Knife

He couldn't recall exactly when it had started. He'd had a steak knife by the bed for some reason, probably peeling an orange or something, and he'd thrown it at the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It had stuck in the drywall, the hilt quivering for a moment; then, feeling foolish, he'd gotten it out, wiped the knife clean, and put it away. There was a mark in the wall, and every time he noticed it he meant to patch it, but it wasn't urgent. A couple of months went by.
He noticed there was a second knife mark. He couldn't remember, back in...August? September?...whether he'd thrown the knife once or twice. He could only remember the one time, and he'd remember that kind of thing, wouldn't he? There had only been the one cut in the wall, right? He could only remember one. But there were two now. The second one was smaller than the first, only about a quarter inch long, about four inches from the first one. Maybe he just hadn't noticed. He shrugged.
Two weeks later he saw a third mark. This one was horizontal, nine inches below the first one and a little to the left. It had definitely not been there before, and it was deeper than the others. Three days later, there were two more. New ones started appearing every day. They were all in a rectangle twenty six inches wide by twenty nine inches high, as if there was a picture frame on the wall and all had to be inside. They were opposite the foot of the left side of the bed, just where they'd be if someone were sitting up in bed and threw a knife.

He started waking up to find drywall dust on his hands, and in his mouth.
He bought a piece of sheet steel, thirty inches square. He drilled holes in two corners and nailed the steel sheet to the wall over the marks.

The next morning, the nails were on the floor, there were more marks on the wall, there was sand in the bed. The sand looked like ordinary beach sand, except the nearest beach was over 150 miles away. The steel was gone; he never found it. He started sleeping on the couch downstairs; the marks still appeared on the bedroom wall.

Aftermath (427 words)

The evening sky to the north was a grey pink, the low-hanging overcast lit by the fires that were consuming Copper Forge Town. The color reminded him of spilled brains, of which Copper Forge no doubt had an abundance tonight. There hadn't been enough men on the walls after the disastrous battle at Chisel Well, and the Orgok warriors had gotten inside the town. The Orgok were running through the streets right now, raping and pillaging, killing and burning. Of course he'd seen Imperial and Pretender troops do that as well, although their general tried, usually, to control them; but the Orgok also ate the dead when they could, and they regarded brains as a delicacy. He'd seen them do it.
But the Orgok and their screaming victims were in Copper Forge and he was in some tiny village he didn't know the name of, halfway up into the hills. He hoped he was beyond the range of the Usurper's patrols. Sleeping in the woods would be safer, but he was as tired as he could remember ever being. From Starcleft to Chiseled Well was a three day march but the Starcleft Regiment had done it in one. Twelves hours march, two hours sleep, twelve hours march, and then a handful of bread and a mouthful of wine as they'd maneuvered into line. And then they'd stood, exhausted but still steady enough to stand firm when the Usurper horse charged, and to throw back the barbarian archers who'd tried to skirmish against them. But then something had happened off to the right of their line--some said magic, some said treachery, but no one was in a position to really know--and then the lowland regiments had fallen back, and they'd been unsupported, and then suddenly the Usurper horse were back and it was every man for himself and devil take the hindmost. He'd cut down his pike to spear length, something that might be good enough to fend off a horseman but that he could still run with, which you couldn't do with a pike. He had his sword and a pair of pistols. But he'd eaten all his food during the night's march and the day's battle; and a bullet had punctured his wine bag. He'd never noticed that until someone had asked him about the blood; and it had been quite a shock when he'd looked down to see his whole thigh and boot drenched red, and quite a relief when he'd realized what had happened. It was a pity about the wine, though.

At the gates (216 words)

   In the dim light before dawn, a tall man trudged through the paths of the village outside the town gate. He had dark hair and a gray beard, and he wore the green leather of an Yrumgrau scout. Over his shoulder he carried two swords, and five heads hung from his belt..
   Dances Brightly saw him from her window where she waited. The country girls who came to market accepted the woodcutters and farmers and shepherds, but Dances Brightly's favors were for soldiers and merchants.  When she saw Two Swords Man, she cast the seven stones into a bowl of clear water. When she had read them, she arose and stripped naked except for her jewelry and a small blue-bladed knife, easily concealed ; then she put on a cloak and went out to see this stranger before the gate.
   Inside the gate it was darker and colder, from the loom of the walls, than it was outside, and the guards would wait a while before they unbarred.  Meanwhile the folks from the countryside, coming to market, gathered here, gossiping and joking, hawking their wares and flirting, waiting for the first glimpse of gold above the horizon and the opening of the gate. They pressed together, but they gave space and silence to Two Swords Man.

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.