What would you do if you discovered you had a power, something that was seemingly limitless which no one else had? I got to thinking this after seeing a movie today, The Invention of Lying, in which one man alone discovers how to tell lies, and because he is the first everyone believed him, no matter how outlandish his tales. The movie has a typical hollywood ending in which his powers turn out to be of little use in winning him happiness of any sort, but what if this were real? What if I found such a power?
First of all, this is the real world. Every action has consequences, the greater the action the greater the consequences, unforseeable and unstoppable. In the movie the protagonist tries to make the world better, to use his powers to help people, but in the end little has changed. This is perhaps an optimistic view, the result would more likely be total disaster, or at least chaos as the world experienced events not meant to take place. If this is the case then whatever the intention of someone with such power, the results are completely out of his hands.
So, what is one to do if power falls into his lap? Taking a more pragmatic view you might as well cut loose, go out and do the best to make yourself happy, or at least content, while trying not to intentionally ruining those around you. Certainly, history is full of villains who have trailed disasters behind them while seeking personal gain, but has just as many who ruined the world trying to change it. Fortunately, a man actually needs very little not to be miserable, which is a fine goal for anyone, and it is no small thing just to know you've something no one else in the world has, even if it's never used.
On the other hand I'm reminded of a short fable. Two girls are walking down a beach and they come to a stretch of sand covered with thousands of starfish. They've been stranded at low tide, are baking in the sun, and dying. One of the girls picks up a starfish and throws it back into the sea. The other girl asks her "Why did you do that? There's no way you can get all these starfish back to the water before they dry out?" The girl replied "Maybe not, but that one doesn't care?"
Sure, it's a silly story with plenty of questions. Wouldn't high tide have saved them? Aren't there just as many dangers in the water? Did the starfish notice what was going on? Mull on these all you want, but the point is that a single good deed, a single effort to help another person, has the very best chance of actually helping that person. Of course, even with superpowers you can't save the world, even if the girl could throw all the starfish back into the sea many would still be eaten by hungry fish, land on sharp rocks, or suffer some other horrible death of the tideline, but they still have been given the best possible chance not to die from dehydration.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Tales from Cam
There is a game, called Game, in which people dress up as characters of their own design and act out scenes between them. Some of you may know this as role playing, perhaps even as Live Action Role Playing (or LARP, for short). It's fun, inspiring, and allows a writer the opportunity to see the world from the eyes of his characters. I played one of these games, created a character who turned out to be very dear to me, and followed him on many adventurs. Afterwards I was inspired to write, and those adventures became the basis for my second novel, Dragons of Kaen. For your enjoyment I offer its opening page, bon apetit.
Chap 1
Stepping out of the carriage was my first taste of the city of Dracai and a moment I savor even now. The city before me, greater than anything I had yet to see in my life, was at once a horror and a paradise. Smokestacks from the distant factories and chimneys slicing the horizon were the arms of an urchin reaching towards the open sky, both rich and forbidding. Even now, immersed in its viscera, was the land a paradox. Dung encrusted streets ran below bronze statues of ancient heroes. The colors and smells of fruits and flowers in the open market were tinged with the stink of trash and a blinding haze. The cries of merchants and the base speech of peasants were in harmony with a minstrel, plying his trade. I breathed deeply of the narcotic soup that was smoke, flowers, trash, and spirits until every pulse of my being was drunk on its flavor. Dracai, capital city of the Draconian Empire, had risen early and I would be late for my meeting.
“Have a good day, Mr. Kaen”, the driver said as I took my bag and hurried into the street. I scolded myself for being so rushed that I could not be courteous enough to respond but I hoped the tip I left would compensate. The market crowds would slow me down; I would have to push my way through if I wanted to reach the Council building in time. I tipped my hat brim to the sun, held my bag firmly and I plunged ahead. My worn, old overcoat brushed and slid among the throng like oil through gears, carrying me along with ease. Excepting a near collision with a rushing servant boy, I reached the end of the market stalls unhindered, if a little shorter on time and lacking my coinpurse from my coat pocket. As I began to jog down the street I imagined the boy’s face when he discovered the contents of the purse. It would have made my old mentor ashamed to think I hadn’t carried the real purse safely on a chain around my neck and left a decoy for thieves. I reached the red-domed Council building and showed my papers to the soldiers at the gate, who allowed me entrance after an inquisitive stare. Kaen was an unusual surname this far south of the Crownpeak Mountains. Taking off my hat I strode past them through a yard littered with signs of construction and through the double doors not yet fixed with a lock. Somehow the light in the first hall was as bright as the morning sun and for a moment I was blind. Then I gaped as my sight returned.
