Tag: Fiction

Everlasting

Dr. Willem Hart. Psychiatrist.

The small stark white business card in my hand feels firm and I lose myself in the bland font gracing its surface. Psychiatrist. I’m not crazy. I think. But something tells me all the crazy people think that too. Frustrated, I toss the card to the small coffee table in front of me. It’s cheap, but it is both my dining table and office desk. The good news is it only adds to the dingy bachelor apartment I’m living in. The lights flicker when anyone flushes a toilet, the wind whistles through the walls and the paint has peeled back to reveal the bricks they had simply covered up. It’s not much; but it’s home.

My eyes stare blankly at the tiny card amid the chaos of dishes and scribbled notes atop the table. I need to talk to someone, but this Dr. Hart? Definitely don’t want to be committed to the asylum again. Almost didn’t make it out of there. My hand betrays me as it snatches the card from the table and also retrieves my wallet. As it opens, my driver’s licence catches my eye. It’s a fake and it has to be.

I stand from my worn leather couch and make my way to the bathroom. Staring into the picture, the world around me vanishes from my thoughts. My mind autopilots me to where I simultaneously want and don’t want to be, in front of the mirror.

The licence shows a girl with beautiful long curly hair, brown in color, she’s smiling and her dark brown eyes shimmer with life. The freckles on her face seemingly dance with joy as she poses for the camera. Who is this girl I wonder? She looks ever so familiar.

My eyes drift from my hands to the mirror before me. The face that reflects back shows no joy. I smile and my teeth don’t shine like the girl in the picture, admittedly it hurts a little. The dark bags beneath my eyes show how worn I feel, luckily my batteries are coffee and adrenaline. The long wavy frizz from my youth has now been traded for the easier to maintain pixie cut. It’s short, it’s manageable and I save a ton of time getting ready in the morning.

Still… the girl in the photo stares up at me, longing to return to the world. But it’s too late for that. I close my eyes and consider why I need to talk to a shrink. The faces of the damned are virtually burned into the underside of my eyelids, so in no time at all I am reminded of why I should make the call.

I return to the couch before I sense any regrets and shuffle around the dishes on the coffee table until the phone finds me. It shimmers like a beacon as its stainless steel glistens in the dim lighting of my apartment.

The lights in the apartment flicker as someone flushes their toilet. I can’t hear it, but I assume it. After making the call, my stomach churns with unease. My eyes wander aimlessly over the piles of clothing, ammo clips, crucifixes until eventually landing on the window. The phone keeps ringing, my stomach all the while doing back flips. The cloudy night sky blocks out the moonlight and the visible buildings from the window are mostly cast in darkness. Finally, a voice breaks the monotony of shrill ringing.

“Excuse me, but do you have any idea what time it is?” The disgruntled and congested sounding voice on the other end sounds none too pleased.

My hesitation coaxes me to look at the clock, which reads roughly quarter past four. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll call back another time.” Regret passes over me and my stomach knots immediately.

“Wait- who is this?” Concern reverberates through the phone.

“My name is Alex, we met on the train.” My voice shook, why was I so nervous about this?

After some brief shuffling, the doctor continues. “Oh yes, I remember. Yes, we should meet. Meet me at the address on the card?”

“Of course. See you then.” Tossing the phone aside my stomach finally begins to relax. He was awfully eager to meet up, I wonder if he could sense something was wrong with me from our first encounter?

I rise from the couch and head over to a pile of clothes, plucking a few choice ones out and smelling them. Fresh. Not so fresh. I hate doing laundry. Finally I settle on a collared sweater with alternating large horizontal black and grey stripes on it, teamed with a pair of dark blue jeans. They’re not skin tight, but lose enough to move in. Never understood why some people wear pants that are skin tight. I slip into the one pair of shoes I have, black lace up dress shoes. I may or nay not have picked them out of the bargain bin, and they may or may not be men’s shoes. I lean near the window and feel the cold seeping in. It’s jacket weather, so I grab one from the coat rack beside the door. It happens to be my favourite, leather and next to no pockets. I grab my keys and wallet and start off when something stops me dead in my tracks.

Do I bring a gun, or not?

Glancing back to the coffee table, the grip of my pistol peeks out from under some papers. It begs me to take it along for the ride and I decide what the hell. I check to ensure it is loaded and put it in the homemade holster built into this jacket.

The trip downtown is a rough thirty minute ride, but my mind is elsewhere. I sit in a car similar to the one where the doctor handed me his card. It flips between my nervous fingers as my mind considers what I could have said or done to have provoked his giving me the card. I remember sitting there and relaxing, then suddenly he turned and said if I ever needed anyone to talk to he was a call away. The card changed from his hands to mine and he vanished into the crowd at the next stop. I glance around the graffiti filled cabin and my mind fixates on a number, etched into the seat across from me.

Triple six. The number of the beast.

If I had been a fan of metal, I’m sure a number of songs would come to mind. Unfortunately, my mind goes elsewhere. It goes to the hour before I got on the train and met the doctor.

***

A terribly fake wooden door stood before me, the number thirty six in inch tall golden numbers and a peep hole were the only things of interest upon it. Knocking upon the door with my left hand, I readied myself. My right hand slid impatiently over the holstered pistol’s grip inside my jacket. The door swung wide, revealing a tall grey faced man with deep dark pits for eyes and teeth sharpened to a point. He spoke first, “Yes-” and then my bullet turned him onto his back. Two others rose from behind his smouldering corpse, a short blue skinned man with horns and red eyes and a taller red skinned man with eyes of fire. My next bullet flipped the shorter man backwards over his chair and the one after that ripped through the drywall beside the red skinned one.

Before I could pull the trigger again, he was upon me and was faster than I could have prepared for. His hand instinctively grabbed the gun, which was both hot from being fired and doused in holy water. He recoiled and my knee gathered the space to his jaw. He toppled backwards in shock and I grabbed the pistol, locking the hammer back. We sat frozen in that moment, he knew this was his end.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Do it!” The man’s voice was raspy and cold with genuine hatred.

“Why were you here? You escape purgatory and come live in this dump?” Admittedly, the apartment was nicer than mine which by comparison was purgatory.

“We… we wanted freedom. Hell is getting awfully crowded.” His burning eyes seemed almost sad. “Plus, I was there for killing someone in self defence! Wasn’t fair in the slightest!”

