Extended Thoughts: Child of the Ghosts

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

A double post on the first day I’m back? Amazing! Or totally predictable, since I hinted that I’d be doing this in the last post, the shorter version of this review. And I follow through with my recently-made promises! Because then I won’t have the chance to up and forget…

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Child of the Ghosts

Series: (Book 1) The Ghosts

Author: Johnathon Moeller

Genre: Fantasy (Sword-and-Sorcery)

Release Date: January 2014


 

 

…Child of the Ghosts, the first novel in Johnathon Moeller’s The Ghosts series, is Mistborn minus anything worth reading. But don’t worry, I won’t be referencing Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn throughout this, I just thought it was the most pithy and condensed way I could sum up my feelings for Child of the Ghosts

I added that in for continuity’s sake before beginning this Extended Thoughts session, just to keep things relevant. Unlike my original review this one’s going to be a bit more ramble-y as I talk about not only Child of the Ghosts, but the fantasy genre as a whole.

Oh, and spoilers, naturally. Including a very old Harry Potter spoiler too, I guess.

 

Characters and Their Lack Thereof:

There were no characters worth getting invested in, frankly. The story was so uncomfortably fast and slipshod that I, by the end of the book, didn’t remember most of the characters names, anything about their pasts, or their personalities. And unfortunately, most of the characters who I did remember I did not do so fondly. The primary characters, Caina, Halfdan, and Maglarion, all fit neatly into clichés, rendering them totally indistinguishable from the hundreds of other flat fantasy characters I’ve read. The only potential exception to this rule is Laeria Armalas, Caina’s mother.

To summarize: Caina is the clichéd broken young woman who tries to piece her life back together and change her ways when it’s plot-convenient. Otherwise, she’s totally content to slaughter her way through her fellow human beings without a thought, only to lament for a couple of sentences a few paragraphs later. Rinse and repeat. I was originally going to write, ‘…piece her life back together and change what she doesn’t like about herself.’ Except then I remembered that I have no idea what Caina thinks about herself, if she likes herself as a person, or if she’s concerned with how others see her. Caina, by and large, is a vessel to propel the plot forward and to throw knives. So to be honest, whatever trouble she finds herself in (which isn’t much, creating a dry, arid feeling throughout most of the plot) isn’t particularly gripping because I don’t care much about Caina or what happens to her.

Villain’s-wise Maglarion essentially Voldemort, though he’s opposed by a gaggle of assassins collectively holding the idiot-ball instead of a well-organized grassroots movement of concerned, well-fleshed-out individuals. That’s really about it— he desires eternal life and the death of everybody in Malarae for reasons never explained beyond it just being the evil necromancer thing to do instead of going into retirement. Lord Haeron, the walking, ‘hate me, I’m a scumbag with no redeeming qualities,’ character and painfully obvious sacrifice-to-be in Maglarion’s plans, is precisely as described. I mean, when you make a deal with the devil, you end up either getting through into hellfire or fiddled to death. Either way, it’s a predictable (and thus, largely unsatisfying) end.

However, we can turn to Laeria now after quickly poking fun at Halfdan: I actually thought he was dead, considering how clichéd the rest of the book was, I finished the book and quickly forgot what his ultimate fate was so I just assumed he had gone the way of Obi-Wan and Dumbledore. He did not, however, his entire character and fate just escaped my mind mere days after finishing the book.

So, the character of Laeria Armalas, who is, again, Caina’s mother, represented one of the few potentially deep and interesting character-to-character interactions. Being Caina’s mother, who is none-too-happy with her daughter (for reasons unknown, honestly), brings up the potential for an interesting dynamic with the heroine. For some background, Laeria is a magic-user but is singularly untalented. She, according to Caina, had trouble making a goblet float via her own power, so she appealed to Maglarion in order to boost her strength. Furthermore, Sebastian (Caina’s father) fathoms that the reason why she married him was because Laeria had been kicked out of the Magisterium for generally being terrible at magic; she suspected that Sebastian would rise above his current status and become a lord strong enough to force the Magisterium to accept her back.

