Sorry non-tumblr users, I just posted a new blog over yonder but don't have the energy (follow the link and you'll get why) to post it here so my blogspot-stalkers have to follow the link.
Edit: Okay since I'm exhaus-tarded this early morning hour I can't get the link to work so just go to shadtyoung.tumblr.com and look at the 7th of March post and you'll understand.
28 February 2011
Since it was suggested in response to my last post
Since something was said about it in my last post about sharing my culinary efforts here in lieu of my writing I figured it wasn't a bad idea. To catch up on the already 8 weeks of work I'll just post a few images but from this point forth I'll definitely add more details as I go.
27 February 2011
Fast Update While I Have a Moment
Sorry but it looks like another month will pass with nothing new to post on the writing front.
I've enrolled in school at the start of the year and the last 8 weeks have been a non-stop bombardment of homework, reports, recipe writing, concepts and theories of culinary this and that.
I made this sidestep career wise after a rough year (which I kept mostly off radar since those that read this generally aren't within my personal circle)that turned my life on its head. During the months that followed and the turmoil that has become my life I discovered that my already intense love of cooking was also the only time when the storm clouds broke and I felt serenity. All hell can be breaking loose around me and when I step in front of the stove or plop that meat or veggie down on the cutting board its like I'm standing in the the eye of the storm. I feel more or less untouchable.
So I chase a B.S. in Culinary Management presently. As school becomes more second nature I'm hoping hobbies and then a social life can return, but for now my mind is not so much on the adventures of my favorite P.I. or the quest for revenge of my here-to-for unnamed cowboy but on the proper way to make a New England Style Apple Pie or to braise a roast.
Sooner or later though my mind will be back weaving those tales, its too ingrained in my blood to ignore it forever.
I've enrolled in school at the start of the year and the last 8 weeks have been a non-stop bombardment of homework, reports, recipe writing, concepts and theories of culinary this and that.
I made this sidestep career wise after a rough year (which I kept mostly off radar since those that read this generally aren't within my personal circle)that turned my life on its head. During the months that followed and the turmoil that has become my life I discovered that my already intense love of cooking was also the only time when the storm clouds broke and I felt serenity. All hell can be breaking loose around me and when I step in front of the stove or plop that meat or veggie down on the cutting board its like I'm standing in the the eye of the storm. I feel more or less untouchable.
So I chase a B.S. in Culinary Management presently. As school becomes more second nature I'm hoping hobbies and then a social life can return, but for now my mind is not so much on the adventures of my favorite P.I. or the quest for revenge of my here-to-for unnamed cowboy but on the proper way to make a New England Style Apple Pie or to braise a roast.
Sooner or later though my mind will be back weaving those tales, its too ingrained in my blood to ignore it forever.
14 December 2010
Facing Facts: Sometimes You Have to Pull the Plug
Tonight I have sad news to report.
I have decided to finally quit trying to squeeze blood from a rock and face the facts that a story I've tried for almost two full years to write just isn't going to work as I set out to write it.
Therefore its time to pull the plug on this tale. Now I wrote a handful of scenes and bits and pieces that I felt could be reworked into a new story but the plot and many elements, I see now, were never going to work out the way I had originally thought.
So at over 28 thousand words and after over 247 hours of work I regretfully am pulling the plug on this story in the hopes that a new, more engrossing and entertaining tale might rise from its ashes.
Goodbye old friend, your sacrifice will be remembered.
*Of course this is fairly tongue-in-cheek but I am a little bummed about how this turned out and a bit by feeling like I took to long to realize the deadend I had written myself into. Live and learn I guess.
I have decided to finally quit trying to squeeze blood from a rock and face the facts that a story I've tried for almost two full years to write just isn't going to work as I set out to write it.
Therefore its time to pull the plug on this tale. Now I wrote a handful of scenes and bits and pieces that I felt could be reworked into a new story but the plot and many elements, I see now, were never going to work out the way I had originally thought.
So at over 28 thousand words and after over 247 hours of work I regretfully am pulling the plug on this story in the hopes that a new, more engrossing and entertaining tale might rise from its ashes.
Goodbye old friend, your sacrifice will be remembered.
*Of course this is fairly tongue-in-cheek but I am a little bummed about how this turned out and a bit by feeling like I took to long to realize the deadend I had written myself into. Live and learn I guess.
09 December 2010
Favorite Movies from 2010
Feeling an abnormal sense of tranquility at the moment and feel like taking a break from things so I decided to treat those of you who read this to a non-sequential list of my favorite movies from this year. Mind you I'm a red-blooded American male and not an elitist snob so I don't care if the movie ruined the source material or if it had socially redeeming values as much as I do if I was able to sit down and forget about how stressing reality can be for more than an hour as I lose myself to the show (just like when I read, go figure). So here's the list:
The Expendables.
More or less a straight forward homage to the action movies my generation grew up with and with many of the staple actors from those same films. Mindless, enjoyable fun. Bonus points for the appearance of the ultimate shotgun, the AA-12.
Predators
The first real sequel to the original film, I was surprised by how well I enjoyed Adrian Brody in an action role. Also scores points for the AA-12.
Scott Pilgrim vs the World
Normally Michael Cera gets a tad under my skin but he works in this movie. The well written comedic dialogue and over the top martial arts with many video game overtones stole my inner geek's heart. Could have done without the mostly lame indy rock but it is what it is. Also scored major points for celeb-crush Mary Elizabeth Winstead in the female lead role. Bonus pic below because, its my friggin blog.
Toy Story 3
Yeah I'm a dad and any parent worth their salt has seen this film but I honestly would have watched this sans kiddos because I grew up with the originals and it would have been damn near blasphemous to not finish the trilogy.
Robin Hood
Just loved the film, Robin Hood being a favorite story of mine for most of my life.
From Paris With Love
First movie wherein Travolta played the badass he's capable of in nearly a decade. Great action film.
Kick-Ass
Great action film, although I do have to say as a father of two young girls it was unsettling to watch a young girl slaughter people without a care.
Jonah Hex
In spite of proving that place Megan Fox in any movie without the words "The" and "Transformers" in the title is a good way to insure a hit to your profits, I enjoyed this movie. I had hoped for a sequel but since it barely made a fourth of its cost back I don't see that happening ever. I love westerns, I enjoy supernatural elements and I have a love/hate relationship with steampunk and this film had all of the above.
The Expendables.
More or less a straight forward homage to the action movies my generation grew up with and with many of the staple actors from those same films. Mindless, enjoyable fun. Bonus points for the appearance of the ultimate shotgun, the AA-12.
Predators
The first real sequel to the original film, I was surprised by how well I enjoyed Adrian Brody in an action role. Also scores points for the AA-12.
Scott Pilgrim vs the World
Normally Michael Cera gets a tad under my skin but he works in this movie. The well written comedic dialogue and over the top martial arts with many video game overtones stole my inner geek's heart. Could have done without the mostly lame indy rock but it is what it is. Also scored major points for celeb-crush Mary Elizabeth Winstead in the female lead role. Bonus pic below because, its my friggin blog.
Toy Story 3
Yeah I'm a dad and any parent worth their salt has seen this film but I honestly would have watched this sans kiddos because I grew up with the originals and it would have been damn near blasphemous to not finish the trilogy.
Robin Hood
Just loved the film, Robin Hood being a favorite story of mine for most of my life.
From Paris With Love
First movie wherein Travolta played the badass he's capable of in nearly a decade. Great action film.
Kick-Ass
Great action film, although I do have to say as a father of two young girls it was unsettling to watch a young girl slaughter people without a care.
Jonah Hex
In spite of proving that place Megan Fox in any movie without the words "The" and "Transformers" in the title is a good way to insure a hit to your profits, I enjoyed this movie. I had hoped for a sequel but since it barely made a fourth of its cost back I don't see that happening ever. I love westerns, I enjoy supernatural elements and I have a love/hate relationship with steampunk and this film had all of the above.
07 December 2010
Long Delayed Update
My sincerest apologies to any whom actually read my musings for not updating in nearly five months.
Its been a busy and turmoil filled time for the last 3/4's of this year and as such I've not managed to write a whole lot.
Things are slowing down a bit now, enough that I'm going to try and hammer some stuff out soon so for those who might have been wanting more of what I've started here there may just be light at the end of the tunnel.
Hang in there, my brain is churning even as I write this so hopefully I'll have something for you relatively soon.
Thanks and again I apologize.
Its been a busy and turmoil filled time for the last 3/4's of this year and as such I've not managed to write a whole lot.
Things are slowing down a bit now, enough that I'm going to try and hammer some stuff out soon so for those who might have been wanting more of what I've started here there may just be light at the end of the tunnel.
Hang in there, my brain is churning even as I write this so hopefully I'll have something for you relatively soon.
Thanks and again I apologize.
15 July 2010
More work on my Western Short
Yet again I remind you of the rough draft nature of this story. This is one I just like to continually update the two or three of you that read this on. I hope you continue to enjoy it.
Once again I'll post the whole thing instead of just the new part.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse had blocked his vision of what lay behind. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him or like a man chased by demons thought long exercised. He was doing just that and with good reason. I was riding behind him; and the gap between us was closing fast.
