then given leave to exit the room, doing so with the same stride as he entered with. Adam watched his departure, a hint of longing in his bright hazel eyes.

"That man holds more power than any other in this room. He has been given the authority to define all our language's vocabulary, whether it is as mundane as the common cobblestone, or as significant as Death Itself. On a whim, he could subtly redefine any word, and I would trust him implicitly. His is an office of honesty and truth, and yet it could bring down the very foundations of this world." Adam clasped his hands together. "A fascinating position, to be sure."

"But," Adam said as he returned his gaze to the assembled councilors, "where were we?"

-----

His Altitude the High Provost Adam Quinn is a character I originally planned for a steampunk campaign that I ran this past summer. Unfortunately, I had to cut out because I couldn't manage to fit him into what meager sessions I wound up having. I based the character mainly off of Auberon Quinn and Adam Wayne from G.K. Chesterton's fantastic The Napoleon of Notting Hill, hence the name. I loved the character too much to simply let him go, so I decided to write this little story. Hopefully there will be more to come.

Dahn

I walked an unmade path to the town of Dahn, two full weeks from anything else. Dahn could hardly be called a town. It was a gathering of cracked clay huts, numbering less than ten, surrounding a structure made of wood and nails. I wondered where they brought that in from; there couldn't have been trees this far out in the Sea of Dust.

It was no surprise to me, however, that this wooden building, the best-constructed in Dahn, was the bar.

The townspeople, few that there were, greeted me with curious indecision and heavy guardedness. They stared at the tough leather duster that hung over a tawny leather vest and a worn white shirt. Their gaze lowered to the holstered revolver that lay at my left hip, over black hide pants. Their eyes were caught by the reflective gleam of the bandolier strap I wore over my chest, also serving to keep my backpack securely fastened.

Perhaps what most astonished them was that I was a woman. Apparently they hadn't seen any female wanderers lately.

Ignoring the stares, I made my way to the saloon, black boots stirring up dust on the ground, more than whatever breeze that could reach this town. The bar couldn't have looked more generic, but was welcoming enough. A faded crimson sign hang over the main entrance, declaring in a yellowing script that this was indeed the saloon. Echoes of slow piano music drifted out on the lonely air, voicing how desolate and alone this town was in its subtle harmonies.

My right hand reached out and pushed one of the swing doors open, the groan alerting the few people inside that someone new had come to town. Card games stopped and the music slowed to a halt as these simple townspeople debated in their minds whether or not I was about to disrupt their afternoon. I spared them no glance as I walked over to the bar and sat, the wooden stool creaking from my lean build. The bartender eyes me suspiciously as he asked, "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," I stated. I didn't really like the taste of alcohol, but one has to keep up appearance with this sort of thing. I didn't think this guy had any tea in stock, either.

The bartender, balding and slightly plump, nodded once and got the drink ready. There wasn't much of a selection on the back wall; mostly half-finished bottles arranged in no particular order. I crossed my arms on the counter and leaned forward, looking out the window until I sensed something come up on my right. I glanced over to see a younger man, barely over 18, with curious but hard brown eyes darting over my figure. His clothes showed that he was a man not unaccustomed to hard work.

"Howdy," he said, trying to be casual. Hard sun-baked hands wrung in his lap. Despite his attempts at seeming cool and collected, we both knew that me being here was just about the most interesting thing he had seen in months.

I responded by glaring back with azure eyes. The bartender returned with my glass. I broke eye contact as I brought the smoky glass up and tasted the cool alcohol. It, like all others of its ilk, took an effort to down without gagging. Ice clinked as I set the glass down on the bar again.

"Lady of few words, ain't ya?" The kid started again.

I decided to humor him. Not like I wasn't doing anything else. "Yeah."

"What's yer name? I'm Kale."

"Rachel," I replied, downing more whiskey.

"Where didja come from...Rachel?" His voice ran over my name as if it would bite if he said it incorrectly.

"Dustshore. East of here."

"Never heard of it," he began, before his face suddenly turned to realization. "You crossed the Sea by yourself? How didja do that?"