It was at this point (less than 5% through the novel), that I thought Laeria could be an interesting character: her lack of power, weak sense of self (due to her seeking approval from her magical betters), and tumultuous relationship with husband and daughter opens up an avenue rarely seen in fantasy, especially sword-and-sorcery. It’s all too common for the antagonist to wield some kind of tremendous power and be totally unrelated to the hero aside from the, “You two must fight because one is the hero and one is the villain,” idea of fantasy. Yes, that was a subtle stab at the character of Maglarion. But, for Laeria, what kind of emotional and psychological barriers could we see her overcoming and battling with or even using as a shield against Caina’s eventual revenge? Will Laeria eventually conclude that Maglarion isn’t the master she thought he’d be, creating a parallel between him and Sebastian and causing Laeria to go her own way and become a recurring element of humanity to Caina’s life?

I’ll give you a hint; it’s none of those things. She’s killed before the 10% mark when Caina hits her with a fire poker. And come the end of the novel, there’s not a single character that could replace Laeria and be a new character with some actual potential.

And I had hinted at it before, but I want to make it explicit now— the Ghosts, as an organization, are really almost frustratingly stupid. Though, they’re more of a casualty of the plot than they are of bad characterization (though that is also an undeniable factor). For instance, it’s known early on that Maglarion’s bloodcrystal is a huge source of power and is fed by Maglarion’s rituals, implying (even without it having to be explicitly spelled out) that it will continue to grow in power. So, rather than try to kill Maglarion with the deus ex machina spear-of-magic-killing, destroying the bloodcrystal would rob Maglarion of his power and render him easy to kill, provided he didn’t just die on his own from the shock of his power leaving him.

I remember having figured this all out before the ghostsilver spear even showed up— and once it did appear, I spent the next few chapters flipping (metaphorically/electronically) through the next few chapters just to see if I was right.

I was. I wished I had been proved wrong.

And I had hinted at it before with Maglarion and Lord Haeron, the villains in Child of the Ghosts are just so painfully villainous. They don’t behave like human beings with human wants, desires, histories, pain, hope, and joy. I found myself thinking of the two main villains as mustachioed bandits twirling their long black whiskers just because they were that one-dimensionally evil. Which is boring and uninteresting, by the way.

Plot, Tension, and Questionably-Done Stakes: Okay, here’s the thing— oftentimes these heroic/sword-and-sorcery fantasies function on a very simple kind of plot device, the end of the world (or a close equivalent). Most people would rather the world not end, particularly in the myriad of painful ways dreamed up by fantasy authors. However, most people think that way because the world is worth living in and their lives are worth living. And yet, if a story doesn’t instill in us, the readers, a love for the people and place, why should we care about the fate of the world? Starting off a series with the, ‘World is at stake,’ plot device means that there’s really nowhere else to go from there— no villain will be more powerful than the one that threatens all life. So, the character of Maglarion is even more wasted when one considers that The Ghosts is a very large series, and I predict that the villain of each book will wield a similar, ‘destroy all life,’ kind of power. And yet, because we’re being scrubbed clean of the last villain just to have the new one replace him/her, we never get the chance to really learn about the world and its people. Thus, no matter what villain appears and no matter what power he/she is wielding, it’ll never actually make us care.

To wrap that up: We’re never given time to just examine the characters and see them just being people. Ultimately, we come to know these characters as assassins, fighters, necromancers, etc. but never as simply human beings. And yet, even that feels very bland and malnourished. I know I said I wouldn’t reference Mistborn in this, but I think it needs to be said that Mistborn had a similar cast of characters, but its world and magic system were what set it apart and kept it entertaining. Meanwhile, in Child of the Ghosts, I hardly even know anything about the world (a map may have helped) beyond what’s strictly and immediately plot-relevant. And, with no magic beyond the fantasy clichés of necromancy, telepathy, and blood magic, I was never even invested to see what came next out of that aspect of the story.