The building’s interior was largely bare of decoration or furniture, but from the main hall I could look up into the building’s dome. Where the outside had appeared to be brick red panes of opaque glass the inside was a fantastic mural, illuminated where needed to produce images of the Empire’s history. Although the artist had taken liberties to include mythical beasts, the mural depicted the final battles of the valiant Geran people, one-time allies to the Draconians but annihilated after betraying us some ten years ago. Below the images of dragons and boars was script in the Geran tongue. In deceit are our enemies revealed. I wondered about this strange phrase while marveling at the patterns of light through the glass. It was an amused voice that brought me back to my senses.
“I hope you are Mr. Kaen, for a worker being so idle will not last long in his profession. Then again, neither would Mr. Kaen.”
The speaker had entered through one of the side offices and walked as silently as snow falling to the ground. I have always found myself to be of average height but this man stood a head taller, a bit wide in the middle but hinting at solid build beneath a suit of gray. A faint smile on his lips gave me hope that he would not hold my lateness against me, for it was obvious to me that this man was my contact. I removed my hat and came to attention.
Chap 1
Stepping out of the carriage was my first taste of the city of Dracai and a moment I savor even now. The city before me, greater than anything I had yet to see in my life, was at once a horror and a paradise. Smokestacks from the distant factories and chimneys slicing the horizon were the arms of an urchin reaching towards the open sky, both rich and forbidding. Even now, immersed in its viscera, was the land a paradox. Dung encrusted streets ran below bronze statues of ancient heroes. The colors and smells of fruits and flowers in the open market were tinged with the stink of trash and a blinding haze. The cries of merchants and the base speech of peasants were in harmony with a minstrel, plying his trade. I breathed deeply of the narcotic soup that was smoke, flowers, trash, and spirits until every pulse of my being was drunk on its flavor. Dracai, capital city of the Draconian Empire, had risen early and I would be late for my meeting.
“Have a good day, Mr. Kaen”, the driver said as I took my bag and hurried into the street. I scolded myself for being so rushed that I could not be courteous enough to respond but I hoped the tip I left would compensate. The market crowds would slow me down; I would have to push my way through if I wanted to reach the Council building in time. I tipped my hat brim to the sun, held my bag firmly and I plunged ahead. My worn, old overcoat brushed and slid among the throng like oil through gears, carrying me along with ease. Excepting a near collision with a rushing servant boy, I reached the end of the market stalls unhindered, if a little shorter on time and lacking my coinpurse from my coat pocket. As I began to jog down the street I imagined the boy’s face when he discovered the contents of the purse. It would have made my old mentor ashamed to think I hadn’t carried the real purse safely on a chain around my neck and left a decoy for thieves. I reached the red-domed Council building and showed my papers to the soldiers at the gate, who allowed me entrance after an inquisitive stare. Kaen was an unusual surname this far south of the Crownpeak Mountains. Taking off my hat I strode past them through a yard littered with signs of construction and through the double doors not yet fixed with a lock. Somehow the light in the first hall was as bright as the morning sun and for a moment I was blind. Then I gaped as my sight returned.
The building’s interior was largely bare of decoration or furniture, but from the main hall I could look up into the building’s dome. Where the outside had appeared to be brick red panes of opaque glass the inside was a fantastic mural, illuminated where needed to produce images of the Empire’s history. Although the artist had taken liberties to include mythical beasts, the mural depicted the final battles of the valiant Geran people, one-time allies to the Draconians but annihilated after betraying us some ten years ago. Below the images of dragons and boars was script in the Geran tongue. In deceit are our enemies revealed. I wondered about this strange phrase while marveling at the patterns of light through the glass. It was an amused voice that brought me back to my senses.
“I hope you are Mr. Kaen, for a worker being so idle will not last long in his profession. Then again, neither would Mr. Kaen.”