"I walked," I said, taking another sip of the terrible whiskey. I noticed that I was rather hungry, having only eaten dried jerky and whatever small game I hunted and cooked on the walk. I set the glass down as I asked, "Bartender, what do you have in the way of food here?"

"We've got salted beef and dried fruit. Depends on what you're willing to trade for."

I reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a thin silver coin. Tossing it onto the bar, I asked, "How's that?"

The bartender didn't even give it a glance. "What do you think we'll be doing with that?"

"Caravans still come out here, don't they?"

"We ain't seen a trader here in almost two years, girl. They've just about forgotten about us."

"The Alliance..." I started.

",,,hasn't done shit out here. Nearest Alliance settlement is three weeks by horseback. They don't care 'bout us, this deep in the Dust Sea. That silver ain't going to buy you anything, sweetheart. Now, if you were offerin' your...charms...."

I adjusted my wide-brimmed hat, a lock of long black hair gliding to my shoulder. I remained silent as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle of thickly-wrapped leather. I unbound it on the bar table, revealing five small, obsidian seeds.

"Rockfruit seeds. They come from far to the northeast, and can grow anywhere. Give them a little water every few weeks and you've got enough food to feed everyone in this town."

The bartender picked one of the seeds up, examining it. Kale looked on in astonishment. "...Looks like you got yourself dinner, little wanderer, maybe even a room for the night," the former said, "I would even offer you one of the whores, if'in you, ah, would enjoy that."

"The meal and the room will be enough, thank ya," I replied, flatly.

The older man dropped the seed onto the others. "But, ah, if these aren't...fertile..." he started.

"They are," I glared back.

"But if they aren't..."

"...I won't be leaving this town alive."

"Smart one you are, girl. I'll get your meal ready," the bartender finished. He moved to the far side of the bar and called for the piano player to get "something" ready for me. The musician - an old, wispy man - slid off the piano bench in an exaggerated motion and crossed into a back room.

Kale continued staring at me. "What is it now?" I asked.

"You, uh, you've been a lot of places, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," I replied, taking another swig of the half-forgotten whiskey.

"Where are you going now? Can't've come all the way out here to see this shithole!"

"No one's been to the far side of the Sea of Dust."

"Of course not! It's just endless dunes past here, nothing but sand and dirt!"

"Has to be something out there."

"But...why would there be?"

"Because the world doesn't just end, Kale. There's something out there, because there's always something out there."

-----

This stars Rachel Aensland, probably one of my favorite self-created characters. She's a post-apocalyptic/Western gunslinger in the fine tradition of characters played by Clint Eastwood, because I am actually surprisingly not that well versed in Westerns. This is probably the first part of a longer series of stories starring Rachel. One of these days, I might write a sort of self-introduction, to show you where she came from.

Cleaning House

In an effort to make this place look slightly more professional, I cleared out a few early posts that I didn't think were really all that good. Mainly stuff about video games or me whining about my life that didn't really make this place look good. Considering this is going to be something of a portfolio (imagine that, this shitty blog I've had since high school), I at least want to look halfway-decent.

That of course means that there aren't all that many posts here, but maybe I can actually get off my ass this time and post more. If anything, it could help my work ethic. Maybe.

EDIT: Also changed the background, title, and basically everything else. Lookin' good.

The Drawing Room

Oh hey, I have a writing blog!

-----

It was autumn when I returned home.

The house was as it had always been, a silent white monument surrounded by trees of burnt red and shining orange, grass of jade and gold, with a shimmering gray river snaking around the west side. The house was simple, unadorned, with wooden steps leading up to a small porch where my mother-in-law sat on a wicker chair, smoking. The tail of my rugged coat rustled in the slight breeze as I approached the house, my gaze locked with hers. She knew why I had returned, without me having to say anything.

"Another fruitless visit," the old woman stated, flatly. Her graying wheat hair was tied tightly into a bun and she wore loose-fitting clothing that matched the colors of the flora that surrounded her. Her eyes glared at me, scathingly blue.