This all culminates it something I’ve been writing and stewing about for the past year or so: positive and negative tension. I wrote extensively on the subject for my thesis work at the end of undergrad, and this book helped me to realize that I hadn’t just been blowing smoke that whole time. Positive tension, essentially, is the feeling created when an author (usually in fantasy, but it’s conceivably applicable to any genre) capitalizes on a kind of aura of invincibility around a character which keeps him/her safe from harm. For a variety of reasons, characters (usually the main protagonist) can become invincible in all but name. As in, they will never die and never become wounded or crippled in a way that cannot later be healed. As a side note, Caina’s inability to have children, curtesy of Maglarion’s ritual, doesn’t count as it does not consistently hamper Caina’s physical or mental health. Fitting of a character like that, when danger does come knocking, the tension created isn’t based out of the question, “Will this character make it out in one piece?” as much as, “What new trick or clever idea will the character use to get out of this?”

The difference between those two is that the latter is wholly unrealistic, turning life-or-death combat into a magic act; we all know that a magician, if he or she is sufficiently skilled, will pull of the trick at hand with no real danger, no matter how realistically the magician may be sawing the assistant in half. Instead, we as the audience, are merely standing by the see how spectacular it all is. Positive tension makes the reader want to see how entertainingly a situation can end, whereas negative tension makes us as readers hope that the situation will unfold devoid of catastrophe.

Child of the Ghosts is made up, down to the genetic level, of positive tension. Even if Caina’s plans and adventures deviate from their original goal (being discovered and having to fight her way out of a tight spot seems like an already-old favourite), there’s never a sense of real danger, merely a short-lived inconvenience that serves to set up the next bit of action. It’s after revelations like this that I’m happy the book was so short, otherwise I likely would have never had the patience to finish it.

As an extension of that last point, I had figured Alistair, Caina’s noble lover, would meet his bloody end— his involvement in Caina’s life would have made it too complicated and would take emphasis away from the constant stream of action that makes up the lifeblood of the novel. So, perhaps undulling cynically, I knew he would have to die, lest he complicate the straightforward-as-an-arrow plot.

Ultimately, the Ultimate Ultimatum: So, we come to the rambling end again. And my position is still unchanged— Child of the Ghosts is too boring, narrow, and devoid of joy for me to recommend. But it’s not offensively bad and is free on Amazon. So I guess there’s that.

Oh, and what I mentioned in my shorter review about the writing still holds up upon a re-examination. Every other line has to be extenuated with a heavy bass note and a martial-arts movie zoom-in just to show how incredibly dramatic every drab, predictable turn of events was.

I’m also reading the next book in the series now. Spoiler alert: the writing style is much the same.

 


 

 

This series was started in January 2014 and there’s already at least 17 books out for it? Christmas crackers, I’ll be reading these from now until Judgement Day…

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folks!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

 

Rabble Review: Child of the Ghosts

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Well. Here I am again. It’s not flash fiction, it’s not Lorequest, it’s a book review! I’ll be doing more of these in the future. I did a few in the past, mostly about the SomnAgent series and I want to continue doing them, mostly on indie fantasy and science fiction. Because I’m a rabble-rouser and I want to make sure I want to pick fights with works I know how to talk about extensively!

Speaking of ‘extensively,’ I’ll be doing an Extended Thoughts to all of my reviews so I keep myself from babbling on further than what’s warranted.

 

Anyway, once again and as always, have fun~

 


 

 

Child of the Ghosts, the first novel in Johnathon Moeller’s The Ghosts series, is Mistborn minus anything worth reading. But don’t worry, I won’t be referencing Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn throughout this, I just thought it was the most pithy and condensed way I could sum up my feelings for Child of the Ghosts.

But okay, let’s get a little more specific.

Pros: I liked the little bits of voice we heard from the narrating main characters— it helped to outline their personality (tiny bits of it anyway) and made for entertaining little tidbits.

The action scenes were quick, coherent, and got the job done.

It was short. Which, given the list of cons, is a blessing.

Cons: The characters were, by and large, one-dimensional, uninteresting clichés that are already rampant in the fantasy genre. Nothing new is brought to the table in terms of character.

Unfortunately, nothing new or interesting is brought via plot, either. It proceeds in one strictly defined direction and lacks for interesting or thought-provoking twists and turns that would otherwise engage the reader outside of simply experiencing a string of plot-driven events. Combined with the lackluster characters, it makes the entire experience a singularly uninteresting read.