The speaker had entered through one of the side offices and walked as silently as snow falling to the ground. I have always found myself to be of average height but this man stood a head taller, a bit wide in the middle but hinting at solid build beneath a suit of gray. A faint smile on his lips gave me hope that he would not hold my lateness against me, for it was obvious to me that this man was my contact. I removed my hat and came to attention.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Nanorimo
There is a contest called National Novel Writing Month, or Nanorimo for short. The terms are simple, write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. It's taxing, it's grueling, and I completed it, producing my very first novel, The Erl King. It's a story of best friends, surviving as outsiders, and discovering heroism they didn't know they had. Enjoy here a bit of the first chapter, in which our heroes and their world are introduced. Perhaps someday you'll be able to find it bound in paper on the bookshelf.
1 On the Lakeside
Johnny Raze gazed at the crystal blue sky, watching the edge of the Celestial Sphere cross in front of the sun. Beyond it, beyond sight, were six more, just like the one his world hovered in, hanging in space like a sparkling string of pearls. They said that seven tiny suns and seven miniscule moons circled the Spheres but of course Johnny had never left his own, the Sphere known as the Wood, in all of his twenty-five years of life. It was also said that within each Sphere lay an entire world, with strange people and incredible places. It was not for this reason, though, that the young man stared into the endless sky. Johnny’s eyes searched the edge of the transparent heavens because he was bored out of his skin.
He was sitting underneath a hanging willow that day, on the edge of a steel blue lake, next to his longtime friend, Whisper. It was a scene few would consider unusual except for the outward appearances of the two men. Wearing nothing but a pair of camouflage green trousers, Johnny Raze’s dark red skin was displayed to all. It was the color of dark apples, or glowing embers, without variation or blotch. Across his thin chest and arms were inscribed black tattoos, zigzagging this way and that like snakes run over while trying to cross a busy road. On his feet and hands were short claws, merely long and sharpened nails some would say, though they were thicker and darker like black iron. Finally, under his short and spiky black hair two tiny horns poked through, spirals running their two inch length like the rifling of a gun. As was his usual, Johnny wore a frown on his face.
His companion was less startling. His skin was the light tan of someone who’d lived under the sun filtered by green canopies his entire life. He wore gray trousers, gray boots, a gray shirt with a black vest, and from his shoulders hung a dirty gray, fur cloak to keep out the chill on cold mornings. His hair was a ragged mop of dark brown and he sported a perpetual smile on his naked mouth. In his hands was a fishing rod, and at his belt were two sheathes with daggers, one straight and narrow and the other curved at the tip. Whisper’s eyes were closed and a small pile of fish lay at his side in the cold grass, too small for a meal but impressive nonetheless. Johnny, his own rod in hand, complained to his friend.
“I’m sure you’re doing something different, just look. I’ve been out here all morning, freezing my ass off, and all I’ve got to show for it is a cough I’m sure is a cold starting up.”
“Oh, do calm down,” Whisper replied without opening his eyes. “It’s like I said. Fishing is a game of patience. And of serenity. Once you’ve achieved oneness with the water the fish’ll swim right to you like an afternoon spawning ground.”
“Yeah, that was three hours ago. I’ve been pragging one with the water ever since it started soaking into my skin! Tell me you’re not-“
1 On the Lakeside
Johnny Raze gazed at the crystal blue sky, watching the edge of the Celestial Sphere cross in front of the sun. Beyond it, beyond sight, were six more, just like the one his world hovered in, hanging in space like a sparkling string of pearls. They said that seven tiny suns and seven miniscule moons circled the Spheres but of course Johnny had never left his own, the Sphere known as the Wood, in all of his twenty-five years of life. It was also said that within each Sphere lay an entire world, with strange people and incredible places. It was not for this reason, though, that the young man stared into the endless sky. Johnny’s eyes searched the edge of the transparent heavens because he was bored out of his skin.
He was sitting underneath a hanging willow that day, on the edge of a steel blue lake, next to his longtime friend, Whisper. It was a scene few would consider unusual except for the outward appearances of the two men. Wearing nothing but a pair of camouflage green trousers, Johnny Raze’s dark red skin was displayed to all. It was the color of dark apples, or glowing embers, without variation or blotch. Across his thin chest and arms were inscribed black tattoos, zigzagging this way and that like snakes run over while trying to cross a busy road. On his feet and hands were short claws, merely long and sharpened nails some would say, though they were thicker and darker like black iron. Finally, under his short and spiky black hair two tiny horns poked through, spirals running their two inch length like the rifling of a gun. As was his usual, Johnny wore a frown on his face.