Considering his words, I locked onto his gaze, and lost myself in the fire. Demons would say anything to survive, so I wasn’t believing this for a second. Although I was told this by an angel, who may not be the least biased person in the universe. “I’m sorry.” My voice turned cold as if I were someone else entirely. “You were the hit.” The hammer falls and his body collapses into a smouldering heap like the other two.

The walk to the train station was cold and wet, with the rain pouring horizontally instead of coming down. I stopped beneath the shelter and shook with a chill. The rain clung to me, soaking through to my very soul and I began to question why the gods would send a man to hell for defending himself. Was he supposed to just die? In the many years I’d worked among angels and demons, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. Angels had a very black and white sense of judgement whereas demons were the grey area in between. Suddenly my mind snaps out its deep thoughts and a man is handing me a card.

***

That must have been it. I was deep in thought about the demon’s final words. Questions kept rising and before I could get another answer, more questions popped up. My trust was waning in the angels, not that demons were gaining it. Suddenly the night sky is above me and I’m standing before a small office building. The card in my hand looks almost identical to the slightly weathered white sign with the doctor’s details on it. When did I get off the train? I shrug to myself and walk up to the door.

Before I have the chance to knock, the doctor greets me. His smile is warm beneath his stubbled chin and cheeks. “Come in Alex.” The black mess of hair atop his head is streaked with grey and barely moves in the early morning breeze. I feel myself hesitate but his calm blue eyes look inviting, albeit tired. I make my way past him as he closes and locks the door. It makes me uneasy, but at the same time I can’t overreact. I’m sure it’s nothing. He rushes past me as I stare at the beautiful images on the walls. One is an archway formed by trees in black and white, while another is a misty lake at sunrise. They are both strangely calming.

“Come Alex, this way please.” He motions into a room and I glance in with caution. The room is a calming light beige color and there is a very stereotypical lounge type couch in the room. A single cozy looking chair sits beside it, with a small table in between. “Well, shall we?” I advance towards the couch and sit on the edge, then slowly turn and lay back. Relaxation creeps up on me and I lose myself until I realize the doctor is sitting at my side.

“Are we comfortable?” He asks the question with such genuine concern I feel compelled to respond. “Yes, of course.”

He clears his throat and adjusts slightly in his chair. “You might be wondering why I gave you my card. Allow me to explain. In all my years as a psychologist, I have never seen anyone deeper in thought than you. I searched your face for some telling sign you needed to talk, but you seemed both torn and lost. Now that we’re past that, is there anywhere you’d like to start?”

His question bursts the dam holding back all the questions of my own. They all flood forth until finally, a single starting point becomes evident.

“I’m a demon hunter employed by the angels in exchange for postponing my death.”

Strangely his demeanour does not change. I suppose this isn’t the strangest thing he’s ever heard.

But this time, it’s true.

Thank You Mr. Bradbury.

For any budding writer, there comes a point when you simply stop and ask yourself:

“Can I go on writing?”

For me this question comes every time I attempt the illusive novel I’ve been working so diligently on. I can create a thousand stories and histories for a world, but to create a single novel feels like trying to climb a mountain while towing a mack truck. With the right tools, maybe.

Nevertheless, I had actually stopped working on it for a few days and began to feel my muse creeping up on me. Well I decided to devote to the other side of writing, reading.

With the new household iPad in tow, I gathered a number of the books I own in PDF form and some I didn’t. One of the books that caught my eye was actually a book by Stephen King. On Writing seemed like exactly what I wanted, one writer’s journey into success.

I could not have been more wrong.

I read in about seventy five pages, then skimmed roughly thirty more. What I realized? Stephen King was a terrible writer. The one thing I gathered from his book however, was he was an excellent editor. Not a bad note to take from a book, but I had wasted some time reading it. I could have spent it coloring or writing my own work.

After I rinsed the words from my eyes I decided to give Ray Bradbury’s book, Zen in the Art of Writing, a go. I mean after reading Stephen King’s memoirs, nothing except Twilight or Fifty Shades of Grey could be worse. I sat down and started reading. Then I kept reading. Then I had to do dishes… yet I continued to read. Then I sadly had to go to work.

I had only managed to read a third of the book, but I realized that Bradbury’s love for writing matched my own. Even at his age his imagination ran wild, frolicking in the meadows of his mind, arm in arm with his muse. Reading his word play and seeing his passion come to life in these humble pages, it completely rejuvenated me! I spent my evening thinking of ideas I would immediately put into play as soon as I could.

But first…

I continued reading, completely entranced by this man’s words. I realized many things while reading his book.

One, I’m no where near publication ready.
Two, write more short stories… and then write more.
Three, write one thousand words a day.
Four, ignore the temptations of wealth.
Five, read more.
Six, do not search for the ultimately unique idea, that is nearly impossible.
Seven, embrace all the senses when writing.
Eight, everyone should read this book.

I continued through to the end and felt more satisfied in the conclusion than in any fiction I’ve read recently. The man stood and delivered from his soapbox, a message that should never be lost. I’m still absorbing what he crammed into those tiny pages, but he gave me exactly what I needed.

Inspiration.

You see, I’ve been overwhelmed with the creation of an entire world. I think I may not believe in God now because one being simply could not create so much without getting distracted by their own creations. One man has two children and suddenly there are hundreds of stories of them separated from each other, together and then in pairs. Then, they arrive at an inn with a blind barkeep who has large scars across his face.

What’s his story?

Well he was attacked by a werewolf and now after taking a sideshow cure, he must remain indoors as he only transforms if he is bathed in the light of the sun.

But what of this sideshow?

Calcorious Malinex, the leader of the circus, began the show when he happened upon a free elephant and a bearded lady. Thinking his luck too good to be true, he continued on until one night he was viciously attacked by a wolf. After slightly curing himself, he now infects others so that he may then sell them the vaccine which may cause death, dismemberment or some random transformation alteration.

What about this glorious cure for werewolves?

Well, when Calcorious began experimenting he found that he had somewhat cured himself, gaining control over most of his transformations. That is until any lunar or solar eclipse, when he uncontrollably transforms and releases the pent up aggression. Other symptoms include daylight transforming, hairless transforming, were-human (always wolf, except human on full moons), control over transforming (except on full moons), weekly transforming and finally weather transforming.

So, I find myself going crazy trying to focus on the story I am trying to write. A long time ago I told a friend of mine that if we wanted to make a game, we couldn’t start out with something huge. We should start small, so we could work as a team and hone our individual skills before embarking on an epic quest to create the one game to rule them all.

It’s ironic that despite being the one who gave the advice, I never followed it either.