The world, people (meaning, the culture of the population at large, not individual characters), and system of magic is, at best, vague and sparse in details, or, at worst, clichéd. For a non-spoiler example of the latter, necromancy and blood magic are the prime evils in this novel, which has been done by some many, many other fantasy series (virtually every one that springs to mind which employs said magic).

The writing itself is often stilted and clumsily constructed. Too often will a small ‘twist’ happen in a chapter and, judging by the formatting and pithy writing employed, it will be played off as being of tremendous import, practically warranting a ‘bum bum bum!’ sound effect. Which seems campy to say in a review, but it was campy to read many times over in a book, as well. It gave everything a strange aura of silliness that was hard to shake.

Overall: I can’t say that I liked Child of the Ghosts, nor would I recommend it, though it is generally inoffensive. Which may just be a more diplomatic way of saying, ‘bland, drab, and generally dull.’

 

Child of the Ghost’s Amazon link for those who are interested: http://www.amazon.com/Child-Ghosts-Jonathan-Moeller-ebook/dp/B0052Q9WFQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458623012&sr=8-1&keywords=child+of+the+ghosts

 


 

 

Not sure how I feel about this new post-constructor page on the site. Too big, white, and open-ended. It’s like starting a new piece of writing and realizing that your mind is completely blank. Except, that never happens to me, because I still never get writer’s block!

Ha! Anticlimax!

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

 

Miniature Narrative Project 2015: Part 2

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

So, I think I may have lied when I said I was going to be doing this once every 2-3 days. But now that grad school applications are done, who knows, I might end up doing it after all.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

PART 1

 

Title: One Look Rings an End

Prompt (from Daily Prompt): You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.

 

 

 

The Duke, as a much younger and happier man, opened the door to his new home. The inside smelled immediately of well-washed wood. The rains had been heavy of late and the clean water must have soaked through the house all the way from the roof down to the wooden beams.

The town was still all abuzz from the Duke’s wedding. Such holy joinings were met with a reverence not seen anywhere else in the world. Furth used to be a town that had a lot more going for it. It made train parts, of all things. Strange for a town so small with barely a factory to call its own. Little workshops and busy, taut-with-muscle arms took the place of steam-driven machines. Sure, it took the workshops weeks to craft something that could be churned out in a handful of hours elsewhere but the products of Furth weren’t just pieces of machines, they were works of art.

So with every new matrimonial joining came the idea of a new rebirth for the town. It was a particularly good omen if the Furth native married outside of the town, as the Duke did. This, of course, meant that the town had to celebrate the whole affair for days on end. The drunk littered the town like strewn bodies even now, three days after the wedding.

The Duke shut his door behind him. Hopefully the wedding cake was still good. Maybe all of the damp air helped keep it moist. Actually, the cake was sitting out on the coffee table. It had a conspicuous chunk missing, cut like a wound, facing the two occupied chairs in the front room. A man and a woman sat in unseasonably thick clothing, fur collars and all. They ate the cake from golden china plates that the Duke never remembered having.

“It’s an awful big cake,” the man said. “Seems a lot for two people to eat.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother us,” the woman said with a little laugh. “I hope you don’t mind that we saw ourselves in.”

The Duke, against all logic and reasoning, sat himself down across from the pair. In a town as small and congenially conjoined as Furth, this wasn’t exactly the strangest collection of people found in someone’s house.

“You don’t know who we are, do you?” the man asked.

“If I did,” the Duke said, “I would’ve greeted you both properly.”

“And yet still he remains confident, unfazed,” the woman said, leaning over to the man as if she meant her coy speech to be a whisper.

“I’ve heard of much stranger people and things going on in people’s homes around these parts,” the Duke said. “Right after a wedding, ambling houseguests are as dependable as the spring rain.”

“Pastor Abelard’s trouble with the rancher and his cows certainly gives credence to that,” the man said, sitting back. “I’ve heard plenty of stories of wayward people but never so much as a head of livestock. Your wedding will go down in the town’s history for more than one reason.”

The Duke leaned forward onto his elbows. He pulled the curtain away from the window and squinted towards the man. His face was mostly hidden by a large three-cornered black hat which was lined with dark orange fur around the lining.