“Why you runnin’ Ray?” I taunted over the din of our horses. “What’s the hurry?”
“Twasn’t nothing personal, it was just business.” He screamed back. A smile raised the corners of my mouth. He recognized me even after all these years and that recognition had brought fear. I heard it in the way his voice went up and saw it in his eyes. He knew who I was and more importantly knew why I was here.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time Ray, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I said.
“I swear, I didn’t even want to do it. I told ‘em all we shouldn’t.” His voice starting to shake.
I was just beginning to grow tired of the chase when Lady Luck smiled on me, maybe she frowned at him. In either case, his horse stepped in a hole and as its leg shattered he was thrown clear. I dropped from my horse as he tumbled a fair distance away. While he lay bloodied and dazed I ended his horse’s misery with a single shot to the head. I hated to do it but there was no other way to go about it. As I stalked across the arid ground I let the spent shell fall to the dirt and slipped a new one in. I may not have enjoyed putting down the stallion but without a doubt I’d enjoy what I was going to do next.
***
It was five years ago. Five long years since the day Ray and the rest of those bastards destroyed everything. I was hardly more than a boy at the time, working alongside my brothers and our parents on our family ranch. When we boys weren’t tending to the handful of cattle the family owned or working the field we were receiving lessons from our mother. She came from a well off east coast family and wanted to make sure her boys didn’t grow up to be more “ignorant farmhands”. Of all my brothers I took the deepest liking to the lessons and would often be found reading in the shade of a tree on the rare occasion when a lull came in our chores.
Our father was a good, decent, God fearing man by all appearances. In addition to the running of our homestead he was a skilled carpenter and made decent living selling cabinets, chairs and the like to merchants and nearby townsfolk. What none of us apart from our mother knew was that prior to his days as a husband and father he ran with a group of murderous, thieving hooligans. The lot of them terrorized many a town and homestead; robbing banks and trains, stealing cattle, murder, arson. If it was illegal chances are they had their fingers in it.
My father was in all likelihood just as bad as the rest of them but to my brothers and me he was a noble, kind and caring man. Always stern but never unfair, we knew him as nothing less than a gentle soul. I’ve thought a lot about it in the years since and I think something changed in him while rotting in an Illinois prison. The gang had attempted to rob a bank near the Missouri border and things went a wrong as wrong can be. The story as best as I can discern is that one of the patrons drew on Ray and the bank was turned into a charnel house as a result. My father took a round about his right knee and in the chaos that followed didn’t escape with the rest of the gang. The events that followed tend to be skewed depending on who you talk to, more upstanding folks say my father did the right thing, scum like my father was and Ray still is find them the actions of a coward. The short of it is my father, in exchange for his life and a reduced sentence fed the U.S. Marshalls information that directly led to the capture and incarceration of nearly the entire gang.
After doing his time my father came out a different man with a different life. He lived on the coast for a while, met my mother and after marrying her brought her as far west as he felt he safely could. From that day forth he led a good and honest life as a husband and father. That was until his old friends found themselves freemen and came looking for the man who helped put them away.
As the oldest I had been sent to town to pick up some necessities from the general store. I had been gone maybe two hours and was returning when I heard screams and gunshots from the direction of home. I dismounted and tied my horse to a nearby tree and crept to the top of the hill blocking my view of home. When I got to the top what was playing out before me turned my stomach in on itself. My mother was laying in the dirt, clothes ripped open with a pair of men assaulting her in ways no son should ever have to witness. My brothers where lined up along a fence, arms tied behind their backs watching the horrors up close. Several other men were alternating beating my father and forcing him to watch what they were doing to his wife. Behind it all our home was aflame, spewing coal black smoke into the sky.
Crouching atop the hill I was frozen by fear and shock. I had no idea why it was happening but I knew I was watching life as I knew it coming to an end. Time felt as if it at froze while I watched my family assaulted at the hands of these men. After what felt like a lifetime the men pulled my father to his feet and made him watch as they put two rounds into each of my brothers and then my mother. I sunk fully to my knees and swooned with each report collapsing to all fours by the time they fired on her. I pulled my head up in time to see the leader of the group lean inches from my father’s face and speak. As he spoke he drew a boot knife and with a quick slash ended my father’s life with a slash across the throat.
Finally my paralysis broke and I rose screaming at the sky and at the men gathered amongst the ruins of my family. At first they appeared to be startled by the sudden screams but it wasn’t a heartbeat before they recovered and opened fire on me. The distance was too much and the bullets sailed past. Even full of rage I knew I had no chance, if I were to survive I had to get to my horse and back to town. I turned and ran as hard and fast as my weary legs could carry me. I heard the thunder of horse hooves drawing close and I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
I barely had time to register the gunshot before I felt the round smash into my right shoulder and was spinning towards the earth. I tried to fight through the pain and get back to my feet but the men had all dismounted at a run and were already on top of me. The stomped, kicked, punched and pistol whipped me to a bloody pulp. By the time they finished I was a broken and bleeding mess and on the threshold between this life and the next. As I lay there bleeding out onto the dirt I remember looking up through my swollen eyes and marking each man’s face. If I survived I made an oath to myself and to my fallen family that each of the men looking down at me would fall by my hand. I resolved that I would not die until these men were cold and in the ground.
The pain and blood loss overtook me and I blacked out.
Once again I'll post the whole thing instead of just the new part.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse had blocked his vision of what lay behind. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him or like a man chased by demons thought long exercised. He was doing just that and with good reason. I was riding behind him; and the gap between us was closing fast.
“Why you runnin’ Ray?” I taunted over the din of our horses. “What’s the hurry?”
“Twasn’t nothing personal, it was just business.” He screamed back. A smile raised the corners of my mouth. He recognized me even after all these years and that recognition had brought fear. I heard it in the way his voice went up and saw it in his eyes. He knew who I was and more importantly knew why I was here.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time Ray, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I said.
“I swear, I didn’t even want to do it. I told ‘em all we shouldn’t.” His voice starting to shake.
I was just beginning to grow tired of the chase when Lady Luck smiled on me, maybe she frowned at him. In either case, his horse stepped in a hole and as its leg shattered he was thrown clear. I dropped from my horse as he tumbled a fair distance away. While he lay bloodied and dazed I ended his horse’s misery with a single shot to the head. I hated to do it but there was no other way to go about it. As I stalked across the arid ground I let the spent shell fall to the dirt and slipped a new one in. I may not have enjoyed putting down the stallion but without a doubt I’d enjoy what I was going to do next.
***
It was five years ago. Five long years since the day Ray and the rest of those bastards destroyed everything. I was hardly more than a boy at the time, working alongside my brothers and our parents on our family ranch. When we boys weren’t tending to the handful of cattle the family owned or working the field we were receiving lessons from our mother. She came from a well off east coast family and wanted to make sure her boys didn’t grow up to be more “ignorant farmhands”. Of all my brothers I took the deepest liking to the lessons and would often be found reading in the shade of a tree on the rare occasion when a lull came in our chores.
Our father was a good, decent, God fearing man by all appearances. In addition to the running of our homestead he was a skilled carpenter and made decent living selling cabinets, chairs and the like to merchants and nearby townsfolk. What none of us apart from our mother knew was that prior to his days as a husband and father he ran with a group of murderous, thieving hooligans. The lot of them terrorized many a town and homestead; robbing banks and trains, stealing cattle, murder, arson. If it was illegal chances are they had their fingers in it.
My father was in all likelihood just as bad as the rest of them but to my brothers and me he was a noble, kind and caring man. Always stern but never unfair, we knew him as nothing less than a gentle soul. I’ve thought a lot about it in the years since and I think something changed in him while rotting in an Illinois prison. The gang had attempted to rob a bank near the Missouri border and things went a wrong as wrong can be. The story as best as I can discern is that one of the patrons drew on Ray and the bank was turned into a charnel house as a result. My father took a round about his right knee and in the chaos that followed didn’t escape with the rest of the gang. The events that followed tend to be skewed depending on who you talk to, more upstanding folks say my father did the right thing, scum like my father was and Ray still is find them the actions of a coward. The short of it is my father, in exchange for his life and a reduced sentence fed the U.S. Marshalls information that directly led to the capture and incarceration of nearly the entire gang.
After doing his time my father came out a different man with a different life. He lived on the coast for a while, met my mother and after marrying her brought her as far west as he felt he safely could. From that day forth he led a good and honest life as a husband and father. That was until his old friends found themselves freemen and came looking for the man who helped put them away.
As the oldest I had been sent to town to pick up some necessities from the general store. I had been gone maybe two hours and was returning when I heard screams and gunshots from the direction of home. I dismounted and tied my horse to a nearby tree and crept to the top of the hill blocking my view of home. When I got to the top what was playing out before me turned my stomach in on itself. My mother was laying in the dirt, clothes ripped open with a pair of men assaulting her in ways no son should ever have to witness. My brothers where lined up along a fence, arms tied behind their backs watching the horrors up close. Several other men were alternating beating my father and forcing him to watch what they were doing to his wife. Behind it all our home was aflame, spewing coal black smoke into the sky.
