Thomas Jefferson, one of our Founding Fathers, and a man who would definitely be ashamed of the current administration and their power-grabbing and excessive taxation, once wrote a letter to his friend John Adams.
At the conclusion of the letter, Jefferson wrote, "I must apologize for the length of this letter. I had not the time to edit for brevity."
In The Dragherian Chronocles, fantasy author Stephen Brust has a character declaim, "Brevity! Oh, but I could write for pages and pages on the need to curb the excesses of language and contain the wit such as to present the thoughts clearly, remarkably, and in such straightforward manner as to make obvious the need for brevity in speech."
In less tongue-in-cheek manner, William Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, "Brevity is the soul of wit."
If I have a fault other than my amazing good looks and blistering charm, it's that I never seem to be able to say in one sentence what I could just as easily say in a paragraph-- or six. Not forgetting that my first published work was a 423-page behemoth of non-fiction, I'm just one wordy sumbitch.
I'd like to introduce you, if you're not already familiar with it, to a site called Twitter. Twitter is a social networking site developed to take advantage of SMS; otherwise known as text messaging. For each post, called a "tweet," you are limited to just 140 characters, and you can mini-blog to your account from your cell phone. (Although it's difficult to follow the message stream and the "conversations" using that device.)
I've met some great people on Twitter. Julie Duck, an editor-turned-author. Kimberly VanderHorst, lovely and brilliant. Eric Krouse, expert at the short story. JM Strother, who brought us the idea of the FridayFlash. These are all people I met on Twitter and interact with every day. They've offered comments, criticism, and encouragement to my writing. (Guys, thank you so much. I really appreciate it!)
Believe me, there are others, but if I were to take the time to individually mention every wicked cool person on Twitter I'd have no time to complete this post.
Another thing that Twitter does is hashtags. By sticking a pound sign (#) in front of a tag, you can make it stand out and be easily searched. This allows you to create discussions. For example, the Young Adult Literature Chat hashtag is #yalitchat. At certain times of the week a dozen or more young adult fiction authors will congregate to discuss the problems and methods of that genre.
For a writer, this is free professional development, and I encourage you to drop in. I tend to follow anyone who follows me, so if you think I might have something worth saying now and then, you can check out my twitter posts by clicking on the link to the upper right of this blog window.
When I first got a text message capable phone I made a couple of promises to myself. The first was that I would never, ever, E-V-E-R, use text message abbreviations. I will never "C U L8TR! QT!" I may, "See you in a few, you sexy beast." I do not ever replace the words "to" or "too" with the number 2, and as much as possible I will stick to standard literary conventions with regard to when to type out numbers. (Anything under the number twenty-five should be typed and hyphenated, if memory serves, so that's what I do.)
As much as possible, I even try to stick to sentences that contain subject, predicate, and punctuation and only standard abbreviations like "lbs" and "Dr". This makes writing concisely something of a challenge.
Applying this to Twitter, I've noticed that some aspects of my writing are improving because of the way I approach the social networking scene. I'm more concise and more focused in my delivery. I rely more on impact statements, including a judicious use of the fragment. (Think of Hemingway: "He died. In the rain." The second, incomplete sentence is an impact fragment.)
I am coming to believe that using sites like Twitter not only connects you to other authors and even editors and agents while simultaneously allowing you to attract people to your blogs/pages/writing and increase interest, but it also helps you to improve your writing itself.
I even ran across one author who spent an entire Saturday writing the ultimate in flash fiction: 140 character stories. Could you condense your writing down far enough to tell an entire story in just 140 characters?
Yeah. Me neither.
Let's see if I can condense this blog into a Twitter post:
"Twitter is a social networking engine that allows you to network with other authors and improve the brevity of your own writing. Try it!" -136 characters.
Write on!
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Flash fiction: Unbounded Rage
Before I do anything else here, I want to take a moment and thank you for dropping by.
More than that, if you look to the lower right corner of this site you should see a series of links to people who are following me. You're already giving me the precious gift of your time and energy to be here reading this, but if I may plead for just a little bit more, please take a moment and investigate those followers as well. Most of them are better writers than I am by far, and each of them has something important and wonderful to share with you, whether it's a story, a tip, or something else.
Thanks for your time.
CR.
*****
Yesterday's writing prompt was: "Consider a person who has lost their memory. How do you show this to the reader? Try to do it from the eyes of the person with the missing memory."
+++++
Flashes...
...of memory...
...things I...
...can barely see...
...father... drunk (again)...
...no, father... I'm like...
...the others...
...not really different...
...you'll see... someday...
...mother... at her funeral... sleeping, looks like she's sleeping...
...bruises don't show...
...other children...
...I begged them to...
...stop...
...STOP...
...STOP!
...town... smoke... screams... crying...
...she was different...
...she made the fear go away...
...her... my ring... why couldn't I...
...control this?
(The ring!)
...where is she?
...I don't know what it means!
