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Guardian

“Guardian”

I am a guardian, o knowledge seeker.
Ask me your questions,
And I shall ask mine.
If you are deemed worthy,
I will show you the path.
You must make the journey alone.
I am guardian, protector,
Though I was once as you are
Now, in another life.
In my youth, I too was a
Seeker of knowledge.
And on the day that I was
First a seeker, asking my questions
And trembling as I responded
To those asked of me,
I feared, but foolishly.
My questions were answered
With questions, riddles for reply.
Now ask your questions, and
Answer well mine, for perhaps
You are worthy of the path
That led me here, o knowledge seeker.
I am a guardian.

October Writing Challenge

Halloween is nearly upon us, with NaNoWriMo close on its heels, and that thought absolutely terrifies me. In the spirit of the season, I’m taking a page from Sonia M and asking my readers to take part in a writing challenge. This is the first challenge I’m hosting, and so it is going to focus on my favorite holiday. Craft a piece of horror-themed microfiction. Think Poe, Lovecraft, King, Machen, condensed into roughly 500 words.


The rules are simple.

1.) Theme: Write a horror-themed piece of microfiction.
2.) Genre: Other than the overall theme, there are no genre limitations. Write a steampunk/horror story, or a horror/romance, or science fiction/horror, just for some examples.
3.) Word limit: 500 words (approximate).
4.) Deadline: October 31st, 2012.
5.) How to submit: If you have a blog of your own, post your story on your blog and share a link in the comments on this post. If you don’t have a blog of your own, feel free to post the story in the comments here. If you do this, I will post the story in a separate post and re-link it here.
6.) Prizes: The reward of a job well-done and the knowledge that you managed to finish one more short piece before diving headfirst into NaNoWriMo.

Our Obsession

With the unfortunate continuation of the rise of “unscripted” reality television shows, it seems like every conceivable topic is getting at least one series dedicated to it. Some things are apparently even big enough to warrant entire cable/satellite networks dedicated to them. What’s that? You collect Beanie Babies and you’ve purchased ten of each one that came out since 1993 and your house is now in danger of collapse because you’ve knocked out supporting walls to make room for your little stuffed friends? Better go on Hoarders. Like tattoos? There’s Miami Ink and L.A. Ink. Friends with someone who loves the bizarre and macabre? Point them toward Oddities or Oddities: San Francisco.

It seems as though there’s something for everyone, right? Well, not quite. What about us? What about the writers? Where’s our series showcasing authors and libraries and bookstores and the pains of staying up all night for a week to try to meet a deadline? Apparently I’m not the first person to think this way. Back in May, Entertainment Weekly’s Stephan Lee (@EWStephanLee) proposed a concept, laying out a manner in which such a thing could be done. It’s sort of like televising your progress through Nanowrimo. I’m now debating running this as some sort of surreal web series. Watch my sanity slowly slip away as I attempt to craft a novel in thirty days! No, on second thought, don’t do that. Webcam will be hidden away. Fear not, dear readers.

In all seriousness, this is reality TV I could stand to watch, and might even actively follow. You’ve gotten everyone else, network execs. Where’s our obsession?

Tourist

Have you ever been a tourist in your own town? It’s amazing what a slight shift in perception can do for you. For example, I’ve been living in Colorado Springs for the last six years. In that time, I’ve done almost none of the cool stuff that visitors do. Why? Because it’s been just me.

In the last two weeks, however, I’ve been changing that. When my sister was in town, I finally took the opportunity to visit Garden of the Gods. Ever been there? I lived down the street from there for four years and never went. Four years. There’s no price for admission, and it’s open almost all day every day. Over Labor Day, my parents were in town, and we drove up Pikes Peak. I’m a Colorado native, and I didn’t go up my first 14er (mountain with a summit altitude of over 14,000 feet) until a few days ago. I feel a little ridiculous, but simultaneously accomplished. There’s nothing to give you perspective like the view from 14,110 feet. Anyway, dizzying vistas aside, it’s quite inspiring to have made the ascent. Luckily, I have just the outlet for this. Time to write.

Thirty

I am challenging myself to do something I did three years ago (oh good god, was it really three years? Now I feel old). Back in 2009, I was a senior in college, and I was having the time of my life. It was about this time that I remembered an old rhyme. It goes something like this. Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November. All the rest have thirty-one, Excepting February alone, And that has twenty-eight days clear, And twenty-nine in each leap year. (wikipedia) This floated into my head just before September started, and so I decided that I would turn it into “Thirty Poems Hath September” and write one new poem for each day of the month. It was kind of like Nanowrimo before I knew that Nano existed (it was a dark time in my life, despite my earlier statement). At any rate, I composed a LOT of poems that year, mostly during the medieval literature class that V and I were taking at the time (sorry, Dr. Napierkowski-no offense to you or your class, that was just when I usually felt the most inspired). Some of them were complete nonsense. Many of them were haiku, because I would realize I only had five minutes left in the day to write a poem. Some of them were really good. Regardless, the idea got me to write, and to focus on some creative energy that was otherwise fairly elusive. I would recommend you try it. Thirty Poems Hath September. Get ready.