I’ve been trying desperately to write the “one novel to rule them all”, and in doing so, began to despise the one hobby I truly love: Writing. As I read of Bradbury and his almost obsessive compulsive writing habits, I realized that his short story writing habits would help me greatly.

So, that brings us to this week.

I finally decided upon an ending I wanted to write and after that, the rest began to fall into place. I imagined the ending I had being the very top brick in a pyramid and from there I began to almost build backward and forward. The story quickly ran away, with me trying to hold on for dear life.

In five days I easily wrote over 8500 words, only really stopping to work, clean, live and edit. This made me consider many things. In five days, I had written one tenth of the first Harry Potter book worth of words. Also, I didn’t stumble over my own creations. I only added what back story was necessary and kept only the main characters with interesting names. I also cut down my word count by changing the main character’s mentor to Jason instead of The Mentor or Her Mentor.

Anyway, without further ado, here is my latest short story. I’m not a praying man, but please, if you read it feel free to leave me any feedback either through the website, my email or even facebook. Any sort of feedback both positive or negative would be extremely appreciated as my plea on facebook fell on deaf ears!

The aptly named “Circle of Vengeance” is a story about an eight year old girl who’s father leaves with a mystery man, only never to return. Ten years of training later she is ready to confront her father’s killer, the self proclaimed greatest swordsman in the realms, and sets out on the journey to his mountain top castle.

It may sound like the typical story of revenge, but please, read it and get back to me! Thanks so much and I hope you’ve enjoyed today’s post!

One final note, this story exists thanks to Mr. Bradbury helping me get past my own hurdles. Thanks Mr. Bradbury. I wish I could have met you when I had the chance!

Memoirs of an Assassin: Silentborn

Why did you decide to become an assassin?

This is the single most asked question of my entire life. Who am I? I will get to that. Eventually. I wish to start this journal off by saying no one ever makes the decision to become an assassin. Sometimes the choices are made for you. Other times you are born into it. Then there are the rare cases; You are just born.

I do not know what I did in a past life, nor do I wish to know. However I, as a rare few, can remember everything as far back as the womb. Some of the memories are jumbled, as at the time I had very little understanding of the world outside, but I did not come into the world as most. Warriors of old wished for their sons to be brought into the world kicking and screaming, the way their glories dictate they will leave this world. Any brute can pick up and swing a sword or axe. It is the children who come calmly into this world who people need to fear most. The ability to let go of the familiar, the lack of fear in the face of the unknown and the calm temperament are simply a pathway to bloodshed. Remember this as you birth your children, peaceful is deadly.

I remember the day I was pulled from my mother. From the piercing brightness of the torches in the room to the woman using a towel to wipe me off. At first their reactions are grim, I suppose they thought me stillborn. Then the woman lowers herself to my mouth and then presses an ear to my chest. She hears either breathing or a heartbeat, to which everyone rejoices. My father stands behind her, almost completely ensconced in the shadows from the pillars in the room. As the woman rushes to tend to my mother, my father leans over to get a better look at me. He is clearly disappointed. I am no warrior.

Was that why I became an assassin? Absolutely not. I am saying I was innocent at birth. I certainly had some traits that would be helpful, however it is the events that follow which shape who I would become.

You see my father had been a protector of the Emperor for several years. I learned this before I hit the age of five. I also began sword fighting and horse riding and things were mostly going well. My father was away a lot and I assumed it was due to his service to the Emperor. I figured out this was not the case as he and my mother frequently fought about his latest payment.

He was now a common thief, banished from the kingdom by the Emperor himself. He had hit the Emperor in a drunken rage and he was spared his life for all of his years of service. My father decided the kingdom still owed him payments and it would be his job to take them.

My father became a folk hero. The man who hit the Godly Emperor and lived. The man who steals from the gods and gives to the peasants. The man who was hardly a father or a husband. Sorry, that last one is not a folk tale. Just the truth.

As his thefts became wide spread knowledge, eventually the Emperor decided to stop the man he allowed to live. This would be a decision that would affect any who would cross him in the future. My father was unsuspecting and pulled off his latest theft and returned home to his loving wife and me, his ever hopeful son. The tracks lead a group of armed warriors to our doorstep.

Some people say moments like these change people. The door bursts into splinters as warriors rush in, disarming my father and knocking him to the ground. Moments like these might change ordinary people. Other warriors drag my mother kicking and screaming into her bedroom. But for me, I’m not ordinary. My father’s blade rests at my feet. Ordinary may have run away. I look down to the sword. Ordinary may have lost control of their bodily functions. I grab the hilt and enter the bedroom. Ordinary doesn’t blend into the shadows so easily. One warrior falls victim to a stab wound at the base of his spine. The shadows don’t shield just anyone. The next warrior doesn’t get a chance to react as his body falls lifeless across my mother. I’m sure if someone were to read this. I leave her scrambling with the lifeless body and make my way to the front door. They would say “How couldn’t this have changed you?” I watch as two warriors force my father to his knees, while one executes him. I say, how could it have changed me? I calmly despatch the warriors in a flurry of swipes and jabs. Especially when it felt completely natural.

I stand, slightly confused over the bodies of three well trained warriors. Three protectors of the Emperor, and my father. He had it coming, however I always had imagined it being away from us. I turn back to our home and can still vividly remember the look on my mother’s face. She was slightly battered and bruised, some of the blood hers and some of it not. Her eyes were not staring at the husband she lost, but they were filled with fear at the child she had brought into this world. Her lips quivered as if trying to utter some words, but only silence filled the air.

I was five years old.

As Promised: Progress!

So I hope many of you enjoyed the last post of my wonderful trip to Melbourne, now that it is mostly behind me (I am still considering seeing what my other options are for this stupid ticket) I push forward back into focusing on my creative writing. I am always writing, but sometimes I focus less on the story progression and more on the idea generation process of writing. Luckily for me, a friend of mine happens to be a writer as well and offered up a blog post for me to dissect and enjoy. As I headed over to her page and read up, I can tell she has gone through something definitely very similar.

So today I told myself, to hell with writing. I decided not to write a single word. Now you’re wondering how I made any progress at all, and I can tell you it probably won’t seem like it to the common blog reader. I have been fighting this large demon called “Organization” and he has been quite the contender. We have been evenly matched, and he frequently pulls out ahead. Damn demons… fighting dirty… Ahem! Anyway, so today was my first victory in the ongoing battle! I took a look at how I write and it is sporadic at best. I write all the time, but I imagine aliens finding my notes long after we are all dead and gone and considering the fact that I may be what ended the world. I swear I’m not crazy! Just a bit… nutty.

