(This was a vocabulary exercise for English composition. I may have enjoyed myself a bit.)

Nobody knows what menacing monsters lurk in the catacombs, but the rumormongers ply their trade ceaselessly, hoping to elicit a modicum of profit from it somehow. They say there is a panoply of riches hidden in a long-forgotten emperor's tomb. They have heard (from whom?) that the monstrosities with which the deeps are rife, are simply some paltry number of rats and maggots. They decry and deny the existence of the elusive flesh-eating ogres ubiquitous throughout the subterranean passages.

All who listen are fervently hidebound, of course. Who would so promiscuously propagate stories of these demons unless they had seen them with their own eyes? These hawkers of hope spawn a seed of doubt, however, and this chance of success, inchoate, draws them down, down, down, ineluctably, to the halls of the dead—most often to perpetuate their numbers.

Of such stock comes the quintessential treasure hunter, Iowa Smith. Propelled by desire, predisposed to disbelieve in devils, passive under greatest duress, will he be able to find the fabled Treasure of Caligula?

Daylight's End

The Solari shield-maiden pauses at the entrance to the cave. The sun is starting to go down and the evening chill is approaching. The cave is colder still. Should she light a fire and make camp for the night?

Her orders are clear. "Find the heretic. Protect the faith." She enters the cave. Its darkness soon envelops her, and she calls upon the sun for a little light. Her shield begins to glow. She sees that the cold walls are painted with crescents and blasphemies. She goes deeper.

Further in, she begins to hear a high, clear voice, chanting in worship:

The Song of Oryx

When I saw Oryx I was overcome with many thoughts
    I fled to a very High place
    Which was very Deep

And I said:

Aurash, Auryx, Oryx!

I don't know that much Spanish yet

              OVERCONFIDENT SPANISH
              STUDENT (subtitled)
    ¡Nosotros somos tontos! (We are
    stupid!)
       (The students eye him suspiciously.)
    ¡Pero! ¡Nuestro cerveza es musculosa!
    (But! Our beer is muscular!)
       (The class cheers.)
    ¡Nuestros madres son guapos! (Our
    mothers are handsome like men!)
       (The class cheers louder.)
    ¡Y nuestros corazones son trabajadores!
    (And our hearts are hard-working!)

The class's cheer becomes a ROAR. They carry the overconfident student ON THEIR SHOULDERS and SURGE OUT OF THE CLASSROOM.

PROJECT: Lucian

This was an entry into a fan-fic micro-competition for League of Legends. I just figured I'd cross-post it here because I'll never save the Boards permalink like I can this post. If you'd like more information, I'd recommend reading Lucian's background and watching the PROJECT: Overdrive video. (Lucian is a character in the game, while PROJECT is a line of skins for several of the characters.)

—

They know their foe—Battlecorp's latest monster, codename WARDEN. It doesn't seem a great threat; in fact, it looks mostly harmless. In truth it is a shell housing an anti-cybersecurity and hacking AI, armed only with ad-hoc trans-physical jacking ports and a datapad. It has hit other PROJECT installations, but agents had severed communications before it could infiltrate the main system. Now it comes for the system directly.

Late-Night Ramblings from Town

We exit the theater. The last usher chats with the person cleaning up the concessions space. The usher is waiting for one more theater to drop before he can go home. I pause to try and say goodbye, but the two are preoccupied. I do not interrupt them.

Driving Home from Work

Eleven o’clock in the dead of the night:
There’s many a short-order beacon in sight,
But scarcely a headlight, like LA film noir,
Has pierced the tranquility here in my car.
Daft Punk sets the tempo I feel as I ride;
Egg-bacon taquito sits close at my side—
O paramour porcine! O egg in my face!
I’ve truly Got Lucky when thee I embrace!
The joy that envelops my self, and I it,
The unpeopled city which darkness has lit
In contrast combine to some new form of bliss:
The joy of the night-owl trav’ller is this.

Sacrilege

To The Entertainer, Billy Joel

There's a yellow rose in Texas
That I am going to see;
No other soldier knows her
No soldier, only me.
She cried so when I left her
It like to broke my heart,

The Bannered Mare

Image screencapped from zemalf, possibly the only other person to ever enjoy this view.