My name... is Davian Urthradar.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
More than that, if you look to the lower right corner of this site you should see a series of links to people who are following me. You're already giving me the precious gift of your time and energy to be here reading this, but if I may plead for just a little bit more, please take a moment and investigate those followers as well. Most of them are better writers than I am by far, and each of them has something important and wonderful to share with you, whether it's a story, a tip, or something else.
Thanks for your time.
CR.
*****
Yesterday's writing prompt was: "Consider a person who has lost their memory. How do you show this to the reader? Try to do it from the eyes of the person with the missing memory."
+++++
Flashes...
...of memory...
...things I...
...can barely see...
...father... drunk (again)...
...no, father... I'm like...
...the others...
...not really different...
...you'll see... someday...
...mother... at her funeral... sleeping, looks like she's sleeping...
...bruises don't show...
...other children...
...I begged them to...
...stop...
...STOP...
...STOP!
...town... smoke... screams... crying...
...she was different...
...she made the fear go away...
...her... my ring... why couldn't I...
...control this?
(The ring!)
...where is she?
...I don't know what it means!
My name... is Davian Urthradar.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Author's Comments: Calling Home
First I want to give a little shout out to Jon Strother of Mad Utopia. Jon's put together a really cool idea called the Friday Flash. This is a list of online stories that authors post links to on his web site. Every Friday these examples of short fiction are released on a flash list, which you can find on twitter and other places by searching for"#fridayflash."
Last week my horror story Awakening was my debut contribution. It was written in response to the writing prompt I tweeted last Monday.
Every Monday there's a writing prompt, and every Tuesday I'm posting my response to it. Yesterday's prompt was: "Examine the cliche of a soldier who fled from battle. Does he redeem himself or punish himself or..."
Calling Home is the story of a survivor, a man who made it through combat without a scratch-- that shows.
Every battle has a story like this. Every war has a tale of woe and dread. It doesn't make war unforgivable, as some people suggest, because there are times when societies, like people, have to defend themselves.
What is important to the author, though, when making a believable character, is to recognize that battle changes people. Whether it's a fistfight in a bar that turns ugly or an all out invasion of a planet, even the survivors die a little... or a lot.
*****
Last week my horror story Awakening was my debut contribution. It was written in response to the writing prompt I tweeted last Monday.
Every Monday there's a writing prompt, and every Tuesday I'm posting my response to it. Yesterday's prompt was: "Examine the cliche of a soldier who fled from battle. Does he redeem himself or punish himself or..."
Calling Home is the story of a survivor, a man who made it through combat without a scratch-- that shows.
Every battle has a story like this. Every war has a tale of woe and dread. It doesn't make war unforgivable, as some people suggest, because there are times when societies, like people, have to defend themselves.
What is important to the author, though, when making a believable character, is to recognize that battle changes people. Whether it's a fistfight in a bar that turns ugly or an all out invasion of a planet, even the survivors die a little... or a lot.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Flash fiction: Calling Home
[COMM CHANNEL OPEN. ENCRYPTED – RED LINE]
[1698.778.5454.DEC-TOAH]
Mrs. Toah, this is Sergeant Rakir, Dondass Rakir, of the 21st Mobile Infantry Battalion. I can't see or hear you, even though this is vidphone. Golgotha is fourteen hundred light years from Earth, located in the [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] sector, and what you're seeing is a recording that will take sixteen hours to get to you.
Mrs. Toah, the Mobile Infantry regrets to inform you (nice phrase means nothing) that your son, Shtad was (butchered) killed in action (it hurts mama) on Golgotha. The Imperial shock troops from out of [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] hit us from behind. We held [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] for three days without resupply. The goddamn [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] but we had to wait for a lifter to get us out of there.
I want you to know (no i don't shut up!) that Shtad didn't suffer. He was hit by a displacer round while covering (my) our retreat (he was my man my boy shut up!). He died (screaming for you) instantly. There were no final words (mama! where are my legs? mama help me, godhelpme MAMAITHURTSSOMUCH!) but he told me at chow the evening before that he was thinking of you. (why wasn't it me? should havebeen should have beenmeshould havebeenme)
We of the Federation Armed Forces (don't run we never run i was so scared should have beenme) would like to extend our deepest sympathy for your sacrifice (her son my son my boys i left them i ran my boys) to our planet in her hour of greatest need. (left them me should havebeen me) I would like to remind you that our war continues. I promise that Shtad (screamed blood while i ran) did not lay down his life (for anything) in vain.
Unfortunately, [SECURITY INTERRUPTION] was dusted from orbit and his remains are (glowing) not recoverable. We are sorry for your (my) loss, Mrs. Toah. (my boys)
[TRANSMISSION ENDS]
[COMM CHANNEL OPEN. ENCRYPTED – RED LINE]
[1351.921.1584.DEC-LADROM]
Mr. LaDrom, this is Sergeant Dondass Rakir of the 21st Mobile Infantry Battalion. What you're seeing is a recording that will take sixteen hours to get to you. I can't see you or hear you...