I nodded. I had not seen the house in more than a year, and yet it was unchanged. I could always count on that, at least.

"Come in, then," she said, "you must be tired."

I walked up the old set of stairs, each creaking softly. She stood up, smoothly, and walked me inside to the sparsely-furnished house. The living room was by far the most decorated of the place, with an ornate, traditional carpet and wooden chairs, desks, dressers spaced throughout. My mother-in-law bade me sit, and I chose a chair with dark green cushions near the door. She sat down across from me, into a crimson seat that looked as old as she was.

"What did you find?" She asked, taking the thin cigar out of her mouth.

"I traveled west, and crossed the sea at the end of the continent," I took out a cigar of my own, thin but long like hers, and lit it. "I sailed for weeks before we found land again, a large archipelago that ran down the width of the world." The smoke of our tobacco permeated the room, like cold air filling a warm space.

"But what did you find?"

"The people there were strange, but welcoming. Primitive and friendly. I visited their shamans, wise men, viziers." I paused, breathing in a puff. "They knew nothing," I said as I exhaled, smoke clouding my vision.

"They could not help?"

"They had never heard of it before. They doubted such a thing could even exist."

"So you've come back with nothing."

"I have."

"Again."

I nodded, taking another puff. This was how it always was with the two of us. We used to fight, each accusing the other of our shared pain. After years of grief and acceptance, we had grown complacent.

We did not speak for some time, neither of us searching for something to say. She broke the silence. "Have you eaten?"

I nodded.

"Are you tired?"

I shook my head.

"You want to see her."

"Yes," I said, then exhaled.

More silence. The seconds grew longer as we sat, waiting for each other to make the next move, the move that she dreaded and I anticipated. She stood up, and motioned that I follow. I rose, putting the cigar out on a nearby stone ashtray. We walked through the unadorned white hallway, our steps echoing on the dark hardwood floor.

We came to the master bedroom, bare except for a large bed in the middle, a dresser on one wall, and a desk and chair on another. There was a wide, sliding glass door at the back of the room, showing a view of the forested backyard. The last wall was completely bare, and this was where we stopped. A thin black seam ran down the center of the wall, a support for the ceiling. My mother-in-law pulled this seam apart from the center, showing an old stone door hiding behind the false wall, with an ancient iron lock keeping it closed. My mother-in-law reached inside her sleeve and produced a large black key, fit it into the lock, and turned. A bolt shot out of the lock and the chain keeping the stone closed fell limp.

With an exhale, she pulled open the gray stone door to reveal an unlit stairway leading down into darkness. A brass lantern laid on a shelf just inside the space, which my mother-in-law grasped and lit. She led me down, each step creaking with age, all still sturdy. The stairwell went down for some long minutes, and the stone walls surrounding us gave way to the dank rock of an underground cave.

The stairs finally ended at a thin passageway, leading into the cave. On our left was a series of torches, serving as fenceposts against a dark, rushing stream. Each torch was lit, casting flickering shadows on the cave wall. We proceeded wordlessly, she uncaring of my travels, me knowing better than to think otherwise. The cavern was damp and clammy, with a faint dripping somewhere in the darkness, in no particular direction.

I eventually spied a structure in the distance, a small stone shack built into the rock wall. It lay across a thin rock bridge, over a dark abyss. There were no windows, only a thick wooden door. Another lantern hung from a hook to the right of the door, smaller than the one we used to get here. We came up to the entrance, and my mother-in-law knocked twice on the door.

"Ariana? Ariana, are you there?" She asked, but with no answer. "...No matter. You have a...visitor. He is coming in." She stepped aside, opening the door to an unlit, cold stone hallway.

She turned, glaring at me in the torchlight, "You know what to do when you're ready to return."

I nodded, trying to keep my excitement in check.

"Don't...strain her."

"I won't."

She held my gaze for another second, then waved me off as she turned back the way we came. I took the small lantern, lit it, and walked inside, closing the door behind me. There was no sound inside the structure, but as I walked inside I saw and heard a faint flicker of candlelight at the end of the hall, leading to a small living area. A thin bed laid in one corner, a desk and chair on a wall, a thick, circular rug in the middle of the room. Candles were spaced throughout, casting dark shadows on everything inside. The room smelled faintly of foreign herbs and medicinals. My wife sat on the rug, reading a book as her legs peeked out from under her robe and rested on the cold stone floor.

