Riisiing Moon

A Bench--Riisiing MoonHere so soon after postage 'cause it's for an English assignment, so I'm hoping to get a review semi-soon.

Here's a short story I wrote for my AP English class. There's a sculpture park with a bike path in my neighborhood, and the assignment was to head over there, pick a sculpture, and write a 750-1K word essay on it. I was biking through to pick one, but I saw this picture-perfect scene of a bench and a garbage can that I went with instead. Let's hope my teacher gives me points for creativity rather than fail me for not picking a sculpture. In, out. In, out. In…He forgot what to do next, then recalled and breathed again. Each lazy, swaying step was punctuated by the guttural intakes of air. The otherworldly sensation of motion was relieved only by breath, that periodic assurance that he was in fact still alive and even conscious. The crunchy scent of autumn leaves pervaded the place, the only noise that flooded his numb mind, save for an occasional taxi speeding along McCormick probably headed to O’Hare to either temporarily or eternally abandon this forsaken city. Barely aware of his own legs, he paused to stare at a bench half blanketed in that faded brown tree fodder. He blinked and processed the scene—the bench was as alone and isolated as the sculptures in the park, and yet strangely not as intimately haunting. While the moon cackled in the heavens and no other humans roamed these fields, the statues seemed alien; demonic, even. But the bench was meant for people, and he supposed there was some reassurance in that. The statues rejected him. The bench accepted him. He sat absently upon it and focused again on his breathing before he lost himself to that eternal oblivion. It was welcoming, a sort of sea he felt himself slipping— WHRRWHRRWHRRWHRRWHRR He leapt a distance he didn’t know he was capable of and fumbled madly in a desperate search before his brain processed what it was looking for. His phone appeared in his hand, drenched in a sweat that reeked of scents both physically and emotionally revolting. A picture of a well-groomed, muscled man in aviators and a ski cap atop a mountain danced over the screen’s dreamy light, giving him an eerie thumbs-up. He flipped the device open and faintly wondered why such an odd idea as a mobile telephone occurred to Joey Motorola. He tried to say hello, but it came out as “Grglurgbl.” “Yo, it’s Tyler.” “Yeah, I know.” Was that really his voice? He’d never paid attention to it. “Right, yeah. Hey man, I heard about you and Carol—just wanted to make sure everything’s alright?” “Huh? Oh yeah, we broke up. She kicked me out.” He sounded so far away from himself. Where was he at all? “What? Aw man…Aw, I’m so sorry! You even got a place anymore? Your old one’s foreclosed now right? That’s really rough, man.” “Thanks for the sympathy.” “You need a place? Come over, Sheila’s asleep, she won’t mind.” He felt his mouth open—or more specifically felt the drool drip down his chin and realized his mouth had been open for far too long. He pushed himself back into his body (an action he would forever regard as high on the top ten list of the most difficult he’d ever performed) and decided that might not be a bad idea.But he couldn’t really think of why. The bench was meant for people, after all. He knew the dejection it would feel if he left it. And human beings did not currently hold sway in his own activities. He would be the world’s sole denizen on this everlasting night. Tyler could dwell in his realm, each of his days seamlessly flowing into the prior and the next, just getting on living, and he would make tonight his bare necessity. The bench held this gracious acceptance that was synonymous with this night, and before he recalled the device in his wet palm he fell into it. “So d’you need a place?” “Uh, nah, man, I’m alright.” Tyler seemed to blink over the phone. “Wait, where you gonna stay?” This rage filled him that he’d never felt, and it took him a moment to recognize that that was in fact what it was. This was his world, this bench, and no man could intrude on that, could challenge that, could steal him away into his on home. He would not surrender to another’s will when his own place was here. He was his own statue, the bench his own home. Vaguely reflecting on how the human spirit’s will is revealed in only the most pathetic and desperate of times, he threw the phone and watched it fade into another world, another man’s domain, in an epic display of uselessness. He felt himself irrelevant to everywhere but here, useless to all but the bench. He conjectured that some longtime, luckier couple was watching him through a monitor somewhere, bonding through his own furious tears. He was somewhat of a cliché, at that, but at least he belonged somewhere. Time would pass before he could fall asleep, but at least the bench didn’t make him feel so lonely.

Actually, that arouses a good question. How long do your guys' full-length stories usually span?