Faraway traveller, song-regaled battler,
Bards that are skilled in both rhythm and rhyme:
Though other lands wait and their castles be great,
There’s still an establishment begs your time.
Rest for the weary and wine for the dreary,
And song for those without a care—
A coin and a road are the requisite load
To enter the halls of the Bannered Mare.

The Chronicles of Soemthign: The End

The story so far...

Asrayah clicked a switch on his helmet. As night-vision sensors kicked in, he saw dim shapes surrounding them. Some fleeing with a robot head and a derelict maintbot. More quickly closing in. He barked out this information.

Election Season Reminder

For the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation for all people, training us to renounce ungodliness and worldly passions..., waiting for our blessed hope, the appearing of the glory of our great God and Savior Jesus Christ....

Remind them to be submissive to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready for every good work, to speak evil of no one, to avoid quarreling, to be gentle, and to show perfect courtesy toward all people. For we ourselves were once foolish, disobedient, led astray, slaves to various passions and pleasures, passing our days in malice and envy, hated by others and hating one another.

But when the goodness and loving kindness of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy.... (Titus 2:11–3:5, abridged)

The Chronicles of Soemthign: Soemthign

The story so far...

The journey was quick, about eighteen hours. Along the way, Asrayah unsealed his packet of orders. (Normally one was given the option to accept a mission, he explained.) Once on Thebe, the group was to proceed to the colony of Soemthign.

Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument

Me, Dave, and Jess went on an adventure. (Grammarians may object that it ought to be spelt "Dave, Jess, and I", but it must be remembered that this is an adventure and so different rules of syntax are at play.)

The Death Dealer

Frank Frazetta, "The Death Dealer"

Dark helm, dark horse, dark shield, dark axe. Dark blood. Beware him the dark smoke precedes and the dark birds follow, for he whispers his dark words and the darkness envelops you until your soul is black as night, and then his master comes, but he—he rides on.

(For Badass Digest, http://badassdigest.com/2015/03/13/exclusive-win-a-gorgeous-poster-from-the-robert-rodriguez-gallerys-frank-fr. If you would like to enter to win a copy of this print, click that link before Monday the 16th at midnight!)

Writing is so cathartic. The page understands all, and it never judges form or content. It listens and doesn't interrupt. It's OK if you're super random and can't form a coherent thought; it will wait until you can. It allows you to take it back if you say something stupid. It remembers it if you say something well.

The hacker surveyed the limp body on the ground as blood slowly pooled underneath. He blew on the tip of his Beretta 9mm and holstered it. The crowd watched, waited in horror. He turned to face them and screamed, "Would anybody else like to," he made air-quotes, "'hack' the 'mainframe'?!"

There is no feeling in the world like involuntary crying because you're facing the wind, while not breathing because your nose is clogged but mouth-breathing causes your glasses to fog because, again, you're facing the wind. Photography, I have missed thee.

The cowboy stared down the townspeople, refusing to relinquish his prize. Two cholulas, he said. No man should have that power.

The Chronicles of Soemthign: Concordat

The story so far...

As their eyes adjusted to the inside light, a reception droid with an oversynthesized female voice greeted them. "Welcome to the Ivory Tower, Mr. Forte. Your android will please remain in this area." She gestured to a door on their left as Sparky, obviously familiar with his surroundings, ambled towards it. "The Concordat is expecting you. Please go up."

The elevator was slow, and let out into a dark velvet chamber. Three rows of pew benches faced a long, baroque desk, at which sat five robed figures. The middle one intoned in a deep voice, "Be seated and await the judgment of the Concordat."

Snow

The man said, The snow is like a woman. It is fickle, one minute blowing about, the next settling into drifts. It can never decide what it wants and the whole time it is stinging your face and chilling your feet.

The woman said, The snow is like a man. It embraces you, but it always does what it wants and never thinks of you. You may think it is solid but it will deceive you and you will fall in deep drifts.

The sage said, The snow is like death, for we are with it all our lives, and a little makes us feel more alive, but to be caught in too much is to die.

But the child said, The snow is like life, and he jumped in and enjoyed it.