Today I armed myself with a new tool before work, I found myself figuring out exactly how I could write as much as I want, never stop and just associate what I wanted. Also, if I die, the USB drive that all this information is on should go immediately onto the internet. You see, I’ve spoken of Excel before and that had its time. But I was still having the issue of other ideas flying in no matter how in the zone I was. Then while I was reading the billions of pages of information on the Wiki of Ice and Fire it all just came together. These fans have created a Wiki about the books, characters, events, and the list goes on. I have no fans to make my wiki for me, however I found out how to create a private one from a USB stick. This may be a temporary fix, but I will be damned if it didn’t feel great! Let me explain why the wiki format has been helpful in my writing thus far.

I started off with Media Wiki and found myself staring at the basis of a writer’s creation… and the bane of our existence. A blank page. I realized (like most men) that instructions probably would be helpful, but who needs those? I searched for something I knew didn’t exist and created my first page. Then I linked that from my main page. And then… I giggled. Not a manly giggle (if one does indeed exist), but a giggle like a school girl who just found out the guy she likes feels the same. Yeah, I think that’s close enough. So after my “Tee-hee!” moment, I began converting some partial ideas into wiki pages. The moment I realized I was potentially wielding the Excalibur of writing tools was when I introduced a new character, then I made a link to a new page in the wiki based off the character’s name. Then I created their back story. And then I kept going, and gave details to the cities that character had visited and the people I mentioned in his biography. And then… I giggled some more. You may have heard me comment that I believe my Muse had “inceptioned” her Muse? Well, now I was following her down the rabbit hole.

Rabbit hole? What the hell am I talking about?! Imagine this for a second. You drop into a completely blank space. A clean canvas completely surrounds you and then you think up, I don’t know, Westell Potts. For me, I imagine him probably different than you do. But now it is you and Mr. Potts. Where does he fit in? For me, Westell sounds like a fat, lazy guard, so we put him in a castle. As the details of who Westell actually is come to fruition, the castle builds itself. Who does he serve? A king? A queen? A… Unicorn? After you make your decision the other details fall into place until finally you have a Kingdom. But is the kingdom on a hill? Near some water? Now you begin filling out the wiki page for the kingdom. Then the king (in my case). Then his devious brother. Then his sullen kingdom of “unworth”. Then why did he get the crappy kingdom? Events unfold. Stories bloom from within the story itself. Finally, I have some manner of organization that works for me. Also because I hate clutter and the such, the clean chaos contained within the wiki allows me a great deal of power at the cost of formatting. Will this be an efficient use of my time? Perhaps not, however if I complete a story because of it… then the investment is worth it indeed!

So as I have told the many who have read my posts before, I will keep you posted. This is meant to be a journal of my works as well as documenting my path to an eventual (and dreamed about) publication. Are any other writers out there using the wiki format? Has it helped? Has the trade off been worth it? I would like to thank the lovely Natalie over at her blog for her continued help and guidance as well as another friend who offered me an email, Ms. Stares, for her helpful hints as well. If anyone would like to leave a comment, or email me feel free! I try and reply to any who take the time to send me a message and it doesn’t even have to be writing related! Thanks for tuning back in to my blog and hope to hear from you readers out there beyond the text box!

Free Writing Short Story: A Whisper Amid The Willows

(Today’s story is a quick practice in free writing, it generally works for short stories and I plan for this one to be very short!)

Horse hooves drone almost in unison, driving dust into the clammy midnight air. In the moonlight, the horses are ridden by a group of hunters. One stops and dismounts, surveying the area to the side of the path. He turns and shouts back to his group. “Aye! It crossed ‘ere.” His gruff voice sends some birds fluttering out of a tree, startled from their perch. The man ties his horse to a nearby tree as the others dismount. Another man, taller yet slimmer in build, wonders over to the side of the path. “Well I’ll be damned, that bloke was tellin’ the truth!” As the group of five gathers around, the full moon glimmers in the small puddle that has formed within a large paw print.

The first man, having tied his horse up, returns to the paw print and kneels beside it. “She said the damn thing was as big as a bear.” The others laugh nervously at the notion, but their confidence is high. After all, five men can take down a bear, what is to stop them from killing a wolf? As the men scatter to tie up their horses, the man kneeling calls out and waves the taller man over. “Aye Christoph, this ‘ere be no normal wolf.” Christoph laughs, his voice cracking slightly, hinting at fear. “What are you sayin’ Papa? You believin’ in werewolves?” His father shakes his head. “No. This ‘ere’s a silvermane paw print.” He stands holding a small bit of shimmering silver fur, and he takes a deep breath. “I wish it were a werewolf.”

As  father and son take point, the other three cover them from behind. “Clay, what do ya think a silvermane looks like?” A man looking as if he’s seen many hunts in his day turns to face the young man who questioned him. “A silvermane, boy?” He chuckles to himself at the boy’s startled reaction. “A silvermane ain’t no ordinary dog, nor is it a wolf. No. The silvermane is a rare magical creature. Its fur shimmers in the moonlight, but that is only if it wants ya ta see it.” He judges the boy’s reaction and turns to the other man taking up the rear. “Tell me, Sharn, ya ever seen a silvermane?” Sharn looks sternly at Clay and shakes his head. “No Clay, I can’t say I’ve ever seen one. But I think you shouldn’t fill Dayden’s head with stories. He’s more nervous than a hen in a fox den.” They both turn to Dayden and notice he is visibly shaken. Clay nods to Sharn. “Aye, but that’s all they are. Just stories.”

“Papa, why are we hunting this animal if it is so rare?” Christoph looks to his father’s eyes for the answer. “It’s become a man-eater and once they get the taste for flesh, they continue to hunt it.” As they come to a slight overhang, they wait for the rest of the group to catch up. Christoph clears his throat. “Do you think we’ll find it?” His father turns to him and grins wildly. “I think we’re on the right track.” His eyes dart to Christoph’s feet where more fur can be seen shimmering in the moonlight. As Clay and crew catch up he glances between the boy and his father. “Why’ve we stopped Mandarus?” Christoph looks to his father, astonished by the fact someone used his full name. Mandarus looks between the members of the group. “Because, we’re catching up. So I want you blokes to be ready for it.”