This quote is totally making it into my sig. Haha, interestingly enough my favorite part of the writing process is character development--but that's something I prefer to reserve for longer pieces of fiction rather than short stories, which for me are explorations of the human psyche. Short stories are how I make people terrified or emotional, and epics and novella are where I develop complex and conflicted chars. There's happy moments in those, too. I guess the reason I prefer more emotionally questionable themes to happy go-lucky ones is because they're a lot more complicated--it's a lot more stimulating for me to have the reader fret over a dying char or shiver at the description of a ghoul than it is to talk about how fairies frolicked through the meadows the day the angels woke to give kisses to fair maidens throughout the land of Lovington. This is just for the weekend write-off. I gotta write stuff for my privy lexis and Velox's prompts and challenges at some point--got a neat idea about a casino called the 'Hotel California,' in reference to the line 'you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.'

Isaac swore. For the fourteenth time. And for the seventh, walked up the door, inhaled sharply, and backed off. There was some cosmic force shoving him toward that door, and he believed that one was from heaven—the one pushing him away every time his hand gripped the frosty handle was from somewhere else. His breath was frosty in the air, his soul ever colder. As his brain screamed at him in that incomprehensible agony only a mother’s son can feel, he let his body take control and stumbled through the door. “Mom, I’m home.” She smiled warmly. He smiled back with a warmth that felt somehow deadened by the snow outside. And he felt guilty for that—since Dad had been gone, his mother had somehow absorbed his own warmth. But he was left to his own distance. “Hey, Mom.” “Honey, do you…” She coughed, spat blood on the sheets. Isaac bit his lip. “Did you get the medicine?” Her voice was frail, alien. That disturbed him. He dreamt about banishing the unholy demons that did this to her. “Nah, Mom…they wouldn’t take change.” She blinked. Awkwardness was the only word in the English language to describe the sensation that overtook Isaac, but that was something devoid of emotion. Something as cold as a Chicago winter and a doctor’s heart. What overtook Isaac had depth and sorrow, grief and guilt. It had shame. For him and for her. And that hurt. “Oh…well that’s okay honey. I love you anyways.” He laughed. Weak, but sincere. “W-we’re gonna make it, ma. Right?” Her eyes shimmered. That force from outside returned and manifested in her tears, which in her still-youthful confidence refused to flood from her eyes. She could not hold them in, but they stood there stoic and bold, in eerie contrast to her dying form. She was a shell, but she was not hollow. She held love and she rejected the cold that Isaac had carried in. “Yeah. We’re gonna make it.”

More of a portal, but a wholly physical one. The line between the divine and the mortal is sort of blurry in the book, which is one of the underlying concepts--the Mist, effectively, is a god, or a hive-minded group of gods, but it rests in the physical world. There aren't any all-powerful humanoid beings resting in intangibility beyond the clouds, and there are no anthropomorphism--the Mist has no emotion and resembles humans in zero ways of any kind.Go for it, and lemme know when you got a plot built around that.

Oh yeah. Get me up there.

JKK--The skeletons are not those of Drawa's friends, no, they're just bodies he finds in the desert. Interesting idea, though, I gotta consider that.Aufaire and Drawa's home world are connected by the canyon, within which the Mist resides. The Mist visits denizens of both worlds in extremely rare cases (most of which result in death), but resides exclusively above the Inland. If you want me to paint a mental picture, basically there's a bridge atop the Inland, veiled by the Mist. I.e., the Inlanders never see the sky. Beyond the Inland there is a cavern, and on the other side is Aufaire in its entirety, or more specifically the southern desert of Aufaire. It's thematically dark, yes, but the Mist does not block out the sun. I like the way you think, but perpetual night is pretty restricting, and though it can be fascination for a good amount of time the attitude of bleakness it possesses gets old and boring to read about. Colors have a lot of impact on the reader, even though the tangible words of text are black and white.

I, Riisiing Moon, do here state my intention to join the Ambage, in sickness and in health, in rain or shine, until boredom do we part. I will devote my writing skills in their unfiltered entirety to its ranks, among which I will gradually climb until I emerge as its indisputable dictator. I wish my future minions much luck in the race to inevitable death beneath my pencil-equipped hand.Respectfully yours,--Lord Riisiing Moon

A Tale of Makuta--Riisiing Moon.My entry for the LSO SSC LOL ABBREVIATIONS. Thanks in advance!

Hey, just posted mine in SS, you better watch your back. Haha, why the misgivings?