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Author’s Comments: Awakening (Prompt 3/15)
As I post the writing prompts each week I'm hoping to give people ideas for scene settings and character development, but they say that the teacher learns more than the student. (It would be extremely difficult to learn any less than my students, that's for sure.)
One of the reasons this blog exists is for me to work on developing my own fiction. After twelve years writing more or less continuous non-fiction, returning to the storytelling framework is a hard and ignoble path to travel.
So, when I post weekly writing prompts to my twitter account, (http://twitter.com/ChrisRivan or use the link to the right.) one of my writing goals is to complete the assignments right along side you.
Awakening is my first attempt to respond to my own prompt. I once had a bizarre night of nightmares, vivid, lifelike, and terrifying. I'm not one to usually have nightmares of the "monster" variety. Usually my most terrifying dreams are somewhat asstasstic, like being chased through a mall by a giant Super Mario or waking to discover that Barack Obama won the presidency.
These dreams were different. They were horrifying in the sense of the genre. I must have leapt awake six or seven times that night, sweating, panting, heart in my throat. Once I started so violently that I literally almost threw myself out of bed.
The little dream I've recounted here was the second to last. I woke up from this one and said, "Screw this noise." I got up early, about 4:15am, and took a shower... where I discovered to my horror that I was not awake and taking a shower at oh-dark-stupid, but actually still asleep and in the middle of another goddamn lifelike nightmare.
I may write the last dream down (they are the only two I remember) at a later date. It sort of crossed from freaky-deaky scary to "ZOMFG that's disgusting!" I'm not sure if shock fiction is the way I want to go, since I'm obviously not John Watterhouse. (For one thing, I can grow a better mustache.)
Write on!
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
One of the reasons this blog exists is for me to work on developing my own fiction. After twelve years writing more or less continuous non-fiction, returning to the storytelling framework is a hard and ignoble path to travel.
So, when I post weekly writing prompts to my twitter account, (http://twitter.com/ChrisRivan or use the link to the right.) one of my writing goals is to complete the assignments right along side you.
Awakening is my first attempt to respond to my own prompt. I once had a bizarre night of nightmares, vivid, lifelike, and terrifying. I'm not one to usually have nightmares of the "monster" variety. Usually my most terrifying dreams are somewhat asstasstic, like being chased through a mall by a giant Super Mario or waking to discover that Barack Obama won the presidency.
These dreams were different. They were horrifying in the sense of the genre. I must have leapt awake six or seven times that night, sweating, panting, heart in my throat. Once I started so violently that I literally almost threw myself out of bed.
The little dream I've recounted here was the second to last. I woke up from this one and said, "Screw this noise." I got up early, about 4:15am, and took a shower... where I discovered to my horror that I was not awake and taking a shower at oh-dark-stupid, but actually still asleep and in the middle of another goddamn lifelike nightmare.
I may write the last dream down (they are the only two I remember) at a later date. It sort of crossed from freaky-deaky scary to "ZOMFG that's disgusting!" I'm not sure if shock fiction is the way I want to go, since I'm obviously not John Watterhouse. (For one thing, I can grow a better mustache.)
Write on!
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Response to Writing Prompt 3/15
Here's my response to the prompt I twittered yesterday:
*****
Awakening
Caleb woke to a pitch black room. His heart was boiling in his chest and his breath rasped. He lay there in perfect stillness, trying to get his fear under control. There wasn't even a sliver under his bedroom door from the kitchen light mom usually left on.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
*****
Awakening
Caleb woke to a pitch black room. His heart was boiling in his chest and his breath rasped. He lay there in perfect stillness, trying to get his fear under control. There wasn't even a sliver under his bedroom door from the kitchen light mom usually left on.
There's something here, in the room with me! He could feel his clammy skin stick to the sheets through his undershirt. He lay there, listening to the stillness and the drumbeat from his chest. Ba DUM! Ba DUM! Except, if he were to try to describe it he'd have to say it was more BaDUMbaDUMbaDUMbaDUM!
His ears strained to pick up any sound in the dark blanket.
Gradually, his breathing slowed. The bolting horse in his chest slowed from a gallop to a canter, and then a trot. The twisted sheet in his hands slowly smoothed. There were times, even in a hot spring night, when a comforter might be a good thing to tuck yourself under. Times when you woke up in a silent scream from a nightmare you couldn't remember. He took a deep, quivering breath. The horse was walking now. He pushed the sheet down to his waist, feeling the soggy shirt cling to his chest. That must have been a good one.
He rolled over, onto his right side. Even though the cast had come off months ago, he still couldn't sleep on his left very easily. He folded the corner of his pillow under his jaw and shifted his shoulders. His eyes slowly drifted to half-mast.
Where's my clock? He thought randomly. Habitually a hard riser, Caleb had taken to putting his alarm clock on the far side of the room, hoping that it would force him to get out of bed in order to shut it off. Maybe then he'd be on time for school once in a while. Mr. Patterson had said if he was tardy again this quarter he'd lose baseball.