“You’re not a resident,” the Duke said. “I’ve lived here my whole life but I’ve never seen somebody like you. Unless you’re some traveler that Phil never showed the rest of us.” Philip was so very proud of his inn. Every guest he had, whether they were just staying for the night or for half of their lives, would be given the grand tour of the town by him alone. And nobody ever piped up in disappointment. Which may have been because Phil would never really shut up the whole tour.

“Yes,” the man said.

“Yes to what?”

“To your question.”

The woman laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand (though her gums were shockingly visible as her lips curled away. Just like how the Duke’s own wife laughs. Her face was also obscured by a huge dark hat, one that sat at an angle that spat in the face of gravity. A thin black veil protected her face like chainmail. “Don’t torture him, my dear.”

The man sat back, crossing his arms. The Duke uncrossed my arms and sat up straight. “I’m a traveler,” he said. “But Phil never had to show me around town when I lived here my whole life.”

In one smooth, outright regal, movement, the man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.

The Duke fell back into the chair, his breath scrambling away with fear in its weak little heart. The man across from the Duke has his face, he wears his hair, and he smiles just as the Duke would.

The Duke’s brown hair was auburn on the smiling man and his skin is frightfully pale compared to the Duke’s well-worked tan. A long scar wound in a circle around the man’s eye— the golden one. The Duke’s own grass-green eyes shrink back into his skull. Now, this mysterious visitor’s only still-green eye looks sick, the colour of infected skin. The green eye winks at the Duke. The golden eye’s pupil disappears into a molten sea. One blink and its back.

And suddenly the Duke felt more at home than he ever had in his entire life.

The Duke’s wife comes in through the front door. She sees the guests and smiles, her gums showing frank and resplendent as her lips curl away. And the Duke smiles back at her for a reason that sounds like a song in his head but has a feeble scream at its center.

 

 

THE OTHER ENTRIES

 


 

 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unexpected-guests/">Unexpected Guests</a>

 

I should compile these little mini-stories I make on this site (and boy there’s a loooot of them out there) into some kind of compilation. What are those called? Oh yeah. Books. That’s what they’re called.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Friday Fictioneers: “Growing Pains”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Wow, I actually have inspiration to write something coherent this time? AND I have a new idea for Lorequest? Amazing.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Luther Siler

Image Copyright: Luther Siler

 

Title: Growing Pains

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

 

 

If mom says I’m having growing pains (or did she say I was the ‘growing pain’?), this duck is going to redefine the term. My little brother shouldn’t be playing with stuffed animals anymore anyway. An old remote-control robot of mine will wear this duck’s skin just as good.

I send my Frankenstein (which squeaks like a dog in pain) into Ronnie’s room, to scare the prissy girliness right out of him.

He squeals. I run to see, to laugh in his blubbering, snotty face.

But Ronnie’s hugging the stupid thing like it just gave him a kitten for Christmas.

 

 

 


 

 

Beeble dee bee, it’s off to bed with me!

Because I stayed up too late. Again. Too much to do on these stupid stupid Fridays.

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Miniature Narrative Project 2015: Part 1

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Because it was such a good idea last time, I’ve decided that I’ll be doing another Miniature Narrative Project for December. This time, though, I’m going to be using The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt. I’ll do an entry at least once every three days but probably not a whole lot more than that. And each entry will be related to the last AND be related to the Daily Prompt entry.

As for word count, I’ll keep it flexible but I’ll try to keep it under 800 or something. That way I don’t just lurch into a full narrative at the last second like I did last time.

So, I guess we’ll just see where this goes.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Prompt: “What is your favorite sweet thing to eat? Bread pudding? Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies? A smooth and creamy piece of cheesecake? Tell us all about the anticipation and delight of eating your favorite dessert. Not into sweets? Tell us all about your weakness for that certain salty snack.”

Title: Bright Like a New Day

Word Count: 743

 

If I shined my buttons any more, I’d steal the sun’s thunder right from under it. My silly mother and father just don’t understand. There’s only three people’s approval that I need. Mine, that devilishly handsome man in the mirror looking back at me, and the Duke of the Great Chamber. Or just the Duke. He and I are on a first-name basis, of course.