Riisiing MoonA Tale of Makuta

Here's my entry for the 2012 Library Summer Olympics Short Stories Artistic Gymnastic Reimagine (good, HH, you didn't have to make it such a mouthful). Lemme know what you think, and good luck to my fellow contesters! * * * I * * * Teridax had never cried before.What unholy wickedness was this? Chaos loosed without limit, without inhibition, bereft of the goodness he was to uphold. His brethren, his own kind...terror ravaged the land itself. Death was omnipresent. The sky was heavy upon Destral, almost otherworldly in its purple shade. The scene was dreamlike. Nightmarish. The land bled and flooded the waters as shrieks pierced the heavens and Teridax's own heart.The plague was a systematically murderous virus. It knew not the meaning of mercy--it ripped through the body, ripped through the species, but most of all it ripped through Teridax's soul.He supposed that was selfish of him. But he was a Makuta...he was Makuta. He watched his family die, and the agony that overtook him and coursed through his skin and his heart and his bloodstream stole from him his own body. He merely watched as control over his body, the only thing he yet possessed, was ripped from him as well. and tears fell from his face as blood fell into the sea."T-t-t...Teri...Teridax..."The voice was almost unrecognizable in its torment. He who was once so confident, almost arrogant in his prowess was diminished to a creature who felt only the agony. And yet he held on still, and that broke the dam. Rain fell free from the clouds within the Makuta's eyes."Miserix?""T-Teridax...I will die--""My master. Destiny will not f-forsake us...the Great Spirit created us and he will not abandon us.""Teridax. Destiny has..." He coughed up blood, wheezed several times. With each spasm Teridax felt the breath rush from his own lungs. "Destiny has forsaken us because the Great Spirit has forsaken us.""Miserix--""Do you not see, Teridax!"Silence."Teridax, let me finish. I will d-die....I will die if not for y-you. I have...I've given you a squadron. The virus has not yet t-touched them." His voice cracked on this last. "Y-you will find Turaga Girj. H-he will heal us."Teridax gaped. "He will stop this?""He will stop this.""My master...master! Where is the squadron!""They will find you.""Miserix, I will not fail you."At that, Miserix grimaced. The gesture seemed to take all his might--his eyes quivered, and suddenly all the strength left within him was crackling in the air as his own body crackled weakly. The sneer upon his face was pasted there, painted by the same demons that had torn apart his body and eaten his soul and conquered his mind. And Teridax knew he would be dead before he returned.If only to fulfill his last wishes, Teridax would not fail.There will be no failure. * * * II * * * Silence had reigned for the past thirteen hours and twenty-four minutes. Teridax had been counting--there wasn't much else to do in flight. None of them had been much in the mood to talk. Death and the memory of death had a tendency to render any spoken word useless. Disrespectful, even. Yes, that was it...the dead had no speech, only rest. Until the antidote was secured, they were nothing more than an extension of their species, and if the Makuta were quiet they too must travel in silence. They too must--His reflections on the universe were interrupted by Tuck, his voice shrill, almost piercing. The screams that pierced the purple sky knifed through his mind, and his wings wavered as the steel of memory tore through them...he got hold of his body again and shook the past momentarily. He existed now, and memory's pain thrived only in his mind. He would remember his mission, but the sensation would be left to before. "Boss, land to the east."Teridax's head twitched and his body lost total control while his wings were still raised, sending him plummeting before he regained it. He was beyond exhausted; in fact, he felt close to death, but he could not form those words and expel them from his lips while the memory of his brothers remained intact. Tuck chuckled. Binkell shot him a look of dark disapproval--out of the six, Bink was the least likely to approve jokes about the situation. Never much of a humorous individual prior to the plague's outbreak, his lover had died in the catastrophe. Brutally. In an attempt to escape the virus's tortures she'd jumped into the sea, too pained of both heart and body to form final words for her lover. For the past thirteen hours (and twenty-eight minutes, now) his aura had been, to say the least, upset.Teridax recalled the plan. D'vader, the more youthful of the squadron, had flown up further--praise the child for his exuberance and ambition--in an attempt to find land. Once he'd found the place Miserix had spoken of (hold back the flood, Teridax, you're in the company of soldiers), he would light a flare for the rest to see when they flew over. Spearheading the group, Teridax made a lazy right as the others followed. They were still a couple kio too far to pinpoint any fire.Anticipation sparked between the Makuta, but Teridax's ever-cautious better judgment kept him slow and steady. Tuck was literally bursting, barely able to keep in a straight line. Thirteen days and thirty-five minutes without punching anything in the face was quite likely killi--uh, causing immense amounts of mental stress to him.Huski spoke up, her voice gentle, fragile, even, but firm. "You think that's it?"Teridax's chest heaved, several times...anxiety was a force unknown to these guardians of Destiny, and that made it all the more potent. It gave the illusion of relevance, of ability in the face of adversity, denying the reality of helplessness. It stole your mind and caged it in a time that didn't belong to you. In their insufferable anxiety they had all denied to voice their emotion, to actualize it, and Huski had broken that wall in four