Free writing: safe, window, visit

There was something prowling around the house, something cold and greasy and hungry. Mack could feel it. He hastily got his Glock out, slapped the magazine into place, and chambered a round. The weight of the weapon made him feel better, less naked, but it didn't make him feel safe. He stood back five feet from the window and sidled over until he could see the back yard. Whatever it was that had decided to visit him was invisible in moonlight, but he could see the grass being crushed under its feet as it circled the house, moving widdershins. It came to the back door. The door thumped against its frame, and Mack heard something scraping it, as if something with long claws was trying to dig through. He found himself praying. His eyes lit on the white knife and he picked it up with his left hand. It felt clean and light. He stood up straighter. The door rattled and then stopped. Mack felt the thing begin prowling again; it was angry and frustrated. He looked at the bedside clock, where the red LED numerals showed 4:12am. Dawn in about two hours. The creature would probably go away—unless it had an ally that could ignore the wards.  

Home invasion part 2

(Yes, I know part 1 had a Glock)

Downstairs the floor squeaked as something man-sized moved across it. I checked the safety. I thought about kneeling to be steadier, but I didn't want to risk making a noise. As long as I stayed still, I'd be silent. If I was silent, whoever it was wouldn't know where I was. When he came up the stairs, he'd find a shotgun pointing at his head. He'd surrender. Or if he didn't, he'd have to rush up the rest of the stairs and around the railing to get at me. If he had a gun, he'd still have to get his hands up and turn before I could pull the trigger. No way. I'd yell "Freeze!", he'd see I had the drop on him., he'd surrender. As long as he came upstairs, that is.
If he really wanted to screw with my head, he'd stay downstairs. I thought he was looking for Gwen but if he was actually hunting for something else, money or a magic ring or documents, hell, a secret cookie recipe, he could sneak back out and I'd be standing here all night, holding the shotgun.There was no way I was going downstairs. If he was still there, waiting, I'd be an easy target. He was in the den now, coming step by step to the foot of the stairs. I could still hear him moving, along with distant traffic and the sounds every house makes when it's dead quiet. But he might be able to move silently, if he paid attention. The breath moving through my nostrils sounded loud to me. I opened my mouth to breathe silently. My hands were trembling. Adrenaline or fatigue? I could have been standing here for two minutes, or ten. Maybe more, I couldn't tell. Standing here, unmoving, felt like combat. Time dilated.
I checked the safety. There was a light on downstairs, and a streetlight shining through the guest bedroom window. That meant my shadow was behind me. He wouldn't see it as he came upstairs. I felt an urge to check behind me to see that my shadow was where I thought it was. I didn't dare turn my head. If I did, he'd race up the stairs while I was distracted. But what if there was someone else, silent, coming up behind me? I remembered that movie, where the guy is at the top of the stairs, blazing away at the sicarios downstairs, and someone quietly walks up behind him and shoots him in the back. I glanced over my shoulder, fast, and back to the stairs. No one was behind me. I hadn't seen my shadow in that half second look. That bothered me. But I wasn't going to turn my head again.
Movement on the stairs. Suddenly I was totally calm, focused, steady. I inhaled and closed my mouth, teeth on lower lip, ready to yell "Freeze!". Step, step. Step. Its head came in view and I fired without thinking.  Pump, clack clack, shoot again. The thing fell backwards, claws scrabbling at the drywall.
It was a troll.

Mythic structure

The Mythic Structure for Writers:

1. Introduce the hero in his Ordinary World
2. The call to adventure
3. Refusing the call
4. Meeting the mentor
5. Crossing the threshold out from the Ordinary World
6. Tests, allies and enemies
7. Approaching the in-most cave, the enemy's fortress, the dragon's lair
8. The ordeal--facing and overcoming the direst challenge.
9. Receiving the reward
10. Taking the reward back to the Ordinary World
11. Final test
12. Completing the journey, transforming the world

This is based on Joseph Cambell's work and I don't find Hero with a Thousand Faces all that convincing--if you push hard enough, you can shove anything into a niche whether it fits or not, and I think Campbell did a lot of that. However, even though not all myths fit his pattern as completely as he claimed, seeing the overall pattern is still useful.

Free writing: farewell, eccentric, west

"Well, Captain DeClarion, tomorrow you sail, eh? West to Huy Braseal. Goblins. Elves, maybe. You ready?"

"Yes, Admiral. Everything's packed. Weapons, food, books and clothes."

"In that order, eh? You're an eccentric one, DeClarion, but you know your priorities. Have anything for your private trade?"

"I was considering that, sir. What would you suggest?"