As the men descend the steep hill near the overhang, they trees seem to have grown closer together. Mandarus readies an arrow and looks to his son. The silent nod gives Christoph a vote of confidence in his father. Clay begins to travel wide, and Sharn and Dayden go wide away from him to the right. A slight snapping of a twig sends everyone’s head spinning, and the group sees a small pheasant rushing through the brush. Mandarus easily pins the bird to a tree, and the group stifles a laugh. “Damn bird nearly scared the piss outta me!” Christoph shakes his head to his father’s grin. Mandarus turns to Sharn and Dayden and they shake their heads. As he turns to get the approval of Clay, he finds him out of sight. “Clay?” Mandarus whispers in anger. “Clay, where’d ya go?” As they walk over near where he was, a small tuft of silver fur shimmers in the moonlight. As the group tightens their formation, a breeze blows the scent of wet dog into the air.

Meanwhile on the path, a group of travelling monks come across a group of horses tied to some trees. One monk turns to another and grins. “My prayers have been answered!” As he rushes over to the nearest horse, the other monk shakes his head. “I doubt that, I believe these horses are here for a reason! They are most likely a group of hunter’s horses.” As the two pause to consider that fact a slight breeze carries the scent of wet dog and a slight murmur. “Did you say something?” The monk by the horses turns sharply toward the other. “No… did you hear something?” As the two monks stand staring at each other, it comes again. “…Hellllp…” Suddenly the small group of monks flock to the horses and tear off into the night. The horse hooves drone almost in unison, driving dust into the clammy midnight air.

Yet Another Sporadic Post: The Writing Process

First off, anyone who has not watched a single episode of Game of Thrones should run out and do so now. The show is shot so beautifully and is extremely well adapted from the novels. This leads me to my next mission: I am currently hammering out my world, my characters and my story. As I do so much research into the process behind writing and organization I realize there is still so much I don’t even know about my own world. I once started a story Wiki in hopes I could get all the information laid out in one spot. What I found there was as you write, you rewrite more in your wiki than you do anywhere else. The idea was fantastic, the execution, not so much.

As I have said in prior articles, I used to “free write” if you would. I would sit at a computer or a notepad and just write. Let the ideas pour onto the page. As I tried to be four steps ahead of myself I found I was finishing less and less, and my writing was actually suffering. In fact, even as I write this article, I am simply free writing. It is one thing that is extremely easy to do, yet also completely and utterly useless. I have planned only a few articles, and they shine above all of my others. One of them almost became published, until they realized that I had already posted the work online. They wanted completely original works. So be careful what you post online, it’s already out there and many people aren’t interested what they can already see for free.

Free writing is the parkour of the writing world, and it is a tough monster to master. It is not for the clumsy, just like parkour! What I mean is having a structure, a plan, a method to the madness is a damn good way to make your writing better. I ramble on and on sometimes about god knows what and it seems like I may even know what I’m talking about. Perhaps I do, and perhaps I don’t, but the one thing that I am sure about is that my structured writing is always much better than my free writing. Why is that? I’m glad you asked!

Structure allows for you to maintain the correct motion for your story or article. As you proceed forward your writing can always look back upon itself, but you must still have a purpose for that. I have been known to occasionally write myself into circles. A story that seems like it is going somewhere is not as good as a story that is going somewhere. Also, keep people’s interest. Two of the most popular fantasy series to date are among the most descriptive stories ever written. I’m talking about Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones. Both of these writers knew their worlds inside and out, and I will bet that George R.R. Martin remembers virtually every bit of dialogue from his novels. But in both of these stories there are tremendous amounts of purpose and direction. In Lord of the Rings we have the one ring getting ever closer to its eventual end and in Game of Thrones we have many factions fighting for the throne. In Game of Thrones it is harder to see the progression, but the easiest example to point out is that of Daenerys Targaryen. She is someone who, without spoiling too much, has travelled a long way and has experienced much on the path to obtaining her main goal.

These stories are exceptional pieces of fiction, the same goes for The Hunger Games and Harry Potter.  Do you think any of these stories had no planning involved? Absolutely not. My writing process thus far has been pretty simple and I would say, start with these.

  • Read, Watch, Play, Learn – The more you know, the richer your stories become.
The next questions are actually from Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail.
  • What is your name? – Writing a character you know makes the writing more powerful, but it is easy to make up a character and know them. After all, you did create them!
  • What is your quest? – Do you seek the Holy Grail? Perhaps a shrubbery? You must know what the main storyline is. The character and the plot are what move the story. Is it possible to have more than one point of view? Of course! Does that make it a million times harder? Yes, of course it does. Stick with one point of view until you feel comfortable switching. One of the best parts of a book is being given that bit of information or insight into a character’s mind that may tell you more about them than their actions ever could.
  • What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow? This question seems irrelevant, but that was its point. Keep focused on your story. If something seems out of place, then it probably is. Cut it. Yes it is hard to cut something, especially whole chapters or even characters, but sometimes things just don’t fit in. You must reread your work. Be fruitful with your ideas, harsh with your criticisms and trim the fat.

So you’ve got your character, your plot and a bunch of notes scribbled haphazardly across a page. Fantastic, you’re a writer. There are a few million exactly like you. Now how do you get better? Repeat those steps above, repeatedly. How do you get published? I am still trying to figure that one out myself. You can self publish, especially with eBooks these days. But hopefully you will be able to hone your writing skills a little better with these suggestions.

Also in my previous post, I tossed out a template for keeping track of story information. I have expanded from just two sheets, to a hefty five, and could easily add a creatures sheet as well. I have my Plot Line sheet, and then four mimicking the Character tracking sheet. Those four are Characters, Places, Items and Lore. I hope that if this idea makes it from here to publication, people will be able to read the exact way that I worked it out as I wrote because that is the one thing I cannot find online.

So many writers have a “How To Write” blog, book, app, class or video… but how many of those writers are successful? I swear there is some kind of writer’s guild that forbids successful writers from making useful and helpful tutorials into their writing success. If anyone finds a great one, please feel free to pass it on to me. After reading this I am sure you probably think I need just as much help as you may need!

That is it for now, until this canuck-amuck’s next sporadic update, farewell and feel free to email me or comment below!

How To Plan Out Your Story: The TJ Edwards Way

It’s 3 AM and my mind is elsewhere. After just watching Star Wars IV, I have found myself thinking about what a great side story would be. As I ponder the events behind the scenes of Luke Skywalker’s eventual secret apprentice, I also wonder how many people don’t know where to start writing. Am I a master wordsmith? Do I forge a scene with only the greatest of words? Hardly. In fact, I am just like most who have taken up writing: A hobbyist. Does that mean you can’t be organized? No! In fact organization is key to being able to continue on with your writing. Trust me, I’ve tried many kinds of writing and thus far organized is the best. Why? Well I’m glad you asked!