She faced away from me, her long hair running down her back, black as obsidian. She wore a long cloth robe, simple yet elegant, caressing her form without overstating it. It was the color of a midsummer's night, with thin strands of gold and scarlet snaking around and forming a pattern that spoke of lonely winds and empty skies. She was barefoot.

"Ariana," I said.

She made no movement, but she heard me. I could almost feel her eyelids close as she took in the sound of my voice, like a breath of mountain air in this dank cavern.

"You're back," she said in her light, airy voice.

I walked inside, setting the lantern down on a nearby stool. I moved over to her, setting down just behind her left side. I caressed her cheek, fingers cascading down her silken hair. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I haven't changed," she replied, turning a page.

"Is it too cold down here? Should I get a thicker robe, for you?"

She smiled, us having gone through this routine countless times before. "No, no. I'm fine," she replied.

"What are you reading, then?"

She brought the book up so that I could see it. It was a book on philosophy, likely collected essays of some great thinker. She loved philosophy. "Existentialism," she said, bringing the book down again.

"How is it?"

"I'm reading it." We sat there in silence for a time, taking in the experience as we always have. I pretended to read over her shoulder, but I was far more focused on her scent, her very form, finally putting aside my memories of her.

She was the one to break the silence. "Where did you go?"

"West," I replied. There was only one way for this to happen, after all.

"What did you find there?"

"Nothing of use," I said with a sigh.

She turned, focusing her black eyes on me. There was no white on them, just a deep black with irises of gleaming silver. "Tell me," she said, with a slight insistence.

"Ariana..."

"Please." Her eyes, boring into mine, held no emotion.

I stood, taking her up with me. She slid over to the desk, pulling out a small brush set and a roll of thick paper. I rolled the carpet up and laid it aside as she rolled the paper out onto the floor, then opened the painting set to reveal a set of thin brushes and paint of myriad colors. She picked up a brush in her left hand and looked at me expectantly.

And so I began telling her my story. I told her of the paths west, of the mountains, the white deserts, the clear turquoise oceans beyond. I told her of the port town where I bartered passage on a galley, of the old captain who could not speak our native tongue, of the tiny room they gave me to sleep in with two other sailors. I told her of the waters we crossed for weeks, before we came to the island chains at the end of the world, stretching like a barrier against whatever lay beyond.

As I told her all these things I gently held her right hand. Her left moved across the canvas stretched before her, painting everything I told her, exactly as I had seen it. Her eyes did not move from the canvas, not even when she loaded her brush with paint, or even when she mixed colors on the upturned cover. We sat together in the candlelight for hours, the only sounds being my soft voice and her brush stroking the canvas.

I spoke of the village huts, of the endless jungles, of the palaces of ivory and white stone. I spoke of places that she had never seen, might never see, and yet she painted them exactly as they were, like she had lived there all her life. I could see her eyes darkly shining as I told her my story, seeing everything as I had seen it, guiding her hand as she worked. I never let go of her other hand, an unnecessary gesture that I refused to go without.

After an eternity, she had reached the end of the canvas as I finished my tale. There was no need to touch up, no second coats. We laid the painting out to dry as we stood up, still holding hands. Wordlessly, I led her out to the cavern, her stepping gingerly behind me, unable to make out the way ahead. I opened the front door and she brought her hand to her eyes, as if she had stepped out into the bright midday sun. We paused as her eyes grew acclimated to the dank torchlight of the cavern, then sat together on the steps of the house. I held her close.

"They didn't have anything?" She asked, futilely.

"They had never heard of it before."

"Nothing similar?"

"When I described it, they thought that you were some kind of monster, touched by evil."

She smiled. "You married a demon."

I returned it. "You weren't when I met you."

She looked away. "That was a long time ago."