His companion was less startling. His skin was the light tan of someone who’d lived under the sun filtered by green canopies his entire life. He wore gray trousers, gray boots, a gray shirt with a black vest, and from his shoulders hung a dirty gray, fur cloak to keep out the chill on cold mornings. His hair was a ragged mop of dark brown and he sported a perpetual smile on his naked mouth. In his hands was a fishing rod, and at his belt were two sheathes with daggers, one straight and narrow and the other curved at the tip. Whisper’s eyes were closed and a small pile of fish lay at his side in the cold grass, too small for a meal but impressive nonetheless. Johnny, his own rod in hand, complained to his friend.
“I’m sure you’re doing something different, just look. I’ve been out here all morning, freezing my ass off, and all I’ve got to show for it is a cough I’m sure is a cold starting up.”
“Oh, do calm down,” Whisper replied without opening his eyes. “It’s like I said. Fishing is a game of patience. And of serenity. Once you’ve achieved oneness with the water the fish’ll swim right to you like an afternoon spawning ground.”
“Yeah, that was three hours ago. I’ve been pragging one with the water ever since it started soaking into my skin! Tell me you’re not-“
Monday, September 7, 2009
Beginnings
Welcome, inquisitive and curious readers, to my first blog. Allow me to begin our relationship with a story. Once upon a time there was a young writer with a passion for the written word. He wrote everything that came into his head, his pen barely left his hand, so that his friends and family thought him crazy. Then he decided to make something of this strange interest: he would write a book, and did so in merely a month. It was his finest work, so fine that he wrote another, and another, peppering his days between with small projects like bits of poetry and first chapter after first chapter.
Then, having written his first novels he attempted the next logical step: he would get them published. A year and a half, and quite a bit poorer, this young writer discovered that the best way to be published was to show an agent that he had already been published. Facing a conundrum worthy of the most fatalistic Yossarian he despaired for a time, until he came to a decision: he would be published, even if he had to throw his works into the deep waters of that raging river called the Internet. Thus he began a blog.
So there you have it, curious readers, a tale of naivete, heartbreak and hope. As a reward for the faithful reader still listening to these dull words I offer a dear gift. Here is the one and only piece of work I've ever published until this very moment. It is called Breakfast. Enjoy.
Breakfast
Bring me a plate of the morning sun
Roasted a golden bronze between toast
And a glass of milk
Scramble up some white clouds
Spiced with the birds in the sky
And the airplanes speared on a two pronged fork
Simmer a bowl of blue sky
With white strands slowly drifting
Like steam in my nose, drizzling from
An enticed tongue
Boil for me a star
As black as tea
Angrily biting with spikes of heat
Too alive to be sipped but slowly
Then roast me up a sunset
In orange sauce, reddening to deep purple,
Slowly sinking along its viscous glaze
And finally serve me the deepest night
Dark and blue, smooth and speckled
With sugary flakes
Colors slowly coming forth
Rising through clear syrup
Which, of course, is best served chilled
Before allowing me a glass of cold moon
Creamy and soft
So that I may sleep dreams
Of ripe tomorrows
And coming feasts.
Then, having written his first novels he attempted the next logical step: he would get them published. A year and a half, and quite a bit poorer, this young writer discovered that the best way to be published was to show an agent that he had already been published. Facing a conundrum worthy of the most fatalistic Yossarian he despaired for a time, until he came to a decision: he would be published, even if he had to throw his works into the deep waters of that raging river called the Internet. Thus he began a blog.
So there you have it, curious readers, a tale of naivete, heartbreak and hope. As a reward for the faithful reader still listening to these dull words I offer a dear gift. Here is the one and only piece of work I've ever published until this very moment. It is called Breakfast. Enjoy.
Breakfast
Bring me a plate of the morning sun
Roasted a golden bronze between toast
And a glass of milk
Scramble up some white clouds
Spiced with the birds in the sky
And the airplanes speared on a two pronged fork
Simmer a bowl of blue sky
With white strands slowly drifting
Like steam in my nose, drizzling from
An enticed tongue
Boil for me a star
As black as tea
Angrily biting with spikes of heat
Too alive to be sipped but slowly
Then roast me up a sunset
In orange sauce, reddening to deep purple,
Slowly sinking along its viscous glaze
And finally serve me the deepest night
Dark and blue, smooth and speckled
With sugary flakes
Colors slowly coming forth
Rising through clear syrup
Which, of course, is best served chilled
Before allowing me a glass of cold moon
Creamy and soft
So that I may sleep dreams
Of ripe tomorrows
And coming feasts.
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