Perhaps today I’ll finally make him aware of that. After I come back from my royal mission. For the Duke is hungry and his sweet tooth must be satiated.

“We can’t just move a whole town,” the foreman whines. “And there are people who live here. What about them?”

“There’s plenty of room in the capital,” I say. “They can all live closer to their beloved Duke.”

A moment of silence creeps by us. The foreman pulls his collar (which is very official— brass buttons and the noble crest and everything) away from his throat, never minding the winter chill. He must think it a noose. With a heavy sigh, he hefts his axe.

Deep below, still in the quite of the early morning snow, the town lies unaware that is destiny is about to be realized. The Duke will have his nation and he will eat so he may build that land for another day. I kick the flanks of my horse; I shall be the first to tell those in the sleepy valley of the change to their lives. Perhaps my buttons will be like a beacon to them and turn them from townsfolk to pilgrims on a quest for a better, purer home.

The town was emptied, its people, whether they were crying or smiling, were sent south to the capital, and each building was turned to splinters and gravel. Yet still I saw doubt in the foreman’s eyes. Even as we brought the caravan carrying those remnants of schools, churches, and homes back to the capital, his eyes were downcast. Perhaps he did not so fervently believe yet? Or maybe it was the thought of bandits that troubled him. I could not say but troubled with it no more. If all went well, I would never work with the disagreeable man and his unshaven face ever again.

For all the next day, the Great Chamber churched and belched black smoke into the snowy sky. Sugar was mixed with wood and stone and brick. Honey, water, flour, and whatever else the Duke had a hunger for were poured in and reshaped into a great red-brown tar-like lake. It almost looked like pudding from where I stood (at one of the many balconies scattered about the room. I was summoned, you see, to observe the conception of this newest batch). Our Duke has a sweet tooth indeed.

A tremendous glass room, rimmed with iron and casting light like a lantern suspended from heaven, hangs high above the pool and machinery of the Great Chamber. Up there, shadows and form are ideas, ideals, always shifting as if part of some spectacular fire. Only the Duke lives up there and only he determines what does or does not shape.

“My hunger,” the Duke thunders (though I think this is still but a whisper from him) in his thousand voices, “is the cement of our nation. The town of Huntsman’s Valley has brought one-hundred and thirty six new residents to our growing capital. And with this newest batch, the largest of its kind to ever be wrought, our nation shall grow evermore.”

There’s a pause without silence. The Duke’s words echo and bounce around all the shined steel walls.

“Purdon,” he says to me. Me. “I would like you to watch as I take the first bite. Note that with all of these balconies, none of my ministers nor officials are here. You alone have been summoned to watch this new age be ushered in.”

For just a moment, the swirling light in the heavenly glass room seem to all focus on me. I wish I could smile. But I’m far too overwhelmed, the strength of my body leaving my skin but empowering me soul. I can’t turn my eyes away as the globe comes down from the ceiling on chains and pulleys and the glass opens up like a blossom in spring. If only those simple folk of Huntsman’s Valley could see what their sacrifice has created.

They would probably weep as I did then. And still do.

 

 

THE OTHER DAILY PROMPT ENTRIES

 


 

 

PINGBACK:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/pour-some-sugar-on-me/">Pour Some Sugar on Me</a>

 

So that was weird. Similar to the last one (link way at the top of the entry), this story might end up being somewhere in-between an over-detailed children’s tale and one of those childish-seeming tales that actually has bizarre, dark undertones. Like Adventure Time or something. Except for the whole nuclear war things…

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

Flash! Friday: “In the Dragon’s Shadow”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

Looks like this is going to be one of the last Flash! Friday’s. Like, period I guess. So this’ll be one of the last times I scramble incoherently to scribble out something that looks good as of right now that I’m sure I’ll cringe at later.

But hey, it’s still fun!

 

Speaking of which, have fun~

 


 

 

Guidelines: Must include a dragon and use photo prompt (on page)

 

Title: In the Dragon’s Shadow

Word Count: 160

 

The Dragon’s still there, lying atop my city’s skyscrapers like it’s His mound of gold. And also like we’re his food, part of a scurrying platter. History would make it hard to disagree with that.