If you travel back through the posts on this blog you will find some articles, some posts and some works of short fiction or as I penned it, episodic fiction. I hated the idea of knowing where my story was going to end up, so the episodic content was fantastic for keeping me entertained as a writer. This kind of writing is very enjoyable but the issue is without knowing where you’re going, you simply cannot tie it all together.

For Example: In some of the best books, there is a lot of foreshadowing. This makes for even more realistic worlds and also it makes you think back to earlier times in that same world. This makes the story more engaging and through clever uses, very potent. For example if you’ve read the Harry Potter series (If you haven’t, shame on you) then the entire sequence of events involving Hermoine and her Time Turner pendant is the greatest and most fun example. The events were set up with certain things in mind, and then later on relived through the other view point. JK Rowling is a fantastic author and the Harry Potter series is a fantastic example for any budding writer, no matter what genre you write for.

Rowling-Planning
This may get the ball “Rowling” but she already knew where the story was going by this point. It didn’t work for me!

Now, how did JK Rowling plan that out? There is a good question. I’ve been searching online for answers and I swear that will be the only question I ask her when I meet her… eventually. But I have seen one of her cryptic note sheets for Order of the Phoenix and what I have gathered was her penmanship was terrible for that page, and she is also very organized. She did set herself time goals as this was a later book, but by this time she was already experienced. I’m putting this out there because it may help one of you out there get organized. What I really want to see is how she organized straight from “Who is Harry Potter” to Philosopher’s Stone publication.

That aside, I really believe her writing to be a great tool for any budding writer. But we’re not here to talk about how she managed to organize herself. You still have to get organized! Even when I did my episodic fiction, I had an idea of what was going to happen at least in the next episode. I have managed to write hundreds of pages, I’ve even written seven chapters of a story I’ll never finish, but the hardest part has been completing a single novel. It’s no simple task. Even finishing the planning phase weeds out many wannabe writers.

To start, I decided I needed to figure out how I could organize and what made sense to me. I searched for timeline creators online and eventually broke down and made my own excel timeline with character sheet. It’s not pretty, but I’ll be damned if it hasn’t done well in organizing my thoughts. As with all the information here, these are just tools. This may work for you, this may not. But what I hope these do is give you an excellent idea or inspire you to your own crazy “Rowling-style” sheet. Also, I would seriously recommend even using another spreadsheet on there to make family trees. It may seem ridiculous at first but the more you know about your world, even if it seems irrelevant at the time, the more control and the richer your story becomes.

Plot and Character Template (This is a very rough template, its in Excel!)

The hard part! This is important. SCOPE, SCOPE, SCOPE! Do not get lost in the side stories and there will be plenty. Try and limit yourself to going too far off topic. I have the most trouble in this area. I have been writing a story and get caught up in someone’s back story that suddenly I am writing a story within a story. “Inception-ing” my own story doesn’t keep me productive. Yes, if I eventually ever make it back to my main story it will be very story rich, but if something seems more interesting it is hard to go back to the main idea. For families go back only one level or two farther than you have to, or else you could draw up the very lineage of all of your families. Not that all that information wouldn’t come in handy, but it will steal your attention from the main idea.

Plot focus first. As you sit down decide who your main character is, what their goal is and plot their path. Do the following for every plot point: Push the story forward, ensure relevance, add any new characters into the tracker, feel free to add any cities or items into the tracker as well. Any relevant information should be recorded and put forward.

Okay, well for now that is where I am up to. As I continue to write I will post some progress on here and feel free to give me feedback or let me know if you’re using the template. If you make any additions to it let me know and please do me a favour and point people back to this website! I could use all the traffic I can get! I’ll write again soon!

The Middle Class Assassin: The Recruitment Process

(This is only Episode Three, Head to Episode One, Tough Times or the previous episode, A Life Of Routine)

As I walked the kilometre to the front door, I saw water features, swans, and the best for last; A Ferrari. There were many nice cars there, but that one stood out to me. I walked up the the front door and noticed it was open. As I entered people passed by me with delicacies and drinks. After snagging a free glass of wine, I began the search for Dwayne. I moved in and out of the crowd, careful not to disturb anyone, and finally Dwayne spotted me and waved me over. He was talking with a man I had seen through our post office before. He turned to me with a cheeky grin and assessed me through squinted eyes. “Ah you must be Brad? I am quite pleased to meet you.”  As the man shook my hand, a slight grazing of his suit sleeve made my fingers tingle it was so incredibly made. “Yes it’s a pleasure to meet you as well, but your name would be?” He looked to Dwayne and smiled before returning his gaze to me. “I’m Liam Theeson, I’m technically Dwayne’s superior.” Dwayne shrugged and laughed nervously, “Yeah, well except in hand to hand.” Liam laughed confidently and began to make his exit. Before getting too far he called back to me, “And don’t forget to enjoy the party!”

Dwayne watched Liam walk away. He was staring and then snapped back to me. “Listen, I need you to watch my Uncle Larry for a few minutes, if I’m not back in fifteen minutes, he’ll need his medicine. They’re in the bathroom cabinet. Whatever you do, have him sit down before he takes them, he always gets dizzy. Did you get all that?” I look over to Uncle Larry and then nervously back to Dwayne. “Uhh fifteen minutes, medicine, bathroom cabinet, make sure he sits.” Dwayne slapped me on the shoulder so hard I could already feel his hand print swelling on my skin. “Thanks pal.” I noticed him rush back over to Liam and they began chatting again. I began to wonder if Liam would have a job for me. I shrugged it off and decided to go chat up Uncle Larry.

A short stout man with a dirty comb over and a goatee to match, Uncle Larry seemed quite the sleaze. “Hey, look. Check out the bazongas on that one!” As I endured these comments, fifteen minutes went past and even Uncle Larry was starting to get edgy for his medicine. “Hey I saw you talking to Dwayne, did he tell you where he put my stuff?” I nodded politely and helped his fat carcass off the seat he was stuck in. As we made our way upstairs, I waited patiently at the door while he took his pills. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff…” He stared into the mirror and then looked to me. “Well back to the bazongas?” I shook my head, “Sorry, but Dwayne told me to make sure you sit down because the pills make you dizzy.” Suddenly Uncle Larry became hostile. “What the fuck? Pills make me dizzy? Since when does e make me dizzy?” I stared at him for a moment. “E? As in ecstasy?” Uncle Larry was approaching full blown rage. “Of course ecstasy! What else would make…” His words trailed off for a moment as he looked at me. I grabbed him by the shirt and sat him on the toilet. “Dwayne said this would happen, he said you’d… get…” I felt my own words trail off as I watched Uncle Larry’s eyes roll into his head and a white foam run from his mouth. “Holy shit!” The words had no sooner slipped from my mouth and I had him on the floor and was beating onto his chest for CPR.