Beside him, in the darkness, the two scalding red eyes opened, and then narrowed their gaze onto him. His eyes snapped fully open in shock. As the sick fear scorched through him he felt the shameful hot wetness cross his thigh.
His hands flew out, right arm sweeping across the night stand, scattering wallet, iPod, and house key to the floor. His bedside lamp was also a casualty, smashing to the ground. In the glassbreak, the dying filament flared, a single flash searing the room.
His last terrified view in the lightburst was of rows and rows of naked, gleaming teeth.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Author’s Comments: The Name of the Blade
Every so often you get a story idea that just won't go away. About six or eight years ago I saw a preview on a DVD for the movie The Red Violin. Now, I honestly haven't got a freaking CLUE what that movie was about, but the preview SEEMED to be telling a story as if the violin was the main character.
I'm not really a musical kind of guy. I don't exactly have a tin ear, but I certainly do have a hard time playing musical instruments. I tried for three years to learn to play the guitar. The last time I hit the right note on an instrument, it was because I dropped my triangle.
But I loved the premise. I'm one of those guys that will yell, "You son of a bitch!" When my wrench slips and I bark my knuckles across a transmission housing. Because, you see, I KNOW that the inanimate leads a life of its own, and sometimes it does shit just to irritate me. (I'm worse with my computer. Look, you're never going to convince me that a box capable of playing Baldur's Gate, playing music, and downloading porn is not also fully capable of sitting there and going "Thtptptptptpt!" at you when you're trying to print your resume on the way out the door for a job interview. Of COURSE the damn thing is sentient!)
It was obvious to me, though, that the story needed to be about something I understood, and, sad to say, I understand the very real need (and sometimes desire) to hit things with things. My story absolutely HAD to be about a weapon, and the most recognizable weapon in human history is the sword. It appears in virtually every culture, even the Inca had a type of sword that was basically a wooden club with obsidian chunks stuck into it. I can assure you that they knew EXACTLY what Francisco Pizarro had on his belt, even though they probably didn't recognize his flintlock.
I've always loved the idea of being able to get inanimate objects to tell their stories to us. My favorite magical talent in Piers Anthony's Magic of Xanth series was the forgotten king who could hold any item and see its past. Add in Dor's ability to outright talk to the inanimate, and you could learn a hell of a lot about history.
Admit it, you'd love to talk to the bullet John Wilkes Booth fired through Lincoln's brain and find out what he said as he was loading the gun. Wouldn't you dearly enjoy holding a lengthy conversation with the Shroud of Turin? God knows I would!
As sometimes happens, the first thing that came to me was the title of the story, which is only sort of accurate, since the sword has many names, and they really aren't that important.
What became more important was the sword's message. Although the metaphor isn't as shrouded as I'd like it to be, it actually turned into an essay about gun control. We look back through history at the men who raised weapons in defense of their homeland or their people, and we call them heroes, but in modern society we tend to want to disarm them. It's wishful thinking at BEST.
Some heroes, like Liviu Librescu, the Holocaust survivor killed at Virginia Tech, fight the good fight and defend others with their lives even while unarmed. The sad truth, though, is that even though Librescu gave his life, Cho Seung-Hui was still able to go on and kill at least six more people before putting the guns to his own head.
What if Librescu had been armed? What if he'd been able to drop the shooter in his tracks? Would he be any less a hero if he was still alive? What if, in fact, the very first person Seung-Hui walked up to that day had pulled a .40 S&W and put three rounds in his ten-ring? Would that guy be any less a hero just because he might still be around to go on book signing tours?
It's not really for me to say, but I believe that a DESIRE to do the right or necessary thing is only half the issue. The other half is having the means to ACT on those feelings.
The Name of the Blade is about a young boy who doesn't really pay much attention in school. He's a bit of a disappointment, but like all young men out there he has great potential hidden deep inside. If he's given the right lessons at the right time... who knows? He might just become a hero.
Or maybe he always has been. It's tough to know with kids.
Chris
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
I'm not really a musical kind of guy. I don't exactly have a tin ear, but I certainly do have a hard time playing musical instruments. I tried for three years to learn to play the guitar. The last time I hit the right note on an instrument, it was because I dropped my triangle.
But I loved the premise. I'm one of those guys that will yell, "You son of a bitch!" When my wrench slips and I bark my knuckles across a transmission housing. Because, you see, I KNOW that the inanimate leads a life of its own, and sometimes it does shit just to irritate me. (I'm worse with my computer. Look, you're never going to convince me that a box capable of playing Baldur's Gate, playing music, and downloading porn is not also fully capable of sitting there and going "Thtptptptptpt!" at you when you're trying to print your resume on the way out the door for a job interview. Of COURSE the damn thing is sentient!)