But I took it upon myself, to continue the fight. Yet I’m no dragon-slayer. I fight against the march of nature blessing the strong and forgetting the weak. My sword is chalk, my armour is darkness, my foe-slaying arrows are memories. My battlefields are the front doors of homes made empty by His hunger, where I inscribe lonely epitaphs.

Tonight, I fight the hardest battle and inscribe the most painful epitaph of my life, through a labyrinth of smoke and ash and back to the house where I sat on the porch all night with someone I had wanted to live my life with since the day I saw her eyes that blazed with heaven’s fire throughout history.

“A beautiful girl lived here,” I write.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

 

I was thinking the story would almost be like Reign of Fire with the dragons in the modern world. Except, you know, not as cripplingly stupid. Really, the first 20 minutes of that movie was fine. It was everything else that was wrong!

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.

 

The Daily Post 11: “Climate Control”

 

BEGIN TRANSMISSION.

 

I’m actually doing one of these BEFORE midnight! Which means I might actually get it done and not fall asleep in a lump!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title:

Prompt:

 

I definitely say that climate has some kind of effect on people’s moods. I mean, ba-dur. It doesn’t have to make any kind of consistent sense, though. Like how some people love hot summer days and I think that just outside of the window is the world slowly being baked to death beneath the unflinching fire of the sun. So to heck with that, time to completely steer myself away from this original point!

So I prefer to think about how weather can affect your thought processes and imaginations. Like how storms for me charge up something deeper and more brutally natural about the world. So, I’m further developing a philosophical trend of thought for a novel/novel pair of mine that involves the trinity of Machine, Sentience, and Nature and Nature certainly isn’t the way we like to think about it on our padded modern world. Nature, as we like to think of it now, can be easily corralled and persuaded to move or be removed so it can fit neatly into our little gardens or groves out behind our homes and other nice stuff like that. When in reality, if nature had its way, it would tear off our faces and wear them as trophies after sucking all the nutrients from our brains, of course. So when I see stuff like thunderstorms and droughts and snowstorms and hurricanes, I can’t help but be reminded just what the ruling of the world’s natural order is:

Humanity likes to think it’s at the top because of its creation of machines that allow it to survive the natural world. And yet, without that assistance, humanity would be consumed in an afternoon by a system that doesn’t care if it lives or die. Nature doesn’t care for art or culture or great legacies because it created all of those things in its earthy, pulsing womb. All that has been created or ever will be created is the product of the natural forces around us that provided all of the atoms and materials and the laws of physics and energy that makes every one of our human creations (from the material to the imaginative and existential). Again, when I see storms blasting bolts of sky-splitting energy or a rainstorm turning a desert into an ocean of flowers (Have you seen those Atacama Desert pictures? That’s what I’m talking about!), it makes me realize just how tiny we humans still are, even with all of our machines. Everything that we make seems to have an edge of disdain for it- disdain for the natural world that seeks to disempower and unmake us at every turn. I suppose that’s something that we humans can be thanked for, the feeling of scorn that drives us to pursue progress at an almost homicidal rate just to ensure that we aren’t subsumed by a force that can crack the freaking sky open with a flick of its finger.

I think I had an ultimate point I was going to try to get at with all of this but now I’m afraid I’ve lost it. Oh well, that’s part of the fun of doing these- the point arises from the process. It also helps that this is usually how I make my little diatribes. I usually just make noise and say things until I realize there was a point there all along that I just wasn’t able to see.

I suppose I could say here that it’s not just weather that affects our moods but our moods affect how weather appears in our eyes- from something to be afraid of or annoyed back to something from which all awe and self-reflection as a person and as a species springs.

If that was all a bit too high-brow of you, here’s a stupid thing I made up recently:

Being killed by Satan should now is called (by me and nobody else ever), “brimstoning.”

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/climate-control/">Climate Control</a>

 

 

There was another dumb thing I made up that I wanted to add up there but then I forgot it. You’ll be spared, readers, this time.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

END TRANSMISSION.