"Blades and muskets, if you're not trading them where they'll be used on us! Steel bar and silver. Coal. Cloth. My man can guide you on a few things."

"Thank you, sir."

"Remember, captain. Your duty is to your self, your ships, and your service, but the service comes first. That port must not fall into the enemy's hands. Must not. A few warships are not important, compared to that. Priorities, captain! Farewell, and good hunting."

DeClarion saluted and left. So far he'd been given contradictory instructions: he was not to take any risk at all with his warships, lest they be scratched; and he was to hazard them like game chips at need. 

How to Write a Novel in 30 Days

Day 1: Choose a storyline. Name your characters.
Day 2: Outline the basic idea of each chapter.
Day 3: Write the climactic chapter, 2000-3000 words.
Day 4: Write the openings chapter, 2000-3000 words.
Day 5-27: Write the other chapters, 2000 to 3000 words a day. Don't edit, just write.
Day 28: Fix plot holes
Day 29: Spell check and fix grammatical errors
Day 30: Print

Names

Sundown Jones: buccaneer. I've been wanting to use that name for a navy commodore, but that just doesn't seem to fit.

Other names on my list: Roclen, Berenger, Tiercel de Clarion

Free writing

For free writing exercises, I'll be taking a few random words, or a sentence. and just typing for ten minutes. Don't have to have an idea where it's going, just write.

Free writing: bed, rock, elephant

Suddenly it was light, and loud. Daytime. Urgh. I was going to need a megadose of caffeine to cope with today. Shouldn't have stayed up till 4 am again. Awfully loud, and kinda open air feeling. Should be dark, quiet, should be still asleep. I pried my eyes open to look for the clock and see who'd opened my curtain. What I say was an elephant about to drop a rock on me. Big elephant. Big rock. I rolled aside, getting tangled in the mosquito netting—where'd that come from? The rock dropped and smashed my bed. Whoever's bed this was, anyway. Where am I? Elephant has small ears, pretty sure that means it's Indian not African. No mahout. I'm staying still and the elephant is not trying to trample me, very important point. I'll keep staying still. Some kind of bamboo hut with woven grass panels for the walls, no glass in the windows, jungle-covered hill outside, old stone palace or temple or something half covered by jungle. The elephant trunk sweeps half the wall away, then he ambles off and starts pulling up grass. I slowly sit up, carefully watching the elephant. It doesn't respond. If it comes after me, well, an elephant can outrun a man who's in good shape, it can certainly outrun me. They can't make sharp....right turns? Left turns? Don't recall. Better not to attract its attention.

Free writing: barrel, purest, drive

"No, Captain Jones, the Portuguese are neutrals! We can't attack the enemy while they're in a neutral harbor."

Jones said, "It's Commodore, Captain. And if you recall, the English had no qualms about attacking us at Santa Rosa when that was a neutral harbor. And it's purest whimsy to think they wouldn't do it again, if they saw advantage. Yes, they'll sent complaints to Court, and letters will swim round the oceans after us, and I may be reprimanded. But if we let this convoy through, they'll land troops and drive on Capetown and station frigates there. Our trade with the Indies will be cut in half—if we're lucky! Your family is wealthy, Captain. Tell me, can they stand it if they have to buy spices by the barrel from Englishmen at the same prices they paid for a tonne around the Cape? Will they pay the insurance rates for merchantmen? Who will buy your linens and silks when they cost triple or more what they do today? And will your family thank you because your delicate sensibility, your nice observation of a law the enemy flouts, made you forego this opportunity? You may indeed bear a public reprimand, in a year or two, when the queries are made; but will your King and your Navy and your merchant boards not know who saved them?"

Free writing

He hadn't closed the curtains, so he woke at first light. The sky to the west was overcast, grey fluffy clouds with pink edges. Something red and swift flashed past the window--a cardinal, presumably. He sat up, gathered himself, and stood with a cacophony of pops from his joints. He was used to his ankles and knees protesting the morning, but of late his back and ribs were adding their own percussion.

Dream

Finally, as the eastern sky began to lighten and the stars faded, they came to the end of the marsh, and a river. Beside the river was a hill, one great grey stone that rose above its surroundings. The top was flat, ringed with  trees that formed a living henge, and covered with oak leaves and thick moss. They landed there and crept into the shelter of a fallen live oak. They lay there, numb with exhaustion, seeing the sun's edge at the horizon grow into light.
Finally she made the effort to look at him. "Why wouldn't you let me land?"
He sighed. "At the Tower? You don't always fly. Sometimes, often, when you jump from the Tower, you just fall. There's no way to know which it'll be, you just have to do it and hope. Or stay in the Tower. But if you do that, you'll starve. No way around that. Sooner or later, you escape or you die."
 