It was obvious to me, though, that the story needed to be about something I understood, and, sad to say, I understand the very real need (and sometimes desire) to hit things with things. My story absolutely HAD to be about a weapon, and the most recognizable weapon in human history is the sword. It appears in virtually every culture, even the Inca had a type of sword that was basically a wooden club with obsidian chunks stuck into it. I can assure you that they knew EXACTLY what Francisco Pizarro had on his belt, even though they probably didn't recognize his flintlock.
I've always loved the idea of being able to get inanimate objects to tell their stories to us. My favorite magical talent in Piers Anthony's Magic of Xanth series was the forgotten king who could hold any item and see its past. Add in Dor's ability to outright talk to the inanimate, and you could learn a hell of a lot about history.
Admit it, you'd love to talk to the bullet John Wilkes Booth fired through Lincoln's brain and find out what he said as he was loading the gun. Wouldn't you dearly enjoy holding a lengthy conversation with the Shroud of Turin? God knows I would!
As sometimes happens, the first thing that came to me was the title of the story, which is only sort of accurate, since the sword has many names, and they really aren't that important.
What became more important was the sword's message. Although the metaphor isn't as shrouded as I'd like it to be, it actually turned into an essay about gun control. We look back through history at the men who raised weapons in defense of their homeland or their people, and we call them heroes, but in modern society we tend to want to disarm them. It's wishful thinking at BEST.
Some heroes, like Liviu Librescu, the Holocaust survivor killed at Virginia Tech, fight the good fight and defend others with their lives even while unarmed. The sad truth, though, is that even though Librescu gave his life, Cho Seung-Hui was still able to go on and kill at least six more people before putting the guns to his own head.
What if Librescu had been armed? What if he'd been able to drop the shooter in his tracks? Would he be any less a hero if he was still alive? What if, in fact, the very first person Seung-Hui walked up to that day had pulled a .40 S&W and put three rounds in his ten-ring? Would that guy be any less a hero just because he might still be around to go on book signing tours?
It's not really for me to say, but I believe that a DESIRE to do the right or necessary thing is only half the issue. The other half is having the means to ACT on those feelings.
The Name of the Blade is about a young boy who doesn't really pay much attention in school. He's a bit of a disappointment, but like all young men out there he has great potential hidden deep inside. If he's given the right lessons at the right time... who knows? He might just become a hero.
Or maybe he always has been. It's tough to know with kids.
Chris
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
The Name of the Blade
The boy couldn't have been more than eleven, his hair rumpled by the warm fall breeze that blew outside. He'd been bored, as he marched the spotless parquet floors, drinking in the exhibits with empty eyes.
As each turn in the maze of history approached, he found himself drifting slowly farther and farther back from the group. The guide's sparkling voice seemed to float as he shuffled along, hands deep in the pockets of his battered jeans, hood pulled over his bright blond hair, one untied Nike whipwapping at the floor with each measured tread.
And then he saw it, the spotlight gleaming on the naked razor. The jagged stump looking fully as lethal as the man-forged killing edge.
He approached, slowly. Fascinated by the weapon shrouded on its king's bed of soft velvet. The pommel stone was gone; there was no way of knowing where it lay now. The twisted leather of the handle had rotted away, leaving mere scraps behind.
Hands came from pockets to grip the rope that held visitors at bay. The boy leaned forward, awake at last. No longer the ghost at the feast, his specter in the glass ignored him, enthralled by the broken steel laying before him.
And then it spoke.
I sang, once, you know. Oh yes. You wouldn't think it to see me now, but I sang, and I let, and I shrieked the battle shriek of steel-on-steel.
I was forged in 633, as you men reckon time, in Brightford-on-Avon. I was given to a warrior before his hand left his cradle's blanket. Before he knew touch of lover or enemy, he knew me. Our friendship was born that day, our bond forged as surely as my own steel.
He carried me for fifty years. My edge never dulled. We took such joy in the battle. We took such sadness in defeat, though the defeats were few. Many is the time my warrior parried the killing blow with my steel form. Many more is the time when I lunged, shattering shields and lesser blades, and my lunges were always true. He used to marvel, did my warrior, that my blade moved as if a hand unseen guided it. We gloried in the blood, the crack of parting sinews.
As he lay in death, I grieved, as only the steel can, for the loss of his calloused hand. I did not lay with him, however, for my warrior had a son, and to him I came by birthright.
My new warrior was not the man the first was. More cunning, truly. But I missed the ring of hard striking, the spray of a good blow ending the contest. My new warrior fought when he must, but did most of his slaughter at the bargaining table.
He lived just forty summers before his accords came home to root. I left him, though I did not fail him, as he lay staring beneath the winter snow. Mine was the last to feel his living touch. I mourned for him as I had for his father, but my sadness was tempered with joy.
For I had a new master now. Hard, lean. A man whose tempered body shaped my own. He used me as a whipcord, driving the fearful before him, and I exulted that my honor would be thus increased a thousandfold. The bell-like tones of each stroke seemed brighter, more musical.
I left him within the season. He died in rain, and mud, and storm's fury, and I shrieked my metal rage that my glory would be so cruelly stolen from me.
