Tag: practice

Power Level, Over Three Thousand?

Oh Dragon Ball Z… you still slay me after all these years.

But seriously… my blog has finally reached another milestone, of three thousand views. I want to thank all of you who actually swing by and donate some of your time to making me feel important. It may not seem like much to happen upon someone’s site and take a quick look, but to me? That means a lot! There aren’t many people in my life outside of this blog that I share my writing with and even fewer who actually care. Sometimes as a writer, you feel as though you are the only one who really gives a damn about your story. No one makes time for it. No one helps you with it. You are alone in a vast imaginary wasteland of your own devising.

Your quick stop by? It is like the shining light that makes me continue through that lonely darkness. The comments? Like a message in a bottle found on the beaches of despair. You are not alone, the only message inside.

No no, don’t read this wrong! I am not depressed! But I want to express the feelings of every blogger out there, that feeling of writing something and having no one view it or that feeling of having even just one person view it! Your few minutes is beyond welcome and I cannot express my gratitude enough.

*Sniff* So thanks again!

Ahem! *Cough* Moving on. So I’ve been embarking on a journey of trying to learn a third language… Which is harder than expected. Firstly, how the hell did I ever learn English?! Immersion definitely helped. But then how did I learn French?! Oh right… French Immersion (Ou, L’Immersion Francais… I know, difficult translation, right?) But now… I’m staring at these Kanji and Kana and my brain can recognize some of the Kana already and I know the sounds. But there is one thing I’m not sure on… grammar. Also, how certain things change depending on what symbol comes after it. My brain melted at trying to translate the very first line of one of the video games I bought while I visited Japan.

From what I have gathered… it has something to do with a birthday. Shortly thereafter, I had a nap. My Uncle had told me while I was in Japan he still can’t read some signs (he’s been there twenty five years… what chance do I have?), he also said learning to speak it was easier. Sadly, not all my games dictate what is happening on the screen to me. As it stands, I have three books on Japanese and a memory like game to help me recognize and register the different Kanji and Kana. My goal is to eventually write my uncle a letter in Japanese, admittedly most likely poor Japanese… but a letter nonetheless!

As for my writing, the blog has been doing well at getting me back into the habit. (Thanks again!) Sometimes I wish I could just head to a positive space for my writing needs every single day. Sadly my routine starts at six in the morning with the puppies and then work, followed by either cooking or cleaning from dinner followed by spending some time with my partner and the pups before heading back off to bed around ten in the evening. I’ve tried to write on my breaks at work (what an impossibility that is) and I never accomplish anything. Currently I am writing on my days off (so… see you next Tuesday most likely…) but hopefully soon I will be able to get out of work on time as we will be back up to the full compliment of management.

Also in the realm of writing, I appear to require more effort into describing scenes and people. My story is action and dialogue driven… but the feedback I have received is that there are only a few places where I have gone into detail. Perhaps I should have been a scriptwriter instead? Oh well… as an effort here is the scene I am currently writing in, from my own perspective, as practice.

***

My beard itches as I lean against the back of the couch. I remember now why we bought this one, as it’s embrace cuddles me like a throne of pillows. I satisfy my beard’s itch with my right hand, while my left one slides across the suede like texture of the cushions. I feel a quick prick, as my hand drifts onto the brown microfibre blanket covering the majority of the couch. Damn dogs… My fingers pluck a thin and pointed burr from the plush blanket. They’re lucky I love them. I secretly drop it into my girlfriend’s box of teaching things, which looks about as well organized as a game of fifty-two pick up. She wasn’t feeling well yesterday, so she probably just tossed it onto the couch, in my spot. I feel a bit like Sheldon Cooper from the TV Show, The Big Bang Theory. It’s in my spot… That’s my spot. I chuckle to myself as my right hand finds another pointed burr. I toss it onto the table, past my silver and black Chromebook.

With a twinge, I learn forward and push the tiny burr into a small pile of other similar pointy objects. Stupid back… stupid spot just below my ribs. I shrug the short dull pain off as I glance to a pile of three books on the “el cheapo” coffee table. The table was free, so I won’t argue. It still serves its purpose. The books are stacked three high; Japanese Bilingual Dictionary, The Kodansha Kanji Learner’s Dictionary and a book on Japanese Kanji and Kana. Roughly a sixty dollar investment into being frustrated. I’ve already managed my sixty dollars of frustration, time to move into productivity. Suddenly my laptop hits a song I like by Them Crooked Vultures and pumps it through my headphones. So much for that. I listen close as the song powers on, its distracting melody pleasuring my ear drums.

My eyes drift from the laptop to my beautiful TV as my fingers pump away at the Macbook-like keyboard before me. Fifty five inches of sexy LG goodness on top of a bookshelf from IKEA; one of those four by two even square shelves, The Kallax. The two latest Playstation consles sit just below the TV on top of the shelf, amid the blanket of dust. Seems I’m not only neglecting my writing… I consider playing a game, but the one I am in the middle of just isn’t keeping my attention. With so little time to do what I want, I’ve considered cutting it loose. The clutter below the consoles in the TV’s cabinet are behind glass and not as dusty at least. I skim across the spines of my collection of Marvel graphic novels, which when placed in order, create a landscape photo with the various heroes side by side. It’s a fantastic idea however, I’ve begun putting things in front of them. A card for my own birthday over a month ago, various Japanese knick-knacks and two books block the majority of the Marvel spines.

My eyes stop on the final of the four top panels and behind the class door is a small obsession of mine. Seven books, all silk bound hard covers, all philosophy and self help books. My self diagnosed O.C.D. arranged them in colour order: Yellow, Orange, Red, Maroon, Purple, Blue, Green. My eyes drift over the titles: The Prince, The Art of the Samurai, The Art of War, Marco Polo’s Silk Road, The Prophet, Tao Te Ching and The Five Rings. The amount of wisdom contained within those books is like having your own life lesson course in a glass case. I shift my legs out from under me and stretch across to the other lounge chair, until I’m comfortably on my side. What is the point of all of this? Will this make me a better writer?

The shelf in the corner looms in the shadows of the room, with virtually the entire Barnes & Noble leather-bound collection on its top two shelves. I shift back into a cross legged position as my back protests resting on my elbow, while I consider pulling down a book to read. George R. R. Martin’s advice was to read, anything and everything, fiction and non, in the quest to write better. From Isaac Asimov’s Foundation Trilogy to Poe’s complete Tales and Poems and further along to Ray Bradbury and HP Lovecraft; I stare at the shelf in awe. It is as if I have all my favourite authors watching over me, trying to guide me onto the path to success. I lean back and stare at what I’ve written on my Macbook mockery. The word count rings in at nearly fifteen hundred as Them Crooked Vultures loops back around and breaks into possibly my favourite riff of all time. I shrug off the idea of editing the blog post, and smile at my reflection in the TV before me. Welcome back my muse, shall we get started then?

***

Practice makes perfect right? If anyone has any suggestions into my ability to describe or how I could better use description… I’d love to know. I don’t think I used smell in my above description, but then again… I hope my house doesn’t smell at all! Anyway, I’m off to eat and write a quick short story before I practice some Japanese! It’s noon already and the day flies by when you’re having fun… hope you’re all having a good day out there and thanks again for stopping by! If you’d like me to read some of your stuff, just post it in the comments! I will get to it eventually, I promise! (I still have a few to read already, so it may be a bit!) Anyway thanks and take care! Hope everyone out there is winning!

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.