Oblation

Each of the brethren stood with his chalice, and made his vow, and gave his drink-offering of the wine which represented his blood. A few dipped their fingers into the wine and sprinkled it, but most had picked up the Ellene trick of flicking the wrist to let only a few drops spill. Man after man, down the line, made their pledge, spilled a few drops to honor the God, and stepped back, until de Clarion. He lifted his goblet, and vowed as the others had to sacrifice himself, and then stopped. His face was pale. He tipped his cup sideways, so the wine  trickled down the side of the cup and dripped onto the stone. And then he tipped it further, pouring the wine, slowly but without ceasing, until the chalice was empty and all his wine was puddled on the stone before him.

Port

They drifted over the upper city and the lower city, past the Bridge of Virgins, following the river down to the harbor. War galleys slept there, and merchantmen with lateen sails, feluccas and fishing boats and dragon ships from distant lands. They flew over a proud ship lit with lanterns, where slave girls danced on the decks to the music of pipes and tambourines. They turned south, skimmed over the dunes of the shore and on across the marshes, flying high enough to see a swath of white sand on their left and the Bay of the Moon dark beyond. They flew, and the sky began to lighten and the stars faded, and still they flew. The marshes stretched out ahead of them to the horizon. Her body ached, and her eyes were sore from the constant wind. They began to pass over clusters of stilted huts. There were men in long narrow canoes, casting nets, who paused to look up as they flew.

Dream time

She clambered onto the parapet wall and looked down, eighty, ninety feet, to shadowed stone. She took a deep breath, and jumped. Oh shit I'm falling I'm going to die! Her body clenched from groin to throat. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't throw up. I did it wrong why did I trust him I'm sorry I'm so sorry help me oh God please help me--

And then her wings opened and caught the wind.

Thank you, thank you....wow.

She tossed her head back and thought Up! and the wings beat, lifting her. She thought about landing on the roof she'd just jumped from, at least long enough to steady herself--she was still shaking, and nauseous--but the owl man cried "No, don't land! Rise up, rise up!" She rose, suddenly weary, and followed him.
As they floated over the city's towers, he named them for her. The one that looked like a half-melted white candle was the Tower of Art. The slim brown one, atop which sat a man with a long sword laid flat across his wrists, was the Pillar of Autumn Mandolins. Soldiers paced on the dark square walls of the Fortress of Night.

Dream time

She fell sleep in her tight little bedroom, to a long steady drumming rain. She woke slowly, drifting up from the depths of a dream. Her eyes opened and she saw the moonlit white wall for a long time before consciousness crept in and she remembered her room's walls were beige, not white. And her ceiling wasn't that high. And....there was a man sitting on the end of her bed, perched on the footboard, watching her, with only the faintest motion of his chest to show that he wasn't a statute carved. "Who are you? And where am I?"

"You know who I am," he said quietly. "You called me out of shadow. You are in the Tower of the Distant Lover, in the Dream Quarter of Umbalek, the city of a thousand spires." He smiled suddenly. "Eight hundred ninety-two spires, last time I counted." He rocked forward and backwards and was suddenly standing upright in the center of the room. "You have come to find my place. Come up with me."

He walked out of the room without looking back, and it was only as he passed through the arched doorway that he realized he wasn't wearing anything. She couldn't think of him as naked, or nude; he seemed to be wearing what he usually wore, which happened to be nothing. When she got out of bed, she realized she wasn't wearing much more. She'd gone to sleep in jeans and flannel shirt and wool socks. What she had now was a sideless tunic, or tabard, of thin natural linen, its border intricate with Celtic knotwork in burgundy thread, and a gold chain belt low on her hips. There was no other clothing in the room that she could see, no slippers or underwear or robe. She shrugged and followed the man.

Outside the room, stairs spiraled up the tower to a broad flat roof eighty feet in the sky, encircled by a parapet of quartz. The man dipped his fingers in cinnamon and pollen and painted symbols on her brow and eyelids, forearms and feet. He gave no explanation, working in silence. When he was done, he put a feather cloak on her shoulders, although the night was warm. The wind smelled of wood smoke and the sea. The horizon beyond the parapet showed towers, in all directions, stone spires white or grey or dark under the moon. He took two quick steps and dove over the edge of the parapet. An icy shock went through her, but before she had time to gasp, he spread his arms and his shape changed to a cloud-colored owl. He dipped and rose in the wind and circled to hover over her, wings tilting. He spoke, and his voice was still his own. "You are robed in swan's wings. Rise up, and come with me."