We lay side-by-side in the freezing mire until a new master discovered me. My edge was to his liking, and thus we began our journey together.
He called me Breashydair, and I did smash, and rend, and tear, and together we forged an empire. He spoke to me, did my master. Whispered his dreams. We would bend such peoples as were near to our will. We would have lordship and dominion, and we would never want for the glory of battle.
But alas! It was not to be. We blooded for some ten summers before my beloved fell to treachery. I lay forgotten where I'd struck last, my slashing edge buried 'neath an oaken cover. Around us lay the shattered carcasses of the hounds who had brought us low. Again I snarled my anger at lost glory.
I weathered. Uncounted springs passed, and the oak did try to take me further into its wooden embrace. My edge dulled, my skin pitted, but I hoped, as only a blade can, for the fury of battle, for a master's hand to restore my splendor.
And then one day, it came! As the heavy-eyed sun sought its western bed, a new hand touched me, tentatively, as if in fear. A small hand. The hand of a child, older by no more than half a score than the hand that had first touched my steel in loving bondage.
We strained. I could feel my master's heart as we battled together the wooden heart of the accursed coffin that held me so tightly. I fought, angered at my imprisonment. I lent my master such strength as he required, and with a tearing groan broke loose!
My youthful master gifted me with a new name, a fitting name, a princely name. I became Caelbuen, and we rode together.
For a time, I lay hidden, but my brightness did not dull. Wrapped in soft woolens, I did reach my former shine and edge by loving whet. My master had taken me from wood, and with stone did he reclaim me. The sun chased his daughter the moon 'round the skies at least ten more times as my master grew. Steel is patient, though, so patient, and so I abode, knowing that the time would arrive when I would feel the warmth of living sheath again.
We blooded many, but this master was unlike others I had seen. When my keeper was no longer a child, we rode alone. We did not seek out the battle, but never did we turn from the fray.
I chafed beneath my master's gentle yoke. I yearned to twist in his hand, to fail a parry, or be too slow on the thrust, but my steel would not fail.
We let, not in anger or in seeking of new lands, but to defend the weak and helpless. We rent and we tore, not for the pleasure of the battle, but to protect, my master asking nothing but a meal and a place to sleep as payment.
He sleeps now, but for eighty times did we ride together, and his arm kept many a cruelty at bay. When last he fell to the warrior my steel cannot touch, there was but one hand to take me up. Again and at last, I had passed from father to son, as a blade must. My heart is steel, but with each stroke I rang my exultation to the skies that my bondage to my hateful master had at last been broken.
His son, the greater fool. Where the father had been content to live a simple life protecting the weak, the son saw the wisdom in many. Many were the warriors who came to his banner, and many were the weak and fearful saved. Many more of the sick and hungry were protected beneath his lion's banner, and my own honor waved from cloth above. My steel and my master's lion arm kept the wolves at bay for more than thirty turnings. Slowly I began to glory not in the blooding spray or the howl of steel-on-steel, but in a restful sheath. Slowly I began to understand the ways of honor, and hope, and love.
It was he that I failed. For five hundred seasons and more my steel had triumphed. My edge remained undulled, my whispered strokes as keen as starshine. In my greatest battle, I failed, and with my failure came the sufferings of many. My pain at my cracking was as nothing. My agony at betraying my master tore my metal soul. I screamed, shattering my fury and grief at the uncaring sky, but father sun and daughter moon took no notice of my cries, nor of my begging, as my master's life slowly let away.
I lay in mud. When my master's kin came to sorrow at their loss, I cried my wretched penance to them, but few men can hear the whispered words of metal. I beseeched them to forgive me, but they did not heed, and so, in mud I remained. It was no more than I deserved.
Time passed, as time will do, and my metal heart stayed broken. The rains came, and the winds, and snows and woods and rains again, as if they were my tears of shame. The woods grew and I slid, deeper into the sludge of my grave.
In time, I felt a living touch again. Though there was no light, something grasped me, held me, wrapped me in a sturdy grip. I felt no master's soul, yet wondered.
It grew, from the earth, holding me tightly in its impassive embrace. With each turning did I slowly rise from grave to light.
At first I tried to plea. What was I to do? I was a weapon, not a plowshare. The hand wields the blade, and though I did suffer, I must obey.
And I remembered. I remembered my sins and my triumphs. I remembered my masters each, and I remembered my failure.
And I remembered that the greatest masters were those to whom the blooding had to be. The honors went not to the mightiest, but to the defenders. I remembered my edge, to strike, and my flat, to parry. I remembered the times when wrongs were righted and justice meted. Slowly did I come to understand my purpose.
I remembered my failure, and I remembered my task.
And when the light came again, I was ready.
The boy's hands were cramped upon the rope, his breathing harsh and quick. He swallowed, and brushed a rough hand across his eyes.
"Drew? Where are you?" The voice was light, friendly, yet slightly stern. He was supposed to be with the rest of the group, after all.