words.She'd always had a way with words."I think it's worth confirming. We can't afford to screw this up. D'vader's been a reliable informant as long as I've known him."Tohu grumbled. Teridax never appreciated Tohu's grumbles--far more archaic and undoubtedly experienced than the others, he'd been climbing Destral's military ranks for a literally unquantifiable amount of time. He was the wisest of the group, and apparently that licensed him to advise every junior Makuta as to the performance of their every action. "Which is maybe two years, Teridax. He's got less experience than a Matoran with a Toa Stone."Teridax's eyes narrowed, his tone a blade. "Experience and talent are not correlated, Tohu." He huffed, leaning forward in his descent to the island. "You will not correct a senior officer."Tohu laughed from deep within his chest. The noise was uncomfortable to hear in these cirmcumstances. * * * III * * * D'vader's world became a momentary hurricane as the others landed, their wings whipping the air. He bared his teeth, struggling not to fall back in an ultimate display of humiliation. He was the smallest of the squadron, but at least he wasn't old. The older ones had a tenedency to overexaggerate everything, like taking twenty minutes to get their feet on the ground."D'vader! What's the report?""This is it, boss."Teridax's mouth opened, then closed again. D'vader awaited a reply for what seemed to his youthful perception eternity...and then he felt ashamed of his irritation. He was here for the salvation of his brothers, not because a senior officer had commanded him to move. Tohu stood in his smug arrogance, an interesting contrast to Tuck's hyperactivity. The guy wouldn't stop moving, and his enthusiasm at D'vader's confirmation was overflowing. Binkell's gaze followed Teridax's, concerned for a friend. Teridax felt some innate connection to Miserix that the others did not. They all understood the dire straits they flew in, but Teridax's emptiness was somehow more disconcerting than the rest of them.Huski stood almost apart from the rest, observing, reluctant to voice her opinion. She was shy, D'vader had noticed in his few encounters with her, but when she spoke she was surprisingly tactful. He'd never seen her upset anyone. He'd actually never seen her become upset, though he supposed if he did it would be the most evil wickedness he'd witnessed in Mata-Nui's good realm.Teridax found the words, finally. "This is it?"Wise words, boss.Huski prompted him. "This is Girj's island?""Yeah, it is. This is Turaga Girj's island. The locals call it Metru-Nui, and right now we're in Le-Metru, which translates as district, more or less. There're six districts, and locals are sort of fanatic about color coding everything. That's why it's all green."Bink raised an eyebrow. "Color-code? What, is this place the Great Spirit's filing cabinet?"Tuck chuckled. D'vader followed suit. "Actually, you'd be surprised. Mata-Nui spent a lot of time fiddling around here--all the Matoran from each district have almost identical personalities. Everyone from the Ta fire district seems to be hotheaded, the ice district is all cold and distant, stuff like that.""I always wondered if the guy had a sense of humor.""Anyways, here's the kicker. Before he was a Turaga, Girj was a doctor--and he specialized in the diagnosis and cure of genocidal viruses. I swear, Miserix is a propher."Teridax stuttered in. "G-good find, D'vader. Great, actually. Fantastic. Indescribably. Where's Girj? How do we get him?"D'vader bit his lip. The hardest part about reporting the facts was when the boss decided to shoot the messenger. "So that's the tricky part. I figured he'd be living in a hut or something, being all short and all, but he's living in a palace. In Po-Koro, the stone district. Where, I hear, they grow the soldiers hard and fast. Best on the island. And the place is supposed to be incredibly well-guarded.Tuck, ever-enthralled with plans of action--he was generally useless until the battlefield itself, where he served as quite the strategically and physically formidable corporal--cut in swiftly. He seemed to talk exclusively in interruptions. "You didn't scout the place out already?""I'm a Makuta. These Matoran are a bio tall. I'd look like I'm out to kidnap their leader."Teridax sneered. "Shut up. Tohu, what's the plan of attack?"Tohu assumed the air of a master general--he'd clearly been waiting for the opportunity to grace his fellows' presence with some words of stategic brilliance. "Bink, you come with me. We're the biggest, we'll be the distraction. We can afford the collateral damage on the Matoran end--we're guests. And we're saving a species here." Teridax inhaled sharply. "Teridax, man up. D'vader, you're going to get Girj. Tuck, once the halls are clear--they'll need all the help they can get from inside to hold us back outside--you run like a crazy clown through and knock out anyone in the way. Then you and D'vader play good cop bad cop with the Turaga. Keep your fury in check--he dies, we lose any info we have on the antidote's location and function. Tuck, you'll have displayed your rage, so you'll be the bad guy. D'vader, play nice and get him to sing. Huski, you're Destral's scrollkeeper, correct?""Yes sir.""I want you to stay here and write everything down since the plague's outbreak. We are living history, and that must not be forgotten. If, by some astronomically miniscule chance, six enormous terrifying alien beasts fail to wrench a vial of liquid from a bio-tall Turaga surrounded by dwarfish Matoran, you are to carry the tale to Artakha. He is the living channel between our world and the Great Spirit's.""Understood, sir."Tohu paused, apparently waiting for the inevitable stupid question. Teridax seized the opportunity. "And me?"Tohu grinned somewhat madly. "You're my superior, boss. I don't tell you what to do."Teridax swore. "I'll