Cloudy dragonfire,
Mountain wreathed in orange flame,
Alpenglow sunset.

The Chronicles of Soemthign: Frying Pan

The story so far...

The thunderous crashing of fallen minidrones. Bugs gasping, dying all around. The dim light of the warehouse masking the shieldcloaked ones until they were upon his friends.

"Well, doctor?" A voice disturbed Asrayah's thought.

The Hollow Shells

I stare at my eggs,
Drowning
In salsa, and syrup from my waffle
Like the fallen stones of a building,
The pillars of a temple,
A pantheon
From some long lost civilization
Of chickens.

We are all of us completely high—
No drug-induced stupor, this,
But high on life,
On friends,
On dreams
And heady thoughts of zygotic avian culture.

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but some poet with a fork.

Why I love Skyrim

A friend... wrote:

Perhaps someday, when you have time or inclination, you could explain why Skyrim fascinates you so? I play Minecraft on occasion and some people love to build Skyrim themed houses, all of which are beautiful. That's about the extent of my exposure.

Well, friend-o, glad you asked. Not only have you given me my evening's topic, but you've also given me an excuse to talk about why I love the things I do.

Nearing Journey's End

Just a couple miles on,
Home and hearth are close at hand,
And before the sun goes down,
I will reach it, if I can.

Troubles lurk along the way,
Yet I, eager, tread along—
Troubles have no pow'r to sway
Hope or joy of trav'lling-song.

PSA: Remove Blogger preview clicktrap

A Winter's Tale

Aldmer lay in a circle of snow,
Terrible wounds had laid him low;
Then Primera came to earth,
Bringing with her all her mirth.
“Beautiful one, as bright as the sun,
Surely you can heal me true.”
“No, my child, your wounds are wild,
And I must begone ere day has dawned.”

Lunch today

Gooey, crumby lemon bars,
Worker plays a couple bars
Of floaty keyboard melody.
Snow is falling, fluffy flake—
Colorado Sunday lunch break.

Gravemind

Image via Halo Nation.

Fear
Pain
Hunger
Become.
Let me go.
You are me.
What is my name?
It is a lie.
Why do you do this?
Why do you resist?
Because I am not you;
What do you want with me?
You and I are made the same,
Flesh and bone and blood and brain.
Live for me and I’ll live in you,
Share with us the life that you knew:
Memories of home and hope and hearth,
Fears of facing off the howling dark.
They are gone, and you remain. Think a bit;
Now at last alive to life, you miss it?
I? I am a monument to all your sins.
I know all, and so your punishment begins:
See the lives of others and live within their hell;
I in turn will feel your pain, all of theirs as well.
Come and share your mind with me, a mind of living grave.
Come and share a world with me, the world to me you gave.
Now the gate has been unlatched, headstones pushed aside;
Corpses shift and offer room, a fate you must abide.

Nighty-night

I wrote yesterday but need time to finish and polish. As for today, I leave you with this little gem:

Let me be—
I want to go to bed,
Close my eyes
And clear my stuffy head.

The warmth of the cold

Blowing snow upon the mountain,
Darting, dancing all around—
Truly ’tis the Youthful Fountain,
Yet in different setting found.
Graceful, fleet, chaotic leaping
Flakes into the ether flee
Only warmth, though cold, is seeping
Through the hearts of they that see.

Leaving Lorien

Arwen vanimelda, namárië!
Fairest darling, farewell.
Others may come, some try to stay,
But none will ever dwell
In gold forests of memory,
At home as the elves
In the heart of the man you see
Where other love ne’er delves.

Kind of rougher, but whatever. The idea is to get it out more than to get it perfect. (By the way, it's pronounced /nə mər" ē ā'/.)

Tim Jenkins' Driveway

Nightfall,

Snowfall,

Footfall

Echoes in the air.

Brisk walk,

Crisp breath,

Tryst-wood

With the snow at midnight.

Shadows,

Shades,

Silhouettes

Against a white world and a black sky.

My new year's resolution was to write more. Something short every day, something longer every week. (To set expectations: Short tends to lend itself to poetry. Long tends to lend itself to prose.) This is the start, and I guess we'll see how long until I break it. That's what new year's resolutions are for, yes?