He turned, birdlike. "Right here," as she approached. He had never noticed the weariness in her eyes before, the slight defensiveness, the knowledge that he would disappoint her again soon.
"The tour's leaving, Drew. We need to catch back up. Why are you in here?"
He turned and looked again at the velvet-shrouded steel. "I…" he couldn't explain. "I heard something."
She frowned. "Heard something? You mean like me yelling your name for the last ten minutes?"
"No. It was like a story." But that wasn't right. It was like a memory…
He looked at her then, seeing her not with his eleven-year-old eyes, but with his ageless heart. He understood, for the first time, his purpose, and why she seemed sometimes as if she mourned when he sat at his desk with blank page before him.
"Come on, now, Drew." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let's catch up."
He nodded, and together they left the room.
Go now, and carry my tale. My task is yet begun. I must abide here a while longer, in the patience of steel, in the hope that others will hear me and take my lesson with them. It is not he who lets that is wrong, but he who lets for cruelty or for hatred. There will come a time in the summer of every man's life when he must choose his path. I beg of you, remember me as I remember you. Stand proud, fall if you must, but give yourself dearly so that others might live, far from hurt and hunger, hate and harrow.
Know that I remember.
I remember.
Master.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
As each turn in the maze of history approached, he found himself drifting slowly farther and farther back from the group. The guide's sparkling voice seemed to float as he shuffled along, hands deep in the pockets of his battered jeans, hood pulled over his bright blond hair, one untied Nike whipwapping at the floor with each measured tread.
And then he saw it, the spotlight gleaming on the naked razor. The jagged stump looking fully as lethal as the man-forged killing edge.
He approached, slowly. Fascinated by the weapon shrouded on its king's bed of soft velvet. The pommel stone was gone; there was no way of knowing where it lay now. The twisted leather of the handle had rotted away, leaving mere scraps behind.
Hands came from pockets to grip the rope that held visitors at bay. The boy leaned forward, awake at last. No longer the ghost at the feast, his specter in the glass ignored him, enthralled by the broken steel laying before him.
And then it spoke.
I sang, once, you know. Oh yes. You wouldn't think it to see me now, but I sang, and I let, and I shrieked the battle shriek of steel-on-steel.
I was forged in 633, as you men reckon time, in Brightford-on-Avon. I was given to a warrior before his hand left his cradle's blanket. Before he knew touch of lover or enemy, he knew me. Our friendship was born that day, our bond forged as surely as my own steel.
He carried me for fifty years. My edge never dulled. We took such joy in the battle. We took such sadness in defeat, though the defeats were few. Many is the time my warrior parried the killing blow with my steel form. Many more is the time when I lunged, shattering shields and lesser blades, and my lunges were always true. He used to marvel, did my warrior, that my blade moved as if a hand unseen guided it. We gloried in the blood, the crack of parting sinews.
As he lay in death, I grieved, as only the steel can, for the loss of his calloused hand. I did not lay with him, however, for my warrior had a son, and to him I came by birthright.
My new warrior was not the man the first was. More cunning, truly. But I missed the ring of hard striking, the spray of a good blow ending the contest. My new warrior fought when he must, but did most of his slaughter at the bargaining table.
He lived just forty summers before his accords came home to root. I left him, though I did not fail him, as he lay staring beneath the winter snow. Mine was the last to feel his living touch. I mourned for him as I had for his father, but my sadness was tempered with joy.
For I had a new master now. Hard, lean. A man whose tempered body shaped my own. He used me as a whipcord, driving the fearful before him, and I exulted that my honor would be thus increased a thousandfold. The bell-like tones of each stroke seemed brighter, more musical.
I left him within the season. He died in rain, and mud, and storm's fury, and I shrieked my metal rage that my glory would be so cruelly stolen from me.
We lay side-by-side in the freezing mire until a new master discovered me. My edge was to his liking, and thus we began our journey together.
He called me Breashydair, and I did smash, and rend, and tear, and together we forged an empire. He spoke to me, did my master. Whispered his dreams. We would bend such peoples as were near to our will. We would have lordship and dominion, and we would never want for the glory of battle.
But alas! It was not to be. We blooded for some ten summers before my beloved fell to treachery. I lay forgotten where I'd struck last, my slashing edge buried 'neath an oaken cover. Around us lay the shattered carcasses of the hounds who had brought us low. Again I snarled my anger at lost glory.
I weathered. Uncounted springs passed, and the oak did try to take me further into its wooden embrace. My edge dulled, my skin pitted, but I hoped, as only a blade can, for the fury of battle, for a master's hand to restore my splendor.
And then one day, it came! As the heavy-eyed sun sought its western bed, a new hand touched me, tentatively, as if in fear. A small hand. The hand of a child, older by no more than half a score than the hand that had first touched my steel in loving bondage.
We strained. I could feel my master's heart as we battled together the wooden heart of the accursed coffin that held me so tightly. I fought, angered at my imprisonment. I lent my master such strength as he required, and with a tearing groan broke loose!