Crouching atop the hill I was frozen by fear and shock. I had no idea why it was happening but I knew I was watching life as I knew it coming to an end. Time felt as if it at froze while I watched my family assaulted at the hands of these men. After what felt like a lifetime the men pulled my father to his feet and made him watch as they put two rounds into each of my brothers and then my mother. I sunk fully to my knees and swooned with each report collapsing to all fours by the time they fired on her. I pulled my head up in time to see the leader of the group lean inches from my father’s face and speak. As he spoke he drew a boot knife and with a quick slash ended my father’s life with a slash across the throat.
Finally my paralysis broke and I rose screaming at the sky and at the men gathered amongst the ruins of my family. At first they appeared to be startled by the sudden screams but it wasn’t a heartbeat before they recovered and opened fire on me. The distance was too much and the bullets sailed past. Even full of rage I knew I had no chance, if I were to survive I had to get to my horse and back to town. I turned and ran as hard and fast as my weary legs could carry me. I heard the thunder of horse hooves drawing close and I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
I barely had time to register the gunshot before I felt the round smash into my right shoulder and was spinning towards the earth. I tried to fight through the pain and get back to my feet but the men had all dismounted at a run and were already on top of me. The stomped, kicked, punched and pistol whipped me to a bloody pulp. By the time they finished I was a broken and bleeding mess and on the threshold between this life and the next. As I lay there bleeding out onto the dirt I remember looking up through my swollen eyes and marking each man’s face. If I survived I made an oath to myself and to my fallen family that each of the men looking down at me would fall by my hand. I resolved that I would not die until these men were cold and in the ground.
The pain and blood loss overtook me and I blacked out.
16 June 2010
A Little More of the Short I've Been Working On
Again just like last time, this is an early draft so forgive any errors I may have missed in cleaning it up to share with you my loyal readers (both of you).
----------------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse had blocked his vision of what lay behind. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him. He was doing just that and with good reason. I was riding behind him; and the gap between us was closing fast.
“Why you runnin’ Ray?” I taunted over the din of our horses. “What’s the hurry?”
“Twasn’t nothing personal, it was just business.” He screamed back. A smile raised the corners of my mouth. He recognized me even after all these years and that recognition had brought fear. I heard it in the way his voice went up and saw it in his eyes. He knew who I was and more importantly knew why I was here.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time Ray, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I said.
“I swear, I didn’t even want to do it. I told ‘em all we shouldn’t.” His voice starting to shake.
I was just beginning to grow tired of the chase when Lady Luck smiled on me, maybe she frowned at him. In either case, his horse stepped in a hole and as its leg shattered he was thrown clear. I dropped from my horse as he tumbled a fair distance away. While he lay bloodied and dazed I ended his horse’s misery with a single shot to the head. I hated to do it but there was no other way to go about it. As I stalked across the arid ground I let the spent shell fall to the dirt and slipped a new one in. I may not have enjoyed putting down the stallion but without a doubt I’d enjoy what I was going to do next.
----------------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse had blocked his vision of what lay behind. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him. He was doing just that and with good reason. I was riding behind him; and the gap between us was closing fast.
“Why you runnin’ Ray?” I taunted over the din of our horses. “What’s the hurry?”
“Twasn’t nothing personal, it was just business.” He screamed back. A smile raised the corners of my mouth. He recognized me even after all these years and that recognition had brought fear. I heard it in the way his voice went up and saw it in his eyes. He knew who I was and more importantly knew why I was here.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time Ray, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” I said.
“I swear, I didn’t even want to do it. I told ‘em all we shouldn’t.” His voice starting to shake.
I was just beginning to grow tired of the chase when Lady Luck smiled on me, maybe she frowned at him. In either case, his horse stepped in a hole and as its leg shattered he was thrown clear. I dropped from my horse as he tumbled a fair distance away. While he lay bloodied and dazed I ended his horse’s misery with a single shot to the head. I hated to do it but there was no other way to go about it. As I stalked across the arid ground I let the spent shell fall to the dirt and slipped a new one in. I may not have enjoyed putting down the stallion but without a doubt I’d enjoy what I was going to do next.
30 May 2010
Little Teaser of Something I'm Toying With
Okay its not secret if you know me (I assume that most of you reading this do in some capacity since I'm as unknown as unknown gets) that I have always found guilty pleasure in the Western genre.
Well after watching a ton of old to modern Westerns and reading a bit of Robert B. Parker's westerns (ironically the same author who inspires my private investigator writings) I started dabbling in a short story Western with an admittedly "standard" plot (shoot me if I can't love a "classic" plot).
Anyway here's a little teaser of it in its rough as rough draft can possibly be form, I'd wait to post a more polished form of it but d**n it I'm excited about having finally written something for the first time since August.
------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse was blocking his vision of what lay behind him. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him. They were right, he was and for good reason. I was behind him and the gap between us was closing fast.
Well after watching a ton of old to modern Westerns and reading a bit of Robert B. Parker's westerns (ironically the same author who inspires my private investigator writings) I started dabbling in a short story Western with an admittedly "standard" plot (shoot me if I can't love a "classic" plot).
Anyway here's a little teaser of it in its rough as rough draft can possibly be form, I'd wait to post a more polished form of it but d**n it I'm excited about having finally written something for the first time since August.
------------------------------------------------------
The rider spurred his horse southward away from town, hooves thundering across the dusty earth. Stealing frantic glances over his shoulder he found that the massive cloud kicked up by his horse was blocking his vision of what lay behind him. Sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air whipping around him, he spurred the horse harder to milk every bit of speed he could out of it. Better to kill the horse from exhaustion than to dawdle when he needed distance between him and town. Many amongst the townsfolk who witnessed his flight spoke of him fleeing like a man with the fear of God in him. They were right, he was and for good reason. I was behind him and the gap between us was closing fast.
23 April 2010
Filler vs Details
Today at my "real" job I was having a discussion about writing with one of my bosses and an interesting topic came up.
The boss in question also enjoys writing but has no real aspirations with his work than to enjoy himself and maybe write something someone else may enjoy.
Anyway we were talking and he brought up a book he was listening to on the road one day where the author wrote something like "The face showed no emotion save for his upper lip which quivered like granite in an earthquake.....". Of this my boss said the author excells at turning a phrase but that writing things like that add nothing to the story aside from word count.
I happen to take a different view.
I've always felt that a writer's mission is the same as a painter's just with a different tools. Whereas the painter has his canvas, brushes and paints to create an image with the author has the computer, typewriter, word processor or even pen and paper to accomplish nearly the same goal.
My boss has an image similar to this on his wall:
I explained to him that if the painter had left out the people, the clouds, the choppy water and went with not much more than a sihlouette of a ship at an odd angle you'd have no where near as powerful an image. And frankly it'd be a rather dull image to boot.
Detailed writing serves the same purpose and keeps written works alive. If the author stuck to simple and lifeless phrasing like "his lip shook" the scene loses its power and as such isn't nearly as interesting. In my mind nothing could be worse than a piece written in nothing but bare bones language (well other than a bad story but that's another case for another time).
Can this be overdone?
Definately.
Probably the most common example is in focusing too heavily on what the characters are wearing (something even I am guilty of). I can't count how many times I've read books that, while I enjoyed, I've found myself wanting to skim past endless descriptions of the cut and style of clothing everyone is wearing.
Could those never ending lists of attire be the author simply padding their word count?
I suppose so but as an outsider looking in who am I to say.
I believe I've soapboxed enough for one day. I hope everyone has a good weekend, looks like the weather is going to be perfect in my neck of the woods for some quality writing/reading time.
The boss in question also enjoys writing but has no real aspirations with his work than to enjoy himself and maybe write something someone else may enjoy.
Anyway we were talking and he brought up a book he was listening to on the road one day where the author wrote something like "The face showed no emotion save for his upper lip which quivered like granite in an earthquake.....". Of this my boss said the author excells at turning a phrase but that writing things like that add nothing to the story aside from word count.
I happen to take a different view.
I've always felt that a writer's mission is the same as a painter's just with a different tools. Whereas the painter has his canvas, brushes and paints to create an image with the author has the computer, typewriter, word processor or even pen and paper to accomplish nearly the same goal.
My boss has an image similar to this on his wall:
I explained to him that if the painter had left out the people, the clouds, the choppy water and went with not much more than a sihlouette of a ship at an odd angle you'd have no where near as powerful an image. And frankly it'd be a rather dull image to boot.
Detailed writing serves the same purpose and keeps written works alive. If the author stuck to simple and lifeless phrasing like "his lip shook" the scene loses its power and as such isn't nearly as interesting. In my mind nothing could be worse than a piece written in nothing but bare bones language (well other than a bad story but that's another case for another time).
Can this be overdone?
Definately.
Probably the most common example is in focusing too heavily on what the characters are wearing (something even I am guilty of). I can't count how many times I've read books that, while I enjoyed, I've found myself wanting to skim past endless descriptions of the cut and style of clothing everyone is wearing.
Could those never ending lists of attire be the author simply padding their word count?
I suppose so but as an outsider looking in who am I to say.
I believe I've soapboxed enough for one day. I hope everyone has a good weekend, looks like the weather is going to be perfect in my neck of the woods for some quality writing/reading time.
A Slightly Revised Version of Something I Posted Earlier
Some months back I posted the opening chapter of a novella I've been working on for a long while.