I Write Like…

Several months ago, and courtesy of V, I came across an awesome little utility called “I Write Like.” It’s a neat little tool that compares your word usage, syntax, and other stylistic choices to those of numerous famous authors. Ever curious to see if that fantasy piece stacks up alongside Le Guin or Lewis? Now you can find out. There’s something incredibly satisfying about knowing that your own fiction (or non, iwl isn’t picky) is similar in tone to the stuff you read all the time when you were younger. Don’t know the author they’ve given you as a comparison? “I Write Like” includes a link to that author’s works on amazon. Give it a try right here.

Corn: Summer Writing Challenge Entry

This is my entry for Sonia’s latest writing challenge. The summer competition gave us the goal of writing a short story (500 words or less) based on a photo. Here’s “Corn.”

 

Green is everywhere. It’s the first thing I see when I wake up. There’s been rain recently, and I can feel the moisture in the soil, smell it all around me. Rain’s scent lingers in the gentle breeze. The thunder’s rumble in the distance matches the one in my stomach, and I realize how far the storm has gone and how long ago my last meal was.

Corn. That’s the other overwhelming smell. Damp corn leaves. The corn is tasseled, but the ears on the stalks are still immature, still some time away from being ready for harvest. Good. I don’t have to worry about some poor farmer coming across me when I’m in this state. It’s unlikely that anyone will be coming through the rows this time of year, though. The stalks are far too tall for any wheeled vehicle to come through without crushing them, at least aside from a combine, and again, the maturity of the ears has already eliminated this possibility. I’m not certain where I am. The sun is still all but invisible behind the heavy clouds, but its position tells me that it is early evening. The worst of the storm must be moving on to the east of me, carrying with it more than any farmer would ever want. A heavy green tint to the rear of the storm system hints at the hail that lurks within. I turn my eyes toward more immediate dangers.

My backpack, or more accurately a backpack with my name on it, is on the ground, a row to my right. Examining it for any signs of tampering, I find none. It seems to be fine, so I open it. Inside, I find a flashlight, a jacket, a pocket knife, and a plastic bag with a piece of paper in it. The paper is folded four times and is written upon in black ink. The simple script reads “You have until sunrise tomorrow. You know what you have to do.”

I shrug and nod, fairly certain now that my every move is being watched, despite the apparent solitude.

Without further thought, I shoulder the backpack and stride into the green, vanishing between the rows. I leave boot prints in the damp earth behind me, following the setting sun.

I hope that I can make it.

Point of Reference

In my new position at the public library, I’ve been learning my way around the print reference collection. Let me say this. If a library is a magical place, the reference collection is the source of the power. In my ignorance, I had never ventured behind the reference desk during my initial year at my branch. After spending a mere half hour wandering through the shelves, I realized the error of my ways.

I have been spending my initial training days studying the print reference collection because it is an integral part of our library. Even if most of the searching and problem solving that reference librarians and information services specialists do now is done online, knowing our way around the physical reference section is critical.

Even if it’s only a matter of being able to search for information in the event that the power goes out or the internet is down, I know where I can go to find necessary info for my patrons or for myself. There’s something incredibly satisfying about being able to go to a shelf, pull a book, and open it to the page you need for the data you are trying to find.

A part of me really misses the old card catalogs of my youth. That’s right, folks, I grew up learning the Dewey Decimal system so that I could find a 3×5 card with a book’s call number on it, match the number on the card to a book on the shelf, and take that book to the librarian to check out. Now I understand and fully accept that technological advancements have made it so that a card catalog is now found in a museum rather than a library, but I am still proud that I know how to use it. (I file that accomplishment along with my knowledge of 8-track tapes, rotary phones, and manual transmissions.)

I’ve found all manner of wonderful tools to put to use, both for myself and for others. Here’s a few of them.

 

I am very pleased to have found copies of books like these on the shelves. I foresee a great deal of free time being spent browsing through the reference collection now, and I am happy to say that research for future projects is going to be a lot more fun than I ever would have guessed.