guard the perimeter. Backup, in case you and Bink are, as you said, being detained by an astronomically miniscule chance. Or if Tuck gets lost." Tuck replied with an obscene gesture.Silene reigned again. That silence was perpetual--it was forgotten beneath the sound of voices, but ultimately it returned. Death seemed to creep forth from the grave memory and wallow in it each time no one spoke, and once it sat redemption seemed impossible.Bink growled with a fury that reeked both of primal lust and of a lover's lament. The terrible enemy is the one who has nothing to lose."Just remember. Victors write the history books." * * * IV * * * Binkell had been resting atop the Po-Koro palace's turret for three hours when Tohu landed beside him. His voice was a raspy whisper. "What took so long?""I have no idea how to get around this place. D'vader omitted directions." He hissed. "Teridax is pretty broken up about this."Bink let the darkness speak. Circumstances were sufficiently horrible to be broken up about."Of course I'm broken up about it too, Bink, and of course you've got more reason than any of us, but we are logical beings, not emotionally overcharged wretches. It's just irrational to assume we won't do this right. You're a veteran of this business, you know that.""Him and Miserix were close.""We were all close with Miserix. That's why he picked us."Bink glared at Tohu, and Tohu shivered. "He picked us because we weren't dying." Binkell was really the only Makuta besides Miserix himself that he'd ever met who could instill this sense of guilty terror within him. The depth of shadow in those eyes...he was dark, Binkell, not like the others.Bink looked back at the ground, or at nothingness, and his voice assumed sympathy. "Let's shed some blood." The words felt odd, disconnected from his tone. They upset Tohu, who shifted before nodding in silent agreement."Let's." * * * Violence razed the palace grounds as screams of rage, pain, and bloodlust pierced the sky. Tuck recalled a similar sensation--but memories were for another time. He left his mind in the past as the smell of violence rushed through his nostriles and permeated his being.It felt good.Tohu and good ol' Binkmeister had done a good enough job of clearing a path straight through the entrance, which was more or less bereft of guards. Tohu was right--he and Bink had sucked all the firepower out from inside. If Tuck thought they were a handful, he could only pity the Matoran for the sheer horror they been blessed with. A few still remained inside, armed and ready, if not suffering from mental breakdowns. How considerate. Tuck was in the mood to break something.Still, though, he couldn't attract too much attention away from the big black beasts or else the plan would collapse on itself. Holding back a furious roar of imminent victory, he dashed through the entrance and kicked bones and bodies to and fro in a glorious dance of terror. He'd just cleared the hall when he arrived at a fork, both unguarded and devoid of any apparent bloodshed."To the left."He whirled around, still jumpy. D'vader stood proud, an arrogant smirk traced across his countenance. Tuck furrowed his brow. "How'd you get in?""Just a couple minutes ago, after the majority of the little guys scurried out. Nobody noticed me. Reporter's stealth, I guess." That, Tuck did not believe, had ever been a commonly used phrase.The Makuta appeared perplexed. "You didn't kill anything?""You don't have to to get a job done.""I beg to differ.""Shut up. Go to the left, I scouted the place out."Tuck sprinted through with a delightful exuberance only the young possess, D'vader swiftly stalking after at his rear, slicing the occasional body part of a Matoran aspiring to heroism. D'vader directed the pair to the courtroom, where the doors, enormous (by Matoran standards) and protodermis-laden, stood bold and locked.Tuck snickered and crashed through them with a demonic might and a childish glee. * * * V * * * The Turaga stood utterly humbled by the shadows of the world.He would not huddle in his throneroom's corner as the fools of legends, but stand nobly in its center at the defense of his people.As his people were slaughtered beyond the walls, though, he could not muster the energy in his archaic limbs to resist a tremble.The demons broke through the doors after an interminable seventeen minutes. The one at the pair's head bore an expression of incomparable malice, and as its lifeless eyes tore into his own soul he felt the carnage that lie within it. The destruction, the anarchy--he felt the being's madness and he knew its destination. It was bent on the bloodshed of the innocent, and the Turaga would not abandon his nation in the face of such evil.The creature took two tremendous steps and gripped the Turaga at his throat, and he suddenly felt too small to be significant. It stretched a pale claw toward his throat and a for a moment he was lost to all the--"Tuck. Get a hold of yourself."The being's grin fell to the earth and the Turaga fell to the ground. He heard something snap, but the fear and adrenaline stifled the pain. Another creature, this one smaller and more lithe, stepped out from behind the first's back. His expression was of a sort of sinister sophistication--this one was intelligent. He wasn't sure if that scared him more than the first. If he could be any more scared than he already was.The voice of the second was a deep bellow, but quiet. Almost haunting, as a ghost's."Girj?"The Turaga blinked. The awkwardness was entirely misplaced, but by some cosmic error had overtaken the scene. The bigger demon stood almost frozen over the Turaga's shivering body, just standing, standing, glaring..."You are Girj?""W-what? I am--I...I am Greg."The first regained that insanity, his face beaming of victory. "It's him, D'vader.""Tuck, shut up." The smaller monster leaned in, breath putrid but eyes