A few days ago I made some alterations to it and since many people may not have checked it out yet I decided to repost it with the aforementioned changes.
Since there is no point in further introductions I give you the goods:
Clawing at earth and gasping for air he pulled himself up the small hill. Rocks digging into the flesh of his hands and tearing away finger nails with each laborious pull. At the top his legs failed him and he collapsed in a heap on the sun baked grass. The beating of his heart jackhammered in his skull and left him feeling dizzy. Dizziness combined with the struggle to pull in each new breath brought tidal waves of nausea crashing down on him. Too early he pushed himself upright and was driven to his knees retching. Cursing himself he further bloodied his hands digging a shallow hole in the soil and scooped as much of his waste into it as he could. Even as he patted the earth to conceal the disturbed soil he studied his back-trail. He didn’t see anyone between him and the horizon but he was certain they were out there somewhere. No one ever got away from them for long and he’d witnessed first-hand more than a handful of escapees drug back to camp, the luckiest ones being those whose throats were already slit when they arrived.
His hand rested on the hilt of the knife he had taken off the lone guard who had stood in the way of his escape. If it came to it, he told himself, he’d take his own life before letting them take him back to camp and if luck was on his side he’d take of them with him. His only real chance of survival was to make it to some form of civilization before they found him. From his pocket he produced the decaying map he had also liberated from the guard and spread it on the dirt before him. With a finger he traced over lines printed decades before his birth, lines depicting long since forgotten roads and routes searching for the intersection where the ruins of the two Great Roads crossed. Rumors whispered among the other captives at night claimed the two roads spanned thousands of miles in divergent directions, something he would have found preposterous less than a month ago.
In all his life, a life of barely twenty years, he had not ventured more than two miles out side the confines of the village he had been born in before they had come riding out of the hills with their nets and rifles. Until that day the world had been nothing more than the water reaching as far as the eye could see to the east, the collection of lean-tos and shacks and the fields surrounding them. Now he was untold miles from his home, a man running blind in a land that had been a fairytale mere weeks before. They had chained them together and led them west, whipping them without mercy as they drove them like cattle towards the great unknown. He shuddered as he thought on how as the hours bled into days the members of his village disappeared and he tried to block from his mind the vile possibilities their vanishing may have meant. He kept his head down in the hope that by causing no trouble he’d go unnoticed long enough to find a way out. Eavesdropping on the conversations of guards or stealing glances at open maps while tending camp he marked the point where the Coastal Great Road met with its north-south counterpart as his best chance at freedom. Maybe his plan to stay unnoticed worked or maybe it was blind luck but on the day they reached the Great Intersection he was still alive and ready to move. Hours after they made camp that night, when everyone but the guards had fallen asleep he made his move. First he crushed the throat of the sole guard he encountered with a jagged rock and then looted the corpse of its knife, boots and map. He would have preferred a rifle to the knife but it was sharp and he had no choice but to make do. Had he more time he would have tried for one of their horses but they were better guarded than the captives and he saw certain death in even trying.
Stabbing the map with his left forefinger he marked where his escape had been made. He had been running for the better part of three days and by his best guess had only made it halfway to the river which spelled freedom. Law and order existed on its far shore, there he’d not only be safe from recapture but wherein he hoped to find ways to bring his captors to justice. Many nights fellow captives had spoken of a band of “justice seekers” that headquartered in the settlement south of the river but like most things spoke of in the prison camp night he was certain they were more myth than man. For now he contented himself as best he could with simply focusing on making it to the river alive.
He had done his best to parallel the ruins of the Great Road as it ran south despite the fact that do so only made it easier for those who might be after him to follow. Keeping the buckled surface of the ancient roadway in sight was the only way he could be certain that he’d reach the river but he made sure he kept clear of it whenever possible. Save for when he needed to cross a river on the remains of a bridge he kept the road just in sight on the horizon. These lands were full of uncivilized tribes and raiders who would make easy prey of anyone foolish enough to be caught walking in the open. These crooked men were lacking the organization of the men he felt creeping after him on his trail but were just as dangerous, if not more so. Encountering either group you were as likely to be killed for the clothes on your back as for the flesh on your bones so it was better to remain unseen until either you or they passed. Savage and lawless men weren’t the only dangers either. The land was full of wild beasts that were just as willing to make a meal of you as the cannibals. Bedtime stories claimed the lands were once the dominion of man but if that were true it had been in a time well before his birth. Now the animals ruled everything outside of the villages and twice since his escape he had to cut the throat of a wild hound before it tore out his. Both times he had lamented the kills, not out of empathy but because he was unwilling to light a fire to cook the meat out of fear that it’d be spotted or its ashes would further mark his trail. Tossing the carcasses as far as he could off the sides of his trail he cursed the waste of many good meals before continuing on his way.
Folding the map and stuffing it back into his pocket he gave one last look the way he came. He could almost see the trackers out there, sniffing along his backtrail. How long did he have before they caught up to him? When they did would they slit his throat then or would a worse fate await him? He took in a chest full of air and exhaled in one steady breath to ease the tension building before moving on. His legs refused to carry him at the pace he had been setting so he settled for as brisk a walk as they’d allow. The sun was all but directly overhead yet he felt as if he was carrying it on his back. Every inch of his being was aflame with pain and exhaustion begged him to stop and rest. Delay meant death or worse so he pressed on. Wiping sweat from his brow he wished for shade but knew that was as likely as his sprouting wings and soaring with the birds. Trees were everywhere he looked but their arid corpses bore not a single shade giving leaf, instead reaching out with twisted branches like the arms of death. Despite the terrible thirst cracking his lips he stayed clear of any bodies of water he found that were larger than a puddle as well. Growing up on the edge of the sea he had learned that while the land contained many creatures that want your blood deep waters hid their own vicious creatures from you until the moment their teeth pierced your flesh and pulled you under.
As he walked with the road off on the eastern horizon his eyes darted around in search of the next threat. The land was less forgiving than he had ever imagined it could be and he longed to be back in his shack or working his land. Sadness over the loss of life as he knew it exploded into anger and he spat a curse at the men who put him in this hostile land. Religion was never something he found time for, working to survive took precedence over bended knee to him but as he walked alongside the road he prayed to Whoever might be listening. He prayed that one day his would be the hand that brought justice to the treacherous bastards who did this to him and his village.
So lost in thoughts of salvation through vengeance was he that he almost walked into the center of the gathering of shacks and makeshift cabins. He cursed himself for his inattentiveness, realizing that had he done this a dozen other times he’d be dead in a ditch or on some savage’s dinner plate already. Pressing himself against the lean-to to his left he put his ear to its then metal wall. Nothing. Crouching he slipped across the narrow space and repeated the act there, still nothing. Backing out a step at a time he retreated into the high grasses north of the gathered buildings. Panic gripped his heart when he realized that he had managed to completely lose the road. He wanted to slap himself for his stupidity, not only had he slipped so deep in thought as to make what could have easily been a fatal mistake but he had wandered away from the road like a brainless idiot too.
He watched the small village for what felt like an eternity before deciding it like more than a handful of he had passed in the preceding days was abandoned. Still he stalked into the outlaying shacks like he expected attack, hand on the knife’s hilt and muscles tensed. He slipped around the outer ring of the shacks, stopping only to listen to the silence within each building. Once he checked the outer he moved to the second and final ring of buildings. Moving with a little more certainty he checked this last grouping of homes in moments. Not a soul was amongst the buildings and a quick check in a few shacks told him all he needed to know and brought not yet healed wounds to the surface within him.
The first buildings he entered had been simply ransacked. Clothing was thrown everywhere and what few things of value that may have been inside had been taken. Aside from the damage to property it looked as if the townsfolk had simply decided to leave in a hurry. The fourth building was the smoking gun. Just inside the door lay the bloated corpse of a young man with a bullet hole in his forehead. Closed inside the metal building the corpse had baked in the heat and the smell was more than he could bear. He bolted into the center of town and retched for the second time that day. Once his chest quit hitching and his body quit trying to bring his organs out of his mouth he allowed himself to really listen. Beyond the stillness of vacant town was a faint vibration he’d not heard before. Standing there immersed in the silence that only a ghost town can own he heard the buzzing fully. Flies. Hundreds of thousands of the carrion devouring insects no doubt feasting behind the closed doors of the remaining shacks. The constant thrum of their wings assaulted his mind and the images his mind conjured of men, women and children covered in writhing black masses brought another wave of dry heaving and dizziness.