Moments felt like years and then suddenly, everything was silent. I was standing over poor dead Uncle Larry, who no matter how sleazy he was didn’t deserve this. I quickly washed my hands and made my way downstairs to find poor Dwayne. On the day of his big party too, jeez. I was officially the worst friend in the world. As I finally found him, I pulled him aside. “Uhh Dwayne, I’ve got some bad news.” Dwayne was smiling and waving at someone else half listening, half hosting. “Yeah, what’s up?” I looked around for the right words, and then I blurted them out. “Larry’s dead.” In a moment of self reflection, I regretted it the moment I said it. He turned to me and grinned. “I hoped you’d say that.” I was shocked to find that Dwayne wasn’t surprised by this. Shock didn’t describe it actually. But as I watched, Dwayne walked forward and tapped a spoon on his glass to get everyone’s attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a new assassin among us, Mister Flint!” Dwayne spun and pointed to me and I stood there, dazed by the turn of events. Suddenly, he picked up the announcements again. “Also for any of you who were betting I couldn’t pull of a kill through an unknowing recruit, please feel free to leave your bet in the glass vase by the door. One less politician in the world today!” Everyone raised their glasses and clinked glasses with the person next to them. “So that wasn’t Uncle Larry, Dwayne?” I asked amid the laughter and talking. He turned to me and smiled. “Not even close. He was a crooked guy who was blackmailing the soon to be President. In fact, you technically just worked for the government.” I shook my head as Liam put an arm around me. “Son, you’ve got what it takes to be a strong potential. You’re average enough no one will notice you and you’re average enough that you can be trained as a jack of all trades, potential master of none. Now that you’ve been implicated we can ask, would you like to know more?” I shook my head in silent agreement. “Perfect! I’ll see you on Monday. I hate working weekends.” As I walked away Dwayne called to me, “Hey Brad, take the betting vase with you, thanks for the help today!”

The Middle Class Assassin: A Life Of Routine

(This is only Episode Two, so don’t fret and catch up at The Middle Class Assassin: Tough Times!)

Arriving home I opened the door and yelled the ever so clichéd, “Honey, I’m home!” I stood at the door for a minute waiting for something… anything. “Hmm, well I guess no one wants these presents I got!” Suddenly I heard the sound of giggling and laughing as my kids came running around the corner. Vanessa made it to me first, two years old and she could outrun her four year old brother. Not bad for a little tyke. As she stared up at me with those two big hazel eyes, she mispronounced her expectation. “Pwesent?” I could feel the smile drift across my face. “Yeah, I’ve got it right here!” As I tickled her, she flailed in hopes of making an escape. Meanwhile Samuel, her brother, watched on. “I don’t want that present!” He then disappeared into the kitchen. As I picked Vanessa up, she was still giggling when I carried her into the kitchen to see if I could find my beautiful wife.

“How was Dwayne?” She said quietly, knowing that was the exact reason I was late. Her name was January, but she was as warm as a summer’s breeze. “He’s doing great actually, invited me to some party next week.” I leaned in and kissed her rosy cheek. No matter the day, she never wore make up, and in my eyes that made her even more beautiful. “How went the job hunt?” I asked while I tried to fend off the attention grabbing attempts from Vanessa. “I have an interview this week, but it doesn’t seem hopeful. I mean they said you need a degree, and I don’t, but they called me back anyway.” She looked to me with a hint of concern. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, but go in there thinking you’ve already got the job. Confidence means so much, so believe in your experience. Believe that the interview is because of that.” A bright smile lit up across her face. “You’re so right, you always know just what to say.” She sighed happily and managed to sneak me a kiss amid the flailing of a two year old. “Supper will be ready shortly.”

That night is a blur between putting the kids to bed, making love and thinking about half a million dollars. Really, what could I do with that? In fact I might as well fast forward to the next week as the days leading up to the party could not have been any more routine than if they had been scripted. I think I actually heard a laugh track then I tripped on the same run in the carpet three days in a row. But Thursday came and I woke up with some renewed vigor. I shaved, showered, gelled my hair and put on my best suit. I stared at myself in the mirror. “Damn, I look incredible.” I kissed the ever so lovely January adieu, hopped in my car and turned the key. Nothing. I turned it again. Nothing. I beat on the steering wheel as if to kill the damn thing. I beat it so hard that my hand was sore. I walked in to let January know but she was already in the shower, why disturb her?

I stood at the bus stop in the sweltering heat. The suit breathed like plastic wrap, and was probably half as comfortable, so I was relieved when a cloud finally blocked out the sun. Relieved until that blessing became a curse. At first I ignored it, a slight feeling of something on my face. I wiped away and there was nothing. Suddenly, I was being assaulted by a torrential downpour. Damn this world and my horrible luck. If it wasn’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all. As I stood there accepting the rain, finally the bus came down the street. As it pulled close to the curb, neither the driver nor I saw the puddle before it was too late. The door to the bus opened and I was even more soaked from head to toe than I was moments ago. The driver looked exceptionally apologetic as he attempted an apology. “Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, this storm came out of nowhere!” I smiled a little. “Yeah, just like that puddle.” As I turned to look down the bus, I saw people moving bags onto seats and pushing over so there was no room for me. Real nice, but I couldn’t blame them. After all, I looked like Swamp Thing.

As I stood in the aisle dripping, people made their way out the back door of the bus, or the front. Really just the opposite direction of me. As the driver came to a stop after the majority of the people got off, he declared the next would be his last. I was concerned and decided to question that. “Wait, don’t you go uptown?” The driver kindly shook his head. “I’m sorry son, but we only do that during peak hours. You probably had just missed the uptown bus as I start the next run after that.” I shook my head in disbelief. The driver made his way to the next stop and as everyone else got off, I slowly made my way to the exit when the door closed in front of me. “Where are you headed uptown?” I told him and he grinned. “Well you’re in luck, that’s on the outskirts and close to the terminal. I’ll swing you by as I take this bus to fuel up.” I breathed a sigh of relief. It was about time some good luck came my way.