somehow...charming...hypnotic..."All we want is your research. Then we will leave you to your Duties."The Turaga stammered. "W--My research? My...No! You will not condemn these people to die! Disease will ravage none as long as I reign!"The crazed one growled impatiently. The one he had called D'vader spoke again. "Exactly. That is why we need it. You will save your nation from death by giving it to us."The Turaga knew what he must do.In his research of biochemical genocide, he had naturally discovered the formula for the most simple of killing gases. The ethics of its possession made it far too controversial to publicize--as well to allow him a good night's sleep for years--but he had become addicted to his own constant safety. And this, after all, would be the salvation of all Metru-Nui...Turaga Greg, which in the Makuta language transliterates as Girj, popped open the cork of a certain bottle that contained gaseous death. * * * VI * * * Chaos had loosed for about twenty minutes on the grounds of the Turaga's palace before the screams erupted from the northeast tower.Binkell actually felt his senses sharpen, his head snap abruptly in the direction of the agony. The eastern wall of the throneroom had been torn off, the rubble resting atop the vengeful earth. Some kind of vaguely pale steam hovered in the air surrounding the tower, steadily coalescing into a thick cloud through which Bink's vision could not penetrate.The depth of those shrieking throats were unmistakable, though--Tuck and D'vader.His initial reaction was one of a mild surprise, an emotion he would soon feel a misplaced sense of guilt for, considering the magnitude of the situation. The pair had that almighty invincible aura of those soldiers too fresh out of the crib to feel vulnerable, and Bink finally felt victorious as a veteran of war. What immediately followed the surprise was a mighty wave of urgency, and a cosmic kick in the gut by an impossibly large being."Tohu!"The screams pierced the sky, an eerily familiar phenomenon that actually terrified the Makuta. Tohu ceased his huffing and puffing as Binkell watched his comrade's face transform from one of animal joy to graceless shame, which in turn was replaced with that storm of urgency. Wings flapping before their feet left the ground, the pair flew with a speed far greater than they should have been capable of, soaring headfirst into the same torture that befell those friends and saviors of a species in the throneroom of Turaga Girj. * * * VII * * * Lost.Teridax stood among this eternal, unfathomable silence. He felt the souls of these dead creatures claw without noise against his skin, their breath an invisible frost in the still air, in the still silence.Lost.He felt his body once again lose itself to that span of the infinity he would never comprehend, felt his spirit convulse and rattle against this hollow shell, felt the silence pierce through his own damp eyes as it had the skies that hung above his dying breed, but most of all he didn't really think he felt at all.Lost.Teridax stood lost and numb among this silence, awaiting the rage and the grief and the fury and the guilt and the blood and the vengeance, but it did not. It hung in the air before him where he gazed at it until his knees gave way to the gravity of mortality, but it would not meet his eyes. All he felt was numb, bland shame, but its taste was not felt upon his limp tongue.Lost as a friend, lost as a leader, lost as a Makuta. He simply was. There was nothing more than his existence. Unity was lost, Duty was lost, Destiny was lost. Miserix was lost. Makuta was lost. Purpose was lost. Only silence remained.Lost. * * * Epilogue * * * It is, by Matoran count, the fifth year and two-hundred and thirty-seventh day since Girj's suicide. His death is commemorated as a national holiday, an permanent memory of the salvation of their kind.I do not know why they celebrate the destruction of my people.Teridax has been lost to that memory. He has, in his black oblivion, allowed it to consume him. This newborn cause for him is in no way justifiable, but I empathize nonetheless. I understand him. He is stricken by his loneliness, stripped of purpose, and so he constructs one for himself. I do not believe he sees his own corruption. He genuinely believes in his righteousness.After Girj's death, he adopted a new title--the Black Six, a reference to the team he believed all dead. Four of their bodies are buried beneath the palace grounds that he has conquered as his own, guarded by his enslaved. His cause has been perverted from one of salvation to the condemnation of the innocent. He has renamed Metru-Nui 'Beezee-Koro,' a word in our language that translates as 'vengeance.'I know my own Destiny, but I cannot come to face it. I should reveal my own yet breathing body, I should welcome him into my arms with the warm love of a true sister and carry him home. I should leave this place to its own quarrels. We are not to interfere here beyond Miserix's--and Mata-Nui's--word. But we have no home. And that is the source of Teridax's insanity. It has wrecked him with a hunger so deep he would not hear me. He would kill me too, likely, and bury me beneath my brothers.So I remain in hiding, awaiting the word of Artakha, as Teridax once promised. I will give him this chronicle and he will return with me to my people, if they survive yet. I do not know if he exists, or if he has any reason to leave the security of his own haven. We are selfish creatures, are we not? Why would he sacrifice his own safety in the interest of ours? We are lesser beings, after all. I respect him for that, but I remain in this quiet desperation. I only wish watching Teridax collapse into himself did not tear me apart as it does.So I wait here, on the empire of Beezee-Koro, for a sign of any sort, forfeiting all I once believed in and lived for. Long live the Black Six.--Writings of Huski