"Summer, right? Deep in the forest, where the sun was blocked out by the golden leaves..." I began.

She continued, "...and where the grass was too light to step on, and the streams tasted of sap."

"Yes, that's how it went."

"Like you would forget."

We sat in silence, then, listening to the soft rustling of the water, the flickering of torches, our quiet breathing. She looked down, eyes half-closed.

I was the one to break it this time, "They say that southeast of here, there lies a dense mountain range that stretches up to the stars. A tribe lives there, making their homes in the rock and the ice. A man I traveled with in the desert told me that these people are learned in ancient arts, passed down through countless generations. They are secluded, but I am told that the righteous who would seek their knowledge will find them."

"Do you think they can help?"

"My companion in the desert assured me they would."

"You believe him?"

"He would have no reason to lie. We relied on each other. I...wouldn't be here if not for him."

She closed her eyes tightly, "Don't talk like that."

"...Sorry." She opened her eyes and turned to stare into mine, her eyes darkly glimmering in the light. We held each other's gaze, before I reached out and kissed her.

We sat huddled close to each other, watching the flickering torchlight push away the darkness, almost imagining the mountains of mist that lay beyond.

----
Sort of based off of the anime Mushi-Shi, which I'm going through right now. It's not meant as a fanfic or something related, just a little tale that I thought of.

Now that I've graduated, I'll probably be writing more short stories now, which means that this blog should hopefully be updated on a more regular basis.

Rain

I miss the rain. It’s been years - I’ve long since lost track of how many - since I saw it last. Since anyone saw it last. It’s been so long that no one really remembers it anymore, except for what you'd find in dictionaries. I remember rain as being so much more than those bland descriptions. I remember falling asleep to it, listening to the soft, even sound of running water, distinct from yet blending into all else. I remember sitting by windows, letting my mind wander while tiny droplets formed patterns on the glass, ambient light casting tiny shadows. I think I’m the only one who remembers, but all I have are faint flickers of memory.

I live in a city of mist. An endless fog blankets the entire city, providing moisture without the need for rain. A fog that is unobtrusive, casting what it hides not in opaqueness but in shades of gray. No one remembers the onset of the mist; it simply was and now is. All that we remember was that before the mist, there was rain, and now there is none. With the mist came a loss of knowledge; we lost contact with the world, with our own history, where we came from. No one, save for maybe the City government, knows where the City is, what country it is a part of, how old it is, or even what its real name is. All we call it now is ”The City.” We know of nothing else.

One day, I tried to leave. It wasn’t because I was dissatisfied with City life; it's a laid-back place. It was due to wanderlust, an urge to see what was beyond. I wasn't really doing anything else, anyway. So, I packed my things and walked on the main road for hours. The City was big, but it wasn't infinite. Eventually, all that was left was the road itself, with no other ground I could see. The only sounds were my lonely footsteps upon the asphalt. Gray-white mist surrounded me, blanketing my clothes with a faint dampness I couldn't feel. The road kept going. I looked back to find that the City was out of sight, hidden by the now-opaque mist. I knelt down by the side of the road and reached for the ground beside it. It was a hard, unnatural substance, the same color as the mist. It felt almost like the steel used in buildings, but somehow more organic. It was wet with condensed mist seeping down into cracks I could barely feel.

I continued. Nothing happened for ages, until I heard a sound. A steady, even sound splashing in the distance. A sound that I identified immediately, even though I hadn't heard it for countless years. My pace quickened as I heard the rainfall from my childhood. Eventually, I saw it: a shimmering form breaking the opacity of the mist. The white fog gave way into more color, a sickeningly gray-brown earth extending beyond the horizon. It was entirely featureless. The rain fell unceasingly, causing faint wisps of smoke to emerge with each impact. I slowed my pace, until I felt a thick pane of glass in front of me, barring my progress. It bore no seams or faults. There was no way in or out. Its only peculiarity was a plaque etched in the glass. It said, in large, plain text,

"The City is all that is left. There is nothing else. Turn back now."

The acid rain continued to fall on the remains of the world.

-----

The first story I ever submitted. Could be better.