As the bus dropped me off outside some huge steel gates, I felt compelled to tell him this couldn’t be right. I walked up and noticed an intercom by their mailbox. I pushed the “Call” button and suddenly the oh so familiar voice of Dwayne came over the speaker. “Hello, hello? Is this thing even working?” I grinned. “Dwayne, it’s me! Brad!” I could still hear some fighting with the technology on the other end. “Hello!? Brad? Did you say Brad? If that’s you Brad, the gate is… open!” I walked towards it and gave it a push, it didn’t budge. “Uhh Dwayne? It’s not opening.” After a string of cursing, the gate finally began to open. As they opened, Dwayne announced over the speaker, “Welcome to Chateau De Dwayne!”

The Middle Class Assassin: Tough Times

(Today I am starting episodic content based off my “Mediocre Assassin” short story. If you’re unfamiliar with it, feel free to read it here.)

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. As I watched the absolute seconds pass on a clock on the wall, eventually it signalled the end of my shift. Let me fill you in. My name is Brad Flint, and up until a year ago I was the CEO of a major corporation. As many companies felt the recession, I was one of the casualties. As someone in the board felt that I was being paid too much, they cut me to pave the way for a new, cheaper CEO. Months passed and I found it hard to find a job anywhere. At thirty four years of age, it was actually damn near impossible. Sadly, we had to sell the acreage we lived on for a more modest dwelling. Still unemployed and looking for work, I found myself getting to know recruiters and they were getting to know me. But the day everything began to change, was the day my wife lost her job.

Two kids. A house we owned, but electricity and gas that we never could. As both of us tried our best to acquire new jobs, we had a tough time convincing the kids that everything was okay. We would spend all of our efforts with them trying to be positive, trying to find jobs. Once night fell and the kids were in bed, my wife would burst into tears in my arms. I always told her everything would work out. Our luck had to change sooner or later. I mean, do people really have bad luck for their entire lives?

So eventually I found a job as the clerk for the local post office. Local post office, just not my local. A half hour drive away, the small town for some strange reason had the busiest place I’d ever seen. This was where I met Dwayne Longstead. This guy when I first started was a regular guy: Average frame, no tattoos, basic smile. As time went on he and I became really good friends, one might even say the best of friends. I’d been working there for almost four months, but sadly my wife still hadn’t found a job. This brings us up to speed on where I am now. Tick. Tock. Oh yeah, I’m already done.

Dwayne stood outside waiting for me. The guy was probably mid thirties like me, however if you saw him and I side by side, he looks like a supermodel. In the past few months Dwayne became obsessed with super heroes and action movies. He started working out more than he brushed his teeth. Oh yeah, and he got some dental work done. Remember how I described him? Regular guy? Now the damn guy was some kind of Adonis, his muscles had muscles, his tan had a tan, and I can only assume he got that tan from his incredible smile. It was hard for me to hate the guy, he worked harder than anyone and travelled a lot. He worked so hard nowadays that I had forgotten he came around the first and third Thursday of every month to take me to lunch. Must be Thursday today… Good to know.

Dwayne immediately grinned when he saw me. “Jesus Brad, you’re looking great.” I looked at myself. I had managed to buy meat again since I started working there and had put some weight back on. I was also not as pale as I used to be. “Thanks Rockstar, nice tattoos by the way.” Dwayne laughed to himself. “Oh these things? Has it been that long since you saw me last? Look it doesn’t matter! What’s new with you, how’s the wife and the kids?” He somehow always had this way of getting you excited about anything, he was like a giant muscular, tattooed puppy. I smiled at the thought of him with big floppy ears and replied. “They’re okay…” Dwayne may have seemed naive to me at first, but after getting to know him more and more the guy was as sharp as a samurai sword. “Is everything going well with the house?” He nailed it. Right on the head. Never failed to impress the ever loving crap out of me. “Yeah, not so good on that front Dwayne.” I felt as though I had kicked that excited, muscular puppy with the look Dwayne was giving me. “Damn man, well lunch is on me today.”

We walked into Ellen’s Diner and there was Ellen, smoking a cigarette behind the bar and gabbing away on the telephone. We seated ourselves as always and before I knew it everything was pouring out of me. “I told them I’d have the money, but they wouldn’t listen. So I may have borrowed some money… illegally.” Dwayne stared at me with one eyebrow raised. “Illegally? Did you rob a bank?” I laughed the notion off. “Uh, no. But I did get it from a loan shark.” I was then on the receiving end of the most disapproving look ever since my Dad caught me looking through his porn collection. “I could have loaned you the money Brad!” Dwayne was virtually yelling at the top of his lungs, but I decided not to give in. Calm and quiet, I replied to him. “I owe you enough, but thank you. I know you’ve been there for me in the past few months unlike anyone before you, but I didn’t want to burden you. I mean, you just moved uptown.” Dwayne sighed heavily and ran his hands over his head. “Did you ever think I moved uptown because I’m doing a lot better?” I shrugged. “Of course, why would anyone move uptown?” Dwayne shook his head just as our meals arrived. Ellen stood beside the table smiling. “I just assumed the usual, but if you change your mind let me know.” She sensed the tension and walked away, but not before making a comment under her breath. “Geez, a thanks would have been nice… or even a nod… I hate customers.”

As we ate in silence, the food worked wonders to ease the tension. Something about a nice, juicy steak with gravy and mashed potatoes just eases all of my woes out the door. As we both sat back, arms resting on the back of the booth, we caught each other just grinning. Dwayne leaned forward first, shaking his head. “Brad, I have a proposition for you. I make roughly half a million dollars a year, and I work part time. How would you like to do the same thing?” I was shocked, half a million? No wonder he moved uptown. “Uh, yeah. But do I have to be as ripped as you are?” Dwayne laughed and shrugged. “You don’t have to be, but it helps in my line of work. If you’re interested, you’ll need next Thursday off to attend a small gathering at a friend’s place.” I grinned wildly. I hadn’t socialized since I had my first kid ten years ago. “Hell yeah, that sounds awesome.” Dwayne grinned from ear to ear at my response. “Glad to hear it, wear your finest suit. Oh and bring your ‘A’ game.” As he got up he handed Ellen enough money for both our meals and she got caught grinning as well. “Thanks D-Dog!” As Dwayne walked out of the Diner, he just kept shaking his head at her comment. I laughed and she glared at me. “What? That’s what I call him.” I pondered what this party was going to be for, but it almost didn’t matter. Socializing and half a million dollars… what would I do with that? I spent the next little while daydreaming until I decided to head home for the day.