Oh, Drawa's killed about four sevenths of the way into the book (measure everything in sevenths, it's so helpful, I swear), and it's meant to be a huge surprise, but it's also not so radical to reveal since it's not the ending or anything. He's replaced by the apprentice skeleton with a soul.I've sculpted Aufaire pretty intricately in my mind, and I've gotta put it to paper and elaborate some more--the fantasy vibe is LOTR-esque, with the absence of non-human creatures, save for skeletons, which are technically human. The culture is gonna be kind of widespread--each of the four kings (excluding the Hu-Kale, of course) rules their respective kingdoms, and each kingdom's culture is determined largely by its king. For example, Tu-Sens, the Island King (ruler of the islands scattered throughout Aufaire) is a more diplomatic ruler, so his armies are generally well-trained but refrain from combat, which prompts contempt from Jek, more rash and tactical ruler of the Southern Badlands. The desert north of the Inland, it should be noted, is directly south of Jek's territory and is the only Aufaire territory under no man's land since it's completely inhabitable.No idea what Bastion is, lawlz, but I plan on mixing a good amount of culture in. Tu-Sens's kingdom takes on a more Eastern vibe, while Jek's got the whole cowboy thing going for him, and Arolla, Magicker Queen of the West, is a more religiously and philosophically oriented ruler whose culture will probably be entirely made up by me.