Once again his legs failed him and he crumpled to the dirt as his body tried to empty its already hollow gut. He tried pushing himself onto all fours but the dizziness kicked him like a steel-toed boot in the head and he fell to his side. Waves of hot and cold washed over him as the world spun freely on an unnatural axis and for the briefest of moments he was sure he was going to be the next course in the insects’ feast. The mere thought of his maggoty corpse brought another pang of nausea down like a hammer but it also drove to the heart of his panic. Willing himself to his feet, he rose on shaky legs. Whatever had happened here and whoever had done it, he decided he didn’t want to be here if they returned. It was all too similar to what he had witnessed when he had been taken and the fear of another group finding him stirred his resolve. He decided it was worth the risk to check the three empty homes on his way out of town for any supplies like bandages that might come in handy. It took more time than he would have liked but by the time he was finished he had found the following: a revolver in working condition and some ammo, a deerskin water bag and a cowhide bag that fit comfortably over his shoulder. Stuffing his finds into the bag he shouldered it and made one last stop before leaving town, the well in the center of town. The act of pulling the bucket of water up strained the muscles but once it was up he had to restrain himself as excitement on the edge of delirium took control. A careful sniff told him the water was clean and with it he washed his blood and dirt caked hands and face. Washing the taste of bile out of his mouth was difficult because dehydration demanded that he swallow the mouthfuls of water immediately. After he was rinsed and clean he sucked handful after handful of the water down his throat until he felt like his stomach was going to burst from within. He emptied what remained in the bucket into the deerskin bag before pushing it back into the well and moving on. The water had removed his thirst but he still felt dizzy and feverish, feelings he hoped would pass once his body realized it was no longer suffering from dehydration. Rejuvenated by the water his legs found the energy he had been lacking before and he trotted southward in hoping his stupor hadn’t taken him too far off course.
The Great Road remained out of sight for the rest of the day as he moved south, running when able and walking as fast as he could the rest of the time. Lesser patches of smaller roadways showed themselves on occasion but generally he found himself walking on barren soil. He skirted the edge of two more gatherings of buildings as well as the collapsed heaps of rubble that at one point may have been one of the fabled cities from the bedtime stories his dad told in his youth. Before his escape he had seen his captors drive them wide around a similar grouping of mountainous heaps, plainly in fear of what might be within. Anything that brought fear out of merciless and armed men like them was something he decided he wanted nothing to do with while only with a knife and limited ammo so he gave the ruins a wide berth. As he worked his way around them he was certain he heard deep feline sounding roars like the mountain cats from his home but deeper in pitch. Gooseflesh rippled his skin at the thought of a cat even larger than those he had hunted at home and as if the thought of the hunts was a single a single gunshot went off with what could have been a wildcat’s cry of pain trailing it.
On the other side of the ruins he continued southward, covering more ground than he had in the previous two days since his escape. He was feeling more and more feverish as the day wore on and he began to curse himself for not stopping at one of the last two villages to look for medicine. The inhabitants may have been hostile but they might also have been friendly and willing to trade. Shortly before the sun dipped below the horizon he found a tree with a hollow area in its trunk to slip into and he decided it was time to call it a day. He put the waterskin behind his head and sat back into the hollow of the tree with the revolver in one hand and the knife in the other. He was looking at the stars and daydreaming about home when the day’s rigors caught up with him. Sleep overtook him before he knew it.
The blast of a not too distant gunshot snapped him from his sleep and he was in a crouch with the knife drawn and his finger on the trigger of the gun just as fast as he had fallen asleep the night before. His heart was racing and he searched the land visible from within the tree for his captors. In his half asleep daze he was certain they had caught up to him and was ready for a fight he knew he’d not be able to win. After a moment he slipped out of the opening like a snake and into the waist high grasses nearby. Laying there concealed by the grass he heard voices from what he guessed to be less than fifty paces away. He nearly squeezed the trigger in surprise when a second shot shattered the silence of the new day’s morning followed by a celebratory cry of “Got one!” Crawling on his belly he made it to a large fallen log and peeked over the top of it. In the field behind the tree he had been sleeping in were a man and a teenage boy not much younger than himself. They were obviously hunting and he watched over the log as the man took aim at one of the brown feathered birds in flight. The shot thundered in the morning air and one of the flock dropped like a stone. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s shot but was content to lie there until the two of them finished their hunt and moved on. He already knew better than to assume every person you encountered would welcome you with open arms. Far too often the only arms open to a stranger in this world were the kind that fired hot lead.
The man and what was probably his son continued their hunt and he continued to watch. The whole scene reminded him of days spent with his own father and he must have been lulled by the similarities because he hardly heard the crunch of gravel and dead grass to his left. Before he could turn to face it his mind exploded with crack and the back of his head felt as if it was bathed in warm water. As the searing pain drove him into consuming blackness he heard a man’s voice yell out “Lookie at what I found here!”
A few days ago I made some alterations to it and since many people may not have checked it out yet I decided to repost it with the aforementioned changes.
Since there is no point in further introductions I give you the goods:
Clawing at earth and gasping for air he pulled himself up the small hill. Rocks digging into the flesh of his hands and tearing away finger nails with each laborious pull. At the top his legs failed him and he collapsed in a heap on the sun baked grass. The beating of his heart jackhammered in his skull and left him feeling dizzy. Dizziness combined with the struggle to pull in each new breath brought tidal waves of nausea crashing down on him. Too early he pushed himself upright and was driven to his knees retching. Cursing himself he further bloodied his hands digging a shallow hole in the soil and scooped as much of his waste into it as he could. Even as he patted the earth to conceal the disturbed soil he studied his back-trail. He didn’t see anyone between him and the horizon but he was certain they were out there somewhere. No one ever got away from them for long and he’d witnessed first-hand more than a handful of escapees drug back to camp, the luckiest ones being those whose throats were already slit when they arrived.
His hand rested on the hilt of the knife he had taken off the lone guard who had stood in the way of his escape. If it came to it, he told himself, he’d take his own life before letting them take him back to camp and if luck was on his side he’d take of them with him. His only real chance of survival was to make it to some form of civilization before they found him. From his pocket he produced the decaying map he had also liberated from the guard and spread it on the dirt before him. With a finger he traced over lines printed decades before his birth, lines depicting long since forgotten roads and routes searching for the intersection where the ruins of the two Great Roads crossed. Rumors whispered among the other captives at night claimed the two roads spanned thousands of miles in divergent directions, something he would have found preposterous less than a month ago.
In all his life, a life of barely twenty years, he had not ventured more than two miles out side the confines of the village he had been born in before they had come riding out of the hills with their nets and rifles. Until that day the world had been nothing more than the water reaching as far as the eye could see to the east, the collection of lean-tos and shacks and the fields surrounding them. Now he was untold miles from his home, a man running blind in a land that had been a fairytale mere weeks before. They had chained them together and led them west, whipping them without mercy as they drove them like cattle towards the great unknown. He shuddered as he thought on how as the hours bled into days the members of his village disappeared and he tried to block from his mind the vile possibilities their vanishing may have meant. He kept his head down in the hope that by causing no trouble he’d go unnoticed long enough to find a way out. Eavesdropping on the conversations of guards or stealing glances at open maps while tending camp he marked the point where the Coastal Great Road met with its north-south counterpart as his best chance at freedom. Maybe his plan to stay unnoticed worked or maybe it was blind luck but on the day they reached the Great Intersection he was still alive and ready to move. Hours after they made camp that night, when everyone but the guards had fallen asleep he made his move. First he crushed the throat of the sole guard he encountered with a jagged rock and then looted the corpse of its knife, boots and map. He would have preferred a rifle to the knife but it was sharp and he had no choice but to make do. Had he more time he would have tried for one of their horses but they were better guarded than the captives and he saw certain death in even trying.
Stabbing the map with his left forefinger he marked where his escape had been made. He had been running for the better part of three days and by his best guess had only made it halfway to the river which spelled freedom. Law and order existed on its far shore, there he’d not only be safe from recapture but wherein he hoped to find ways to bring his captors to justice. Many nights fellow captives had spoken of a band of “justice seekers” that headquartered in the settlement south of the river but like most things spoke of in the prison camp night he was certain they were more myth than man. For now he contented himself as best he could with simply focusing on making it to the river alive.
He had done his best to parallel the ruins of the Great Road as it ran south despite the fact that do so only made it easier for those who might be after him to follow. Keeping the buckled surface of the ancient roadway in sight was the only way he could be certain that he’d reach the river but he made sure he kept clear of it whenever possible. Save for when he needed to cross a river on the remains of a bridge he kept the road just in sight on the horizon. These lands were full of uncivilized tribes and raiders who would make easy prey of anyone foolish enough to be caught walking in the open. These crooked men were lacking the organization of the men he felt creeping after him on his trail but were just as dangerous, if not more so. Encountering either group you were as likely to be killed for the clothes on your back as for the flesh on your bones so it was better to remain unseen until either you or they passed. Savage and lawless men weren’t the only dangers either. The land was full of wild beasts that were just as willing to make a meal of you as the cannibals. Bedtime stories claimed the lands were once the dominion of man but if that were true it had been in a time well before his birth. Now the animals ruled everything outside of the villages and twice since his escape he had to cut the throat of a wild hound before it tore out his. Both times he had lamented the kills, not out of empathy but because he was unwilling to light a fire to cook the meat out of fear that it’d be spotted or its ashes would further mark his trail. Tossing the carcasses as far as he could off the sides of his trail he cursed the waste of many good meals before continuing on his way.