My youthful master gifted me with a new name, a fitting name, a princely name. I became Caelbuen, and we rode together.
For a time, I lay hidden, but my brightness did not dull. Wrapped in soft woolens, I did reach my former shine and edge by loving whet. My master had taken me from wood, and with stone did he reclaim me. The sun chased his daughter the moon 'round the skies at least ten more times as my master grew. Steel is patient, though, so patient, and so I abode, knowing that the time would arrive when I would feel the warmth of living sheath again.
We blooded many, but this master was unlike others I had seen. When my keeper was no longer a child, we rode alone. We did not seek out the battle, but never did we turn from the fray.
I chafed beneath my master's gentle yoke. I yearned to twist in his hand, to fail a parry, or be too slow on the thrust, but my steel would not fail.
We let, not in anger or in seeking of new lands, but to defend the weak and helpless. We rent and we tore, not for the pleasure of the battle, but to protect, my master asking nothing but a meal and a place to sleep as payment.
He sleeps now, but for eighty times did we ride together, and his arm kept many a cruelty at bay. When last he fell to the warrior my steel cannot touch, there was but one hand to take me up. Again and at last, I had passed from father to son, as a blade must. My heart is steel, but with each stroke I rang my exultation to the skies that my bondage to my hateful master had at last been broken.
His son, the greater fool. Where the father had been content to live a simple life protecting the weak, the son saw the wisdom in many. Many were the warriors who came to his banner, and many were the weak and fearful saved. Many more of the sick and hungry were protected beneath his lion's banner, and my own honor waved from cloth above. My steel and my master's lion arm kept the wolves at bay for more than thirty turnings. Slowly I began to glory not in the blooding spray or the howl of steel-on-steel, but in a restful sheath. Slowly I began to understand the ways of honor, and hope, and love.
It was he that I failed. For five hundred seasons and more my steel had triumphed. My edge remained undulled, my whispered strokes as keen as starshine. In my greatest battle, I failed, and with my failure came the sufferings of many. My pain at my cracking was as nothing. My agony at betraying my master tore my metal soul. I screamed, shattering my fury and grief at the uncaring sky, but father sun and daughter moon took no notice of my cries, nor of my begging, as my master's life slowly let away.
I lay in mud. When my master's kin came to sorrow at their loss, I cried my wretched penance to them, but few men can hear the whispered words of metal. I beseeched them to forgive me, but they did not heed, and so, in mud I remained. It was no more than I deserved.
Time passed, as time will do, and my metal heart stayed broken. The rains came, and the winds, and snows and woods and rains again, as if they were my tears of shame. The woods grew and I slid, deeper into the sludge of my grave.
In time, I felt a living touch again. Though there was no light, something grasped me, held me, wrapped me in a sturdy grip. I felt no master's soul, yet wondered.
It grew, from the earth, holding me tightly in its impassive embrace. With each turning did I slowly rise from grave to light.
At first I tried to plea. What was I to do? I was a weapon, not a plowshare. The hand wields the blade, and though I did suffer, I must obey.
And I remembered. I remembered my sins and my triumphs. I remembered my masters each, and I remembered my failure.
And I remembered that the greatest masters were those to whom the blooding had to be. The honors went not to the mightiest, but to the defenders. I remembered my edge, to strike, and my flat, to parry. I remembered the times when wrongs were righted and justice meted. Slowly did I come to understand my purpose.
I remembered my failure, and I remembered my task.
And when the light came again, I was ready.
The boy's hands were cramped upon the rope, his breathing harsh and quick. He swallowed, and brushed a rough hand across his eyes.
"Drew? Where are you?" The voice was light, friendly, yet slightly stern. He was supposed to be with the rest of the group, after all.
He turned, birdlike. "Right here," as she approached. He had never noticed the weariness in her eyes before, the slight defensiveness, the knowledge that he would disappoint her again soon.
"The tour's leaving, Drew. We need to catch back up. Why are you in here?"
He turned and looked again at the velvet-shrouded steel. "I…" he couldn't explain. "I heard something."
She frowned. "Heard something? You mean like me yelling your name for the last ten minutes?"
"No. It was like a story." But that wasn't right. It was like a memory…
He looked at her then, seeing her not with his eleven-year-old eyes, but with his ageless heart. He understood, for the first time, his purpose, and why she seemed sometimes as if she mourned when he sat at his desk with blank page before him.
"Come on, now, Drew." She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let's catch up."
He nodded, and together they left the room.
Go now, and carry my tale. My task is yet begun. I must abide here a while longer, in the patience of steel, in the hope that others will hear me and take my lesson with them. It is not he who lets that is wrong, but he who lets for cruelty or for hatred. There will come a time in the summer of every man's life when he must choose his path. I beg of you, remember me as I remember you. Stand proud, fall if you must, but give yourself dearly so that others might live, far from hurt and hunger, hate and harrow.
Know that I remember.
I remember.
Master.
*****
Christopher Rivan
Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!
http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/
Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com
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