Vignette

Grey came in, saw Silver Woman waiting, and took a chair at her table with his back to the wall. He ordered a bleu cheese burger with water, no ice. Silver Woman was stirring her drink, toying with the straw. He turned to her and asked, "How was your date?"

"Fine." She looked up. "Quite nice, actually. He took me to the Blue Sea Grill, and we had seafood. He got a bottle of wine, and we drank that and talked. And then he ordered another bottle and we drank and talked, and then we had something to drink. I'm pretty sure he has a drinking problem." She sighed. "Of course, it's not like anyone gets to forty-five without some kind of scars. Except you," she added.

He shrugged. "Nobody knows about mine. I listen to people, they don't listen to me." He stopped, distantly curious to see if she'd pick up on that, but she went on about her date.

Iron mage

He walked into the battle and men of both sides pulled back, not daring to come close. Away from him the battle still raged, but around him, a silence fell. He stepped over a dead man, and the fallen soldier's iron flowed like a serpent and came to him. His armor was black, and it writhed and bubbled.

White Knight's Lament

Mack shrugged and said, "I guess I'm just a white knight. And," he added with a grin, "the white knight gets the girl."

Aaron spun around and snapped "You know what that is? It's a damned lie! In real life, the unlikely but plucky hero does not get the beautiful girl. The girl doesn't even give him the time of day! She says 'I'm meeting someone' or she gives him a bogus phone number or she says 'let's just be friends.' She ends up with the college quarterback, the lawyer, the arrogant guy in the two thousand dollar suit. And maybe she's not happy with him but that doesn't matter, because whether she is or she isn't, you are never going to get a chance with her!"

Posleen

This is set in the Posleen War universe, created by John Ringo. The Posleen are a horde of carnivorous aliens who are invading Earth.

Garnet Turman started getting out of bed, which took a while. First thing in the morning, every joint ached and every tendon popped, but he wasn't getting old, exactly--just older. Once he got to moving, he'd be good enough.

Stella must have finished her morning prayer time, because he could hear her rustling around. He stepped into his slippers and ambled out to the kitchen. "Good morning, doll baby," he said. He came up behind his wife, gave her a good morning kiss, and patted her bottom. "Got anything special for me?"

"Garnet don't-make-me-break-out-that-middle-name Turman, you behave yourself," she said, smiling.

"Honey lamb, I was thinking about breakfast. Any bacon?"

I know what you were thinking! But bacon isn't good for your heart. Once I get my tea, I'm making oatmeal." He scowled. "With brown sugar," she conceded. Her phone rang. "Hello? Hello, Angie. It's Angie," she told him, and then her face went white. Anything their daughter could have said to make Stella go pale like that couldn't be good. Most likely Angie was expecting--she didn't have the sense God gave a duck, and that boy she was seeing was no better. Garnet waited while Stella said "Oh no" and "What then?" until she hung up.

"That was Angie. The Posleen are coming. They made it up the mountain."

Garnet lifted an eyebrow. "How'd they do that? There's just the one road, and the Guard unit is there, supposed to be. All they'd have to do is cut a few trees to make a block, and drop mortars where they're bunched up. Couple of snipers for the God Kings, that should be all it needs."

"I don't know what happened about that. Ida Mae said she was at the market past Vesta and--"

"Meeting that boy Reefer, I expect."

"--and the Posleen just came over the rise, about a hundred she said. She heard some shooting and she just got in her truck and drove off as quick as she could. They shot through her windshield! She's lucky to be alive!"

"And Reefer?"

"She said Randall was at the market but he isn't answering his phone now. This is...just..."

"Well, I don't know whether to be pleased or sorry about that. If the Posleen ate Reefer, he'll likely give them indigestion, and that'd be the best thing he's done in the last four years."

"Garnet Turman! That's a mean thing to say."

"May be. Doesn't mean it's not true. Well, if the horses are up the mountain, someone will have to do something about it. I'll get out my rifle. Darling, you call Junior Nestor and Roy Goad and Jed Quesenberry and tell them what Angie said."

"Oh," Stella said, and stopped. She forced a smile. "I'll make a good breakfast. Pancakes and scrambled eggs. And bacon."

Ewetopia

The Ewetopian forces drew up their line: the great war-palanquins in the center, gaudy with paint and gilding, sixty feet long or more, with armored bearers and rams on their prows; to the flanks, the lighter fighting palanquins, unarmored but swift and bearing ready archers; and ahead, a cloud of two- and four-bearer litters carrying skirmishers and scouts. All eyes were upon the general's craft; the black banner waved, with one voice the warriors roared their war-cry, and the force surged forward across the plain.