Folding the map and stuffing it back into his pocket he gave one last look the way he came. He could almost see the trackers out there, sniffing along his backtrail. How long did he have before they caught up to him? When they did would they slit his throat then or would a worse fate await him? He took in a chest full of air and exhaled in one steady breath to ease the tension building before moving on. His legs refused to carry him at the pace he had been setting so he settled for as brisk a walk as they’d allow. The sun was all but directly overhead yet he felt as if he was carrying it on his back. Every inch of his being was aflame with pain and exhaustion begged him to stop and rest. Delay meant death or worse so he pressed on. Wiping sweat from his brow he wished for shade but knew that was as likely as his sprouting wings and soaring with the birds. Trees were everywhere he looked but their arid corpses bore not a single shade giving leaf, instead reaching out with twisted branches like the arms of death. Despite the terrible thirst cracking his lips he stayed clear of any bodies of water he found that were larger than a puddle as well. Growing up on the edge of the sea he had learned that while the land contained many creatures that want your blood deep waters hid their own vicious creatures from you until the moment their teeth pierced your flesh and pulled you under.
As he walked with the road off on the eastern horizon his eyes darted around in search of the next threat. The land was less forgiving than he had ever imagined it could be and he longed to be back in his shack or working his land. Sadness over the loss of life as he knew it exploded into anger and he spat a curse at the men who put him in this hostile land. Religion was never something he found time for, working to survive took precedence over bended knee to him but as he walked alongside the road he prayed to Whoever might be listening. He prayed that one day his would be the hand that brought justice to the treacherous bastards who did this to him and his village.
So lost in thoughts of salvation through vengeance was he that he almost walked into the center of the gathering of shacks and makeshift cabins. He cursed himself for his inattentiveness, realizing that had he done this a dozen other times he’d be dead in a ditch or on some savage’s dinner plate already. Pressing himself against the lean-to to his left he put his ear to its then metal wall. Nothing. Crouching he slipped across the narrow space and repeated the act there, still nothing. Backing out a step at a time he retreated into the high grasses north of the gathered buildings. Panic gripped his heart when he realized that he had managed to completely lose the road. He wanted to slap himself for his stupidity, not only had he slipped so deep in thought as to make what could have easily been a fatal mistake but he had wandered away from the road like a brainless idiot too.
He watched the small village for what felt like an eternity before deciding it like more than a handful of he had passed in the preceding days was abandoned. Still he stalked into the outlaying shacks like he expected attack, hand on the knife’s hilt and muscles tensed. He slipped around the outer ring of the shacks, stopping only to listen to the silence within each building. Once he checked the outer he moved to the second and final ring of buildings. Moving with a little more certainty he checked this last grouping of homes in moments. Not a soul was amongst the buildings and a quick check in a few shacks told him all he needed to know and brought not yet healed wounds to the surface within him.
The first buildings he entered had been simply ransacked. Clothing was thrown everywhere and what few things of value that may have been inside had been taken. Aside from the damage to property it looked as if the townsfolk had simply decided to leave in a hurry. The fourth building was the smoking gun. Just inside the door lay the bloated corpse of a young man with a bullet hole in his forehead. Closed inside the metal building the corpse had baked in the heat and the smell was more than he could bear. He bolted into the center of town and retched for the second time that day. Once his chest quit hitching and his body quit trying to bring his organs out of his mouth he allowed himself to really listen. Beyond the stillness of vacant town was a faint vibration he’d not heard before. Standing there immersed in the silence that only a ghost town can own he heard the buzzing fully. Flies. Hundreds of thousands of the carrion devouring insects no doubt feasting behind the closed doors of the remaining shacks. The constant thrum of their wings assaulted his mind and the images his mind conjured of men, women and children covered in writhing black masses brought another wave of dry heaving and dizziness.
Once again his legs failed him and he crumpled to the dirt as his body tried to empty its already hollow gut. He tried pushing himself onto all fours but the dizziness kicked him like a steel-toed boot in the head and he fell to his side. Waves of hot and cold washed over him as the world spun freely on an unnatural axis and for the briefest of moments he was sure he was going to be the next course in the insects’ feast. The mere thought of his maggoty corpse brought another pang of nausea down like a hammer but it also drove to the heart of his panic. Willing himself to his feet, he rose on shaky legs. Whatever had happened here and whoever had done it, he decided he didn’t want to be here if they returned. It was all too similar to what he had witnessed when he had been taken and the fear of another group finding him stirred his resolve. He decided it was worth the risk to check the three empty homes on his way out of town for any supplies like bandages that might come in handy. It took more time than he would have liked but by the time he was finished he had found the following: a revolver in working condition and some ammo, a deerskin water bag and a cowhide bag that fit comfortably over his shoulder. Stuffing his finds into the bag he shouldered it and made one last stop before leaving town, the well in the center of town. The act of pulling the bucket of water up strained the muscles but once it was up he had to restrain himself as excitement on the edge of delirium took control. A careful sniff told him the water was clean and with it he washed his blood and dirt caked hands and face. Washing the taste of bile out of his mouth was difficult because dehydration demanded that he swallow the mouthfuls of water immediately. After he was rinsed and clean he sucked handful after handful of the water down his throat until he felt like his stomach was going to burst from within. He emptied what remained in the bucket into the deerskin bag before pushing it back into the well and moving on. The water had removed his thirst but he still felt dizzy and feverish, feelings he hoped would pass once his body realized it was no longer suffering from dehydration. Rejuvenated by the water his legs found the energy he had been lacking before and he trotted southward in hoping his stupor hadn’t taken him too far off course.
The Great Road remained out of sight for the rest of the day as he moved south, running when able and walking as fast as he could the rest of the time. Lesser patches of smaller roadways showed themselves on occasion but generally he found himself walking on barren soil. He skirted the edge of two more gatherings of buildings as well as the collapsed heaps of rubble that at one point may have been one of the fabled cities from the bedtime stories his dad told in his youth. Before his escape he had seen his captors drive them wide around a similar grouping of mountainous heaps, plainly in fear of what might be within. Anything that brought fear out of merciless and armed men like them was something he decided he wanted nothing to do with while only with a knife and limited ammo so he gave the ruins a wide berth. As he worked his way around them he was certain he heard deep feline sounding roars like the mountain cats from his home but deeper in pitch. Gooseflesh rippled his skin at the thought of a cat even larger than those he had hunted at home and as if the thought of the hunts was a single a single gunshot went off with what could have been a wildcat’s cry of pain trailing it.
On the other side of the ruins he continued southward, covering more ground than he had in the previous two days since his escape. He was feeling more and more feverish as the day wore on and he began to curse himself for not stopping at one of the last two villages to look for medicine. The inhabitants may have been hostile but they might also have been friendly and willing to trade. Shortly before the sun dipped below the horizon he found a tree with a hollow area in its trunk to slip into and he decided it was time to call it a day. He put the waterskin behind his head and sat back into the hollow of the tree with the revolver in one hand and the knife in the other. He was looking at the stars and daydreaming about home when the day’s rigors caught up with him. Sleep overtook him before he knew it.
The blast of a not too distant gunshot snapped him from his sleep and he was in a crouch with the knife drawn and his finger on the trigger of the gun just as fast as he had fallen asleep the night before. His heart was racing and he searched the land visible from within the tree for his captors. In his half asleep daze he was certain they had caught up to him and was ready for a fight he knew he’d not be able to win. After a moment he slipped out of the opening like a snake and into the waist high grasses nearby. Laying there concealed by the grass he heard voices from what he guessed to be less than fifty paces away. He nearly squeezed the trigger in surprise when a second shot shattered the silence of the new day’s morning followed by a celebratory cry of “Got one!” Crawling on his belly he made it to a large fallen log and peeked over the top of it. In the field behind the tree he had been sleeping in were a man and a teenage boy not much younger than himself. They were obviously hunting and he watched over the log as the man took aim at one of the brown feathered birds in flight. The shot thundered in the morning air and one of the flock dropped like a stone. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s shot but was content to lie there until the two of them finished their hunt and moved on. He already knew better than to assume every person you encountered would welcome you with open arms. Far too often the only arms open to a stranger in this world were the kind that fired hot lead.
The man and what was probably his son continued their hunt and he continued to watch. The whole scene reminded him of days spent with his own father and he must have been lulled by the similarities because he hardly heard the crunch of gravel and dead grass to his left. Before he could turn to face it his mind exploded with crack and the back of his head felt as if it was bathed in warm water. As the searing pain drove him into consuming blackness he heard a man’s voice yell out “Lookie at what I found here!”
15 March 2010
Because I Have Insomnia/Writer's Block
It's almost a quarter after 2 on a Sunday night and I can't sleep.
I'm trying to respark my creative fires but life has a funny way of keeping a man's goals from happening sometimes.
In my sleep deprived frustration I found this just now.
I've been battling writer's block for roughly 208 days, 5 hours, 44 minutes (based on the last update on any of my "work").
Maybe pointing out such things is an exercise in futility and only fueling my "issues" or maybe its just the result of too much stress and too little sleep/relaxation finally getting to this fella.
All I know for certain is that not being able to write anything beyond the occasional blog (like this one here) is far from the satisfying writing "career" I'm hoping to once obtain.
But it might make for good reading because after all this is a blog that is as much about my setbacks as it is about my successes as I hunt that elusive thing known as my version of the American Dream.
Here's hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
I'm trying to respark my creative fires but life has a funny way of keeping a man's goals from happening sometimes.
In my sleep deprived frustration I found this just now.