Hey, I like to be considerate and ask before shoving random words in your faces. People might not want to hear. Anyways, the entry's up--lemme know what you guys think!

Here's a summary of a novel that I haven't started writing yet, but have got much more detail on than that entry describes. Thoughts/criticism/questions?

So here's my book, titled The Mist, a nut as shelled as I could fit. The book opens with a madman of unknown language and origin attacking an unprotected slum of a village. A certain rather scrawny boy whose name is yet to be decided escapes with his brother after witnessing the death of his single mother, running to a canyon that is home to a natural phenomenon known as the Mist--a deeply disturbing mist that traverses the expanse of the canyon, from which inexplicable evils arise. The bottom of the canyon is invisible beneath the Mist, and rather than surely forfeit their lives to the madman murderer, the brothers jump the bridge. During the jump, the boy is counseled by the Mist in a sort of incoherent prophetic vision. The boy awakens seventeen days later in a bar whose inhabitants speak some foreign language--they call him 'Drawa Kutrizi,' a name that he will adopt (the name translates as 'Fox in the Grave'--it's a different story). He knows not the whereabouts of his brother or what insanity the Mist has imparted unto him. Drawa discovers that he is in the Inland, a hellish landscape resting beneath the Mist that acts as the passageway between his own world and this new one, called Aufaire. The blur of the Mist hides away each world from the other, lending to a dual existence. The place is an impoverished slum south of the world of Aufaire--directly north of it is a desert, and the Inlanders arrived at the location after various exiles from Aufaire. The majority died during the passage through the desert, and so the remaining are fighters to the core. Drawa learns the native language, swordsmanship, and magic. He is particularly adept at minor necromancy. He also learns crucial information to his return--an unprompted visit by the Mist tells him that to find his home world, he must travel to Aufaire and bring a certain 'Hu-Kale' to the Inland. After confiding in a new Inlander friend, Drawa learns Aufaire history and begins his trek through the desert. He discovers that Aufaire is ruled by four kings, and the fifth, the Hu-Kale, was exiled years ago. He recently rose from the shadows of his banishment in an vengeful effort to regain power, and travels as a sort of nomad king backed by a merciless army of conquerors. His reign is small, but rapidly expanding. Drawa, after several months in the desert, is infuriated by the fleetingness of life--his friends die beneath the scorching sun with each passing day. To comfort himself, he performs an act of magic he later finds has never before been successfully attempted--reviving full human skeletons. He rises five from the dead. All are without memory of their human lives and four are soulless--but the fifth , by some cosmic fluke, possesses a soul and human emotion, and grapples with his own moral dilemmas and inner conflicts. Drawa's army of death grows, and as he enters the world of Aufaire gains living human followers seeking resistance to the oppressive blood-lust of the Hu-Kale. The Mist, over its five sections--Aspiration, Ascension, Disruption, Dissension, and Descent--recounts Drawa Katrizi's inexplicable arrival in the realm of Aufaire, the growth of his abilities and his followers, his disruption of Aufaire's wars and natural series of events, his eventual death (he's assassinated by his brother, who doesn't know who he's killing)--and replacement by Kamesh, the Living Corpse--and the greater mystery of the Mist and the ominous, archaic secrets of world-encompassing power it veils. Thoughts?

JKK--You sound like the kind of author who's minimalistic (read: lazy) and only writes what they enjoy. Which is a fantastic writing style, because it means your book probably has little to no lulls and consistent thrill, as well as a likely incredibly elaborate plot and char development. You already sound like you're having way too much fun with worldbuilding, and have integrated it with the plot rather well as opposed to just rambling on about locations for chapters.So, props on that, but back to the point--to fit your style, it's really totally unnecessary to name every char from the village. You'd probably work best just envisioning the village, getting a mental picture of what it actually looks like, so that you can grant the image a more graphic life when you write about it. The opposite and ineffective approach would be what you're doing now, which is waiting until info on the village is required of you and then spitting out info at random intervals that doesn't correlate with other info you have. But, you don't need to mention names until you need to mention names--as long as you have the culture and the family dynamic well-discussed within the book and interacted with by the main char(s), the reader will have a vivid enough image of the village. An intricate profile for each villager is helpful, but due to the extreme tediousness probably more painful to your writing hand and head than it is an aid to the book. It's extraneous.Speaking of culture, I find it helpful, like YT hinted at, to ripping off existing cultures. I prefer a more indirect route--like, if you have any trace of a language, the accent and consonance could be a more fluid, French sounding kinda thing, or a harsher Middle-Eastern style. The basics of culture are this, more or less: religion, location, demographic background. Once you decide those three things, details work themselves out. Is your culture monotheist, or polytheist? The former probably results in a more unified and possibly more religiously fanatical tribe, while the second can spur controversy or even civil war within the tribe. Is the tribe in desert territory or tundra, and are they urban or rural? Basic, ten-second junk like that will lend itself to further elaboration at your will, and you fill in the blanks.I feel like we have similar writing styles, judging by the two posts I've seen, so lemme know if you need any help, sounds like you've got an interesting idea!EDIT: By the way, when writing a full-length novel, unless you feel like being interesting at the expense of relevant info, you pretty much never have to come up with every detail of a language or physics or other junk like that used by chars. If they're commonly used by the population, why would some guy go on an unprompted soliloquy explaining why the winds blow in weird directions or why the pronunciation of the language is such and such? If you don't provide more explanation that the basic amount required, it'll provide the illusion of commonness and suspend the reader's disbelief quite well.

Back from a one week vacation in LA! Finishing up my entry for the Short Story Contest--it should be between 4K and 5K words, so get pumped and set aside a few weeks to read it. Who else is entering? Also got an idea for a book or Epic or something along those lines that my brain's been exploding with for a couple weeks. Wanna hear?

From my updated interests--

I swear, I'm running for president just so I can be in DC next time it happens.