The Door

The door was locked. It had been for as long as I could remember, and it would probably remain so until the day that I died. Maybe even longer than that. It wasn’t that I couldn’t unlock the door to find out what she had hidden away so carefully. It was that I made a promise.

The door stood at the far end of the hallway from the room where I slept. I didn’t sleep in my bedroom anymore at that point. It seemed futile to try to fall asleep in that bed after she was gone. No, the room where I now slept, where I had been sleeping for nearly ten years now, was my study. The overstuffed recliner next to the fireplace served as a better bed for me, and I had lost count of how many times I had nodded off while a fire roared to counter the howling wind and snow outside of my windows.

The door led to a room that had been intended as a nursery, but the children had never come. One day she had gone into the room, and stayed there for several hours. When she came out, her face was pale, but filled with grim accomplishment. She locked the door then, and made me swear to never open it again. She threw the key into the fire that night, and we sat together in the recliner and watched as it melted away.

For a time, we were happy again, and we ignored the door at the far end of the hallway next to the bedroom, when the bed was still shared and we didn’t need the fire to stay warm. The door stayed locked, and I never asked her the reason. We trusted each other with every secret but this one, and it eventually drove us apart.

I don’t remember exactly what happened on the day (or night, I can’t seem to recall the hour) when she left. I don’t know where she went, but I know why. The locked door seemed to torment her more than me, a reminder of the life that she couldn’t carry. I want to say that I plead with her that night, got down on my knees and begged her to tell me what was eating away at her, what this secret was, but I don’t know. I may have, instead, filled my heart with courage from an increasingly empty bottle and told her that if she couldn’t live with herself then she couldn’t live with me, and that she needed to get out.

I don’t remember when it was that I took every one of my books and my lamps and my blankets and my pillows from the room that had been ours and left every one of hers behind. I haven’t been back in that bedroom for years, but I’ve left it unlocked. I can’t risk doing what she did. I can’t leave the house, either. That’s not to say that I can’t go out my door to buy groceries or to find a new book, but I can’t move. I can’t pack up and find somewhere new to live. I’m held here by my promise to her. If someone else were to buy the house, they might open the locked door, and I cannot bear the thought of some stranger learning the secret that tore her away from me.

The door sits at the end of the hallway, on the second floor of my home. My kitchen is directly beneath the room, and some days I find myself staring at the ceiling in wonder. What-if’s fill my head, and I find that I lose my appetite until the next day, when another empty bottle of whiskey or rum or vodka has turned up next to my recliner and I have no memory of coming back upstairs. One morning, I woke up on the floor of the hallway next to the locked door, a screwdriver and a hammer beside me. I must have decided that I had to open the door, but I had passed out before I could put my plan into action.

It’s better that way, really. I don’t want to know what’s behind that door, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Instead I sit next to the fire, or at my desk, and I read, or I write, or I try to do one or the other and fail miserably at both because I remember how much she used to inspire me and remember that she’s gone and she’s not coming back. Occasionally a magazine calls and asks me if I can finish another story for them this month, and I tell them yes, because I still need to eat.

Once in a while, I thought about having a new key made, or having a locksmith come in and open the door, but I realized that would still be breaking my promise, and even now I am still a man of my word. I know what I’m going to do now, though. I’m not going to break my promise to her. I’m not going to unlock the door. I’m going to stoke the fire high tonight, and I’m going to leave my chair closer to it than usual. I’m going to have a drink, and I’m going to fall asleep, surrounded by my books and covered in an afghan that she made for me the winter after I proposed, one of the blankets that I took from our old bedroom after she left. I’m not going to leave a note. It wouldn’t survive anyway. I suppose that the fire will start slowly, kissing the pages of the books, blackening them and turning them to ash. It will start in the study, and make its way down the hall.

It will consume everything in its path. It’s fire, after all, and it will devour the house that was once ours and is now mine and mine alone. The hallway will offer little resistance. Likewise the bedroom we once shared and I now shun. It will burn, and the smoke alarms will attempt to wake me to save me from myself, but it will be in vain. The locked door will stand at the end of the hall, but it too will burn, and her secret will die with me.

An Update

I have at least four short stories that I’ve gotten good starts to. These stories are currently sitting in a Moleskine, eagerly awaiting digitization. Most of these will not be published on here, not yet, anyway. These are the big ones, the stories that I’m going to be submitting to various publications in the hopes of getting noticed. Don’t worry, dear readers. I’m still writing some stuff that will be just for you. “Gateway Shuffle” will be coming soon, continuing my Cowboy Bebop-inspired sci-fi series. Additionally, I’m working on an update on what’s going on with Arsus and Rime as their journey across the Sand Sea continues in “The Swords of the Ancients.”