I've been battling writer's block for roughly 208 days, 5 hours, 44 minutes (based on the last update on any of my "work").
Maybe pointing out such things is an exercise in futility and only fueling my "issues" or maybe its just the result of too much stress and too little sleep/relaxation finally getting to this fella.
All I know for certain is that not being able to write anything beyond the occasional blog (like this one here) is far from the satisfying writing "career" I'm hoping to once obtain.
But it might make for good reading because after all this is a blog that is as much about my setbacks as it is about my successes as I hunt that elusive thing known as my version of the American Dream.
Here's hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
25 January 2010
The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan/Brandon Sanderson
An old friend pointed me towards Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series a few years back and I finally picked up Eye of the World early in 2008.I was hooked immediately and tore through the 11 main books, the prequel and the encyclopedia over 2008 and early 2009.
I didn't know it at the time but Mr. Jordan had died a few months before I started reading his books. His death created a moderate delay in getting the 12th and final book of the series (13th if you count the prequel) as they looked for a writer to finish the series. They found that writer in Brandon Sanderson but the search would not be the last delay.
As the novel was written it became apparent that one book wouldn't be enough to finish this epic series off so the decision was made to split the book into a trilogy. Admittedly the news irked me when I first heard it as I was eager to find how this series was going to wrap up. Many hours had been invested in reading Jordan's story and although I would be upset for it to be over, the anticipation of how it would end was (and is killing me).
But I digress, I finished this book in the early hours of Sunday morning while trying to get sleepy enough to return to bed after the baby's early morning feeding.
In my opinion the change of authors did nothing to the quality of the series and in fact this is better than at least one of the books penned by Jordan himself.
The ending came at a sensible point in the story and did its job of making me long for the next installment.
If you enjoy Fantasy novels I highly recommend this series, of course I'm a tad biased since it was this series that sparked my desire to write an epic fantasy of my own.
25 November 2009
Happy Turkey Day
Since I won't have time tomorrow nor have I written anything new the best thing I have to do is wish any who happen upon this a Happy Thanksgiving.
Growing up I was never a fan of the large family get-together holidays but they mean much more to me now.
So gorge yourself on some turkey and all the fixings, unbuckle your belt, kick back in your favorite chair and watch some football/nap.
I know I will.
Growing up I was never a fan of the large family get-together holidays but they mean much more to me now.
So gorge yourself on some turkey and all the fixings, unbuckle your belt, kick back in your favorite chair and watch some football/nap.
I know I will.
17 November 2009
Other than Insomnia, What Else Has Kept Me Away from Writing?
My last post was one spent venting about something very much out of my hands, my chronic insomnia (note the time this is being posted).
This morning I'm going to touch on something that while very much within my control has become the latest culprit to suck up my writing time: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.
After months of pleading with me a good friend convinced me to sign up for Xbox Live (something I'd resisted for over a year for a variety of reasons) and once MW2 hit store shelves last Tuesday I became a bit of an addict.
Granted I'm not playing every waking moment and it's given me something "constructive" to do with these early morning, too tired to write hours but I do need to keep an eye on my gaming hours. Once my sleep levels out and I can think coherently again I'll definately have to cut back on the games and buckle down.
For now though I'm thoroughly enjoying the gunning down of (and getting gunned down by) total strangers and real life friends alike.
For those of you who read this that have also been bitten by the COD:MW2 bug (or enjoy playing other games) send me an invite or a friend request on Xbox Live. I'm always looking for new people to play against online since my duties as a husband and father have 86ed my real-life social life.
My gamertag is QuasiShad and I'll be looking forward to facing off with you.
Oh and the wife would have me strung up by my toenails if I didn't drop the biggest news of our lives here too. We found out this week that, provided the little booger doesn't decide he wants out sooner, they are going to do the C-section on the 1st of December.
Let the countdown begin!
04 November 2009
Insomnia vs Creativity
A little known fact outside of my inner circle is that I frequently (read: almost nightly) have a really difficult time falling asleep.
The list of remedies is endless: excercise more, drink a glass of warm milk, try a small amount of alcohol, take a sleeping pill, don't drink soda/coffee after mid-afternoon, etc, etc.
I've tried most of the above (the ones I've avoided have namely been the ones involving ingesting anything) and have come to one conclusion.
I am naturally a night owl and given the chance my internal clock will shift to a "awake all night, into bed at 9 a.m." schedule.
The problem this creates is two fold, 1) my real job requires that I arrive in the hours immediately prior to the time when I'd most like to go to bed and 2) being up late and rising early to work every day of the week leads to an eventual zombie like stupor. Now for some the undead trance may be preferable but when you spend a good deal of your down time trying to be creative being half asleep (at least in my experience) is NOT a helpful state of mind.
Maybe this is just the mildly delusion ramblings of a sleep deprived mind but I'm really struggling these last few weeks to string together any sort of sentence that envolves story telling.
Writing like this comes fairly easy but attempting to craft a story has been all but impossible of late.
Which is why I've not updated this much in the last month because I feel guilty blogging when my work is being neglected.
Good night to all you sleepers out there, I'll be burning the midnight oil a touch longer. With luck maybe I'll be able to turn that flashing line on my screen into some prose before turning in.
The list of remedies is endless: excercise more, drink a glass of warm milk, try a small amount of alcohol, take a sleeping pill, don't drink soda/coffee after mid-afternoon, etc, etc.
I've tried most of the above (the ones I've avoided have namely been the ones involving ingesting anything) and have come to one conclusion.
I am naturally a night owl and given the chance my internal clock will shift to a "awake all night, into bed at 9 a.m." schedule.
The problem this creates is two fold, 1) my real job requires that I arrive in the hours immediately prior to the time when I'd most like to go to bed and 2) being up late and rising early to work every day of the week leads to an eventual zombie like stupor. Now for some the undead trance may be preferable but when you spend a good deal of your down time trying to be creative being half asleep (at least in my experience) is NOT a helpful state of mind.
Maybe this is just the mildly delusion ramblings of a sleep deprived mind but I'm really struggling these last few weeks to string together any sort of sentence that envolves story telling.
Writing like this comes fairly easy but attempting to craft a story has been all but impossible of late.
Which is why I've not updated this much in the last month because I feel guilty blogging when my work is being neglected.
Good night to all you sleepers out there, I'll be burning the midnight oil a touch longer. With luck maybe I'll be able to turn that flashing line on my screen into some prose before turning in.
19 October 2009
Recommended Reading: Pursuit of Honor by Vince Flynn
Continuing the trend I set with Robert B. Parker's Spenser series (wherein I read the 34th book first) is the 9th book in the Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn (and the first I've read).
I'm not quite finished with it but at a hair past the 3/4 mark I'm going to go out on a limb and make it part of my Recommended Reading list.
It reminds me a great deal of the early Jack Ryan novels by Tom Clancy, you know the ones before he started to dive way too deep into technical explanations (was I alone in being mildly vexed by the page after page devoted to the atomic detonation in Sum of All Fears?) and focused more on the "kick-assed-ness" of the Jack Ryan character. Not that I'm knocking Clancy's books, they were far and away my favorite thrillers growing up and maybe that's why I'm enjoying this book so much.
Mitch Rapp, Flynn's main character, reminds me so much of Ryan but is different enough to stand alone as one of the best espionage/thriller protagonists of all time.
If you like this genre, I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy this book.
25 September 2009
Because I'm In a Sharing Mood
For more than a good portion of this year I've been toiling on a Private Investigator novel along the lines of Chandler's Marlowe or Parker's Spencer (forgive me for being hard on myself but I'm nowhere near their levels but I try to channel their spirit when writing this story).
Today I figured I'd share the first chapter of my work, in what is probably the 12th draft of the opening pages of the first in a series with the character. Honestly the main character is presently one of my top two favorite creations and the female lead(s) are almost as close to my heart as he is.
You'll only meet the MC (and two thugs) here but I think its one of my better opening chapters in spite of this fact. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
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As far as I’m concerned once you’ve been stuffed in the trunk of one car you’ve been stuffed in them all. I would know; I’ve been shoved into more than my fair share of them in my lifetime. It goes with the territory I guess, I work in a profession that requires the asking of questions that some people don’t want asked. Ask the wrong person the wrong question or have the wrong person find out that you’ve been asking the “unaskable” and it’s in the trunk with you. If you’re really lucky there might just be a beating thrown in for good measure.
This particular trunk was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that the thugs hadn’t even had the decency to empty it before hand and I’d spent much of my visit with a tire iron jammed in the crack of my ass and a jack in the ribs. Given my experience being transported around in such a manner I’d love to say I’d developed a feel for how much time passes while within but sadly I haven’t. I might have been in there for thirty minutes or maybe it was a few hours. All I knew for certain was that my ass and side were both screaming at me and my legs were starting to cramp. Admittedly I was grateful when the car came to a halt and my traveling companions opened the trunk.
Today I figured I'd share the first chapter of my work, in what is probably the 12th draft of the opening pages of the first in a series with the character. Honestly the main character is presently one of my top two favorite creations and the female lead(s) are almost as close to my heart as he is.
You'll only meet the MC (and two thugs) here but I think its one of my better opening chapters in spite of this fact. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
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As far as I’m concerned once you’ve been stuffed in the trunk of one car you’ve been stuffed in them all. I would know; I’ve been shoved into more than my fair share of them in my lifetime. It goes with the territory I guess, I work in a profession that requires the asking of questions that some people don’t want asked. Ask the wrong person the wrong question or have the wrong person find out that you’ve been asking the “unaskable” and it’s in the trunk with you. If you’re really lucky there might just be a beating thrown in for good measure.
This particular trunk was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that the thugs hadn’t even had the decency to empty it before hand and I’d spent much of my visit with a tire iron jammed in the crack of my ass and a jack in the ribs. Given my experience being transported around in such a manner I’d love to say I’d developed a feel for how much time passes while within but sadly I haven’t. I might have been in there for thirty minutes or maybe it was a few hours. All I knew for certain was that my ass and side were both screaming at me and my legs were starting to cramp. Admittedly I was grateful when the car came to a halt and my traveling companions opened the trunk.
Sometime after they had gotten the drop on me they had wrapped my head in a hood yet in spite of this fact I was immediately aware upon the opening of the trunk that we were at the lake. The wind was coming out of the north and bringing with it a bitingly cold edge. It was cold enough that I briefly regretted not having my overcoat but considering the fact that the two fine gentlemen dragging me out of the trunk were intent on my demise I probably shouldn’t have been concerned with catching my death of cold. I took a quick inventory of my pains and decided that as annoying as the cramps in my legs and back were the golf ball sized knot on the back of my head stood the most chance of being serious. As for what raised it, I’d have put money on a good old fashioned blackjack but there was always possibility of the equally classic pistol whip as well.
As they started to herd me down the pier I briefly entertained the thought of working the cramps out of my legs, toying with the idea of spending my last moments in relative comfort but with my arms cuffed behind me it wasn’t like I could have massaged my calves. I decided then that dying comfortably wasn’t everything; not dying at all would be preferable. Besides even if I could work out the charlie-horses I’d still have been left with the burning sensations of the damn scars on my arms not to mention the Cadillac sized lump on my head. There I was being led to what would surely be my demise and I was worried about cramps and itchy scars. The things that pass through your head when you are facing certain death always did amuse me. At that point I was glad my face was covered by the damn burlap bag, I was certain that these thugs would have smashed in my teeth had they been able to take one look at the shit eating grin splitting my face.
Once we reached what was no doubt the end of the pier they turned me around and forced me to my knees. Having been here a million times before I knew what was coming beforehand but foresight didn’t unbind my hands, so to my utter lack of surprise one of my captors unloaded on me. I’m not sure if it was a fist coupled with brass knuckles or possibly my second pistol whipping of the evening, regardless pain flared white hot in my head as stars danced across my vision. My mouth and chin were bathed in blood that felt boiling in comparison to the cold air and I was certain that my nose had just been spread across my face. “Ah, watch it numb-nuts. You’ll ruin my movie star good looks doing shit like that.” I said while spitting blood into the inside of the bag. Predictably I was punched, no doubt an unassisted punch this time, in my face and kicked in the gut for my trouble. I collapsed in a heap, struggling to drag in air and fighting the urge to fill my hood with the half digested remains of the meal I’d had at Vic’s a few hours back. “Damn…boys…..you play…..you play soccer? Damn….fine….kicks the….there.” I managed to spit out before the two of them began to fire kick after kick into my chest and gut.
“Shut it wise ass,” said Thug Number One, “we don’t want to hear none of your shit.”
“Yeah, shut it.” eloquently added Thug Two in stereotypical yet familiar gravelly street tough tones. This brought laughter, pained laughter but laughter none-the-less from me and without a chance to explain what I found funny I was the recipient of a new wave of kicks.
“You ask too many questions laughing man. The boss, he really don’t like people snooping around, asking questions they have no business knowing the answers to. Nobody teach you to mind your business huh Mr. Madden? Too bad for you they didn’t, cause now we get to teach you this lesson. We’re pretty good teachers too, people we teach learn real quick.”
I really should know better but as I drew myself back to a kneeling position I said, “Yeah, you two are a regular couple of street professors.”
Again I was treated to a ballet of dancing lights and colors when I was pistol whipped upside the head and fell once more to the pier. This time the blow was hard enough that the sounds of the water slapping the underside of the pier became muffled as if I was hearing them from miles away and with cotton in my ears. I realized then that I was sliding ever closer to losing consciousness and that meant I was in serious danger of losing my life as well. If I passed out I’d have no chance of getting through this alive so I began to focus on simply not giving into the desperate need to sleep. The only other clear thought I had was amusement at the fact that when I took this case I was certain that I’d finally landed a job that would break the monotony of my usual work.
22 September 2009
Been A Bit Since I've Posted
Man has this month blown by, I mean I was aware that I'd not posted anything in a long, long while but this is a touch absurd.
This month has been busy for all the wrong reasons and as such I've not written anything new in about 3 weeks. Most of my "leisure time" has been swallowed by this OCD like impulse I've had to digest as much information about not only current events but our history as a nation from our founding forward.
It's all a part of the research I'm doing for my Dystopian novel but my time has been monopolized by TV pundits (from all sides of the political spectrum), books and websites.
I still haven't had time to fix my laptop but I did finally get the internet up and running on my desktop. I'll still have to recover my files off the laptop at some point but at least now I can install Word on my PC and start working from the comfort of my desk instead of trying to find some place comfortable to work with the laptop.
For those curious, I did have an excellent first shoot back as an amatuer glamour/pin-up photographer.
Here are a few of the more "work safe" images:
London, obviously the model in question, was hands down the easiest subject to shoot I've ever worked with and my two hours shooting with her served as the single greatest learning experience in my short time as an aspiring photographer.
For those keeping track I'm presently working on (and in some cases the phrase "working on" unfortunately means "haven't finished yet but haven't worked on in months either"):
-a private investigator novel.
-a post-apocalyptic novella
-a dystopic/Orwellian Spec. Fiction novel
-a horror/thriller novel
-an epic fantasy novel
I'm also working on a multitude of short stories but unfortunately I struggle with the shorter medium. Brevity is the biggest factor but in some cases, like one I started early last month, I find myself lacking the "chops" to write sentimental and/or emotional stories, no matter how the subject tugs at my heartstrings personally.
Well it is pushing midnight, I'm going to try to get some work done in the next 30 minutes and then I'm calling it a night.
This month has been busy for all the wrong reasons and as such I've not written anything new in about 3 weeks. Most of my "leisure time" has been swallowed by this OCD like impulse I've had to digest as much information about not only current events but our history as a nation from our founding forward.
It's all a part of the research I'm doing for my Dystopian novel but my time has been monopolized by TV pundits (from all sides of the political spectrum), books and websites.
I still haven't had time to fix my laptop but I did finally get the internet up and running on my desktop. I'll still have to recover my files off the laptop at some point but at least now I can install Word on my PC and start working from the comfort of my desk instead of trying to find some place comfortable to work with the laptop.
For those curious, I did have an excellent first shoot back as an amatuer glamour/pin-up photographer.
Here are a few of the more "work safe" images:
London, obviously the model in question, was hands down the easiest subject to shoot I've ever worked with and my two hours shooting with her served as the single greatest learning experience in my short time as an aspiring photographer.
For those keeping track I'm presently working on (and in some cases the phrase "working on" unfortunately means "haven't finished yet but haven't worked on in months either"):
-a private investigator novel.
-a post-apocalyptic novella
-a dystopic/Orwellian Spec. Fiction novel
-a horror/thriller novel
-an epic fantasy novel
I'm also working on a multitude of short stories but unfortunately I struggle with the shorter medium. Brevity is the biggest factor but in some cases, like one I started early last month, I find myself lacking the "chops" to write sentimental and/or emotional stories, no matter how the subject tugs at my heartstrings personally.
Well it is pushing midnight, I'm going to try to get some work done in the next 30 minutes and then I'm calling it a night.
20 August 2009
Any Other Writers Ever Experience This
So I was daydreaming while shuffling through the seemingly endless piles of invoices on my desk and had this flash of creativity strike like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky.
I continued to tug on this thread to see where it could take me and over a period of a couple of hours had an idea for an awesome action sequence. Whether or not I have the chops to translate what I see in my head into words remains to be seen but there is a much more pressing issue.
Simply put I have no story to place this scene in. Absolutely nothing I'm currently working on is the kind of story wherein this scene would make sense. Even the more pure fantasy story I've been plugging away on for months doesn't have room for this scene, unless I make some serious changes in tone and theme.
I'm seriously considering just writing the scene down (maybe in bare bones format) and filing it away to reference at a later date.
Back to the "real" work......
I continued to tug on this thread to see where it could take me and over a period of a couple of hours had an idea for an awesome action sequence. Whether or not I have the chops to translate what I see in my head into words remains to be seen but there is a much more pressing issue.
Simply put I have no story to place this scene in. Absolutely nothing I'm currently working on is the kind of story wherein this scene would make sense. Even the more pure fantasy story I've been plugging away on for months doesn't have room for this scene, unless I make some serious changes in tone and theme.
I'm seriously considering just writing the scene down (maybe in bare bones format) and filing it away to reference at a later date.
Back to the "real" work......
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