Sasha

This is one of many sort of "Free Writes" if you will that I've been doing (nearly) daily in hopes of getting myself more used to writing and sharing stuff. I've been writing them on a more physical medium and then posting them on my bedroom door for any to see, but I thought that, with this one, I might put myself out there a little more.

Do note that this is not a copy of what I wrote in one night, but a revised version. That's right, you, the reader, are getting a better version of what my sister had to suffer through! Comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms are strongly desired! Thanks (even if you don't comment) for taking the time to read this.


  The sharp crack of pottery woke Sasha. Before she fully came to her senses, she was on her feet, her thick hardwood quarterstaff balanced precisely in her hands. She listened attentively to the night around her, searching for any further sound. Her mind began to shake off its sleep-induced stupor, and she focused on what she heard.
   A mild breeze blew outside the mud walls of her house, hissing between the hardy branches and grass that grew in the surrounding desert. A muted chirping sounded from far off, a rarity in the harsh climate. Out in the streets, she heard the low murmur of some townspeople out and about, carousing and gambling, likely. Even the livestock seemed loquacious. But these noises buried the telltale sounds of something nearby, something shrill but quiet. Sasha concentrated on this sound alone, muting all other sounds in her mind. It sounded like a rock drawn against rock, long and deliberate. It definitely came from somewhere within the house. Cautiously, Sasha moved into the hallway beyond her room.
  She paused just outside her room's curtain, alert for any sign of an intruder. The house was dark aside from the light shining through the curtain in her father's room, where the scraping seemed to originate. She prowled toward the light warily, her years of training keeping her wary for anything. She reached the curtain, the scratching sound now easily audible, set against the background of her father's grunts of effort and short breaths. She focused her mind, recalling the layout of the room and estimating her father's location. She breathed deeply, then swept the curtain to one side as she spun into the room, her staff at the ready.
   Not that she had any reason to fear an attack from her ill, fallen father.
   Sasha sighed audibly and relaxed, eying the sickly man drawing in the dirt with a bit of charcoal. Ostensibly, he drew lines to connect the fragments of a now quite broken vase to form one giant web, though Sasha didn't understand why he would want to do so. Perhaps, in the state his mind was in, he believed he was repairing the vase?
   Moments passed as she considered stopping her father and returning him to bed. The aidsman had instructed her to keep her father's mind active. On the other hand, he stressed the importance of sleep for the addled mind. At no point had he mentioned late night puzzles. Her jaw clenched in irritation as she saw the design on one of the fragments. Especially not puzzles that begun with shattering the vase she had brought to him from Moufain!
   That settled the matter. "Father," she said slowly, trying not to let her ire show. " What in the name of the Meek God are you doing?"
   The frail man's brow furrowed, but he said nothing as he continued marking out his intricate web. Sasha reached for his arm, but he flinched back immediately, managing not to smear his lines or err in the line he was drawing. Sasha's irritation turned to concern as her father began to draw more frantically.
   "The inter-connectivity of the fallen," he mumbled as he worked, his voice hoarse from disuse. "The fragments never again whole, but, reunited, they become greater! Their potential surpassed!"
   Sasha stepped around his scribbling, taking a hold of his shoulders. "Okay, father, you can finish your puzzle in the--"
  "Ah HA!" he yelled triumphantly, the sudden motion breaking Sasha's loose grip on him.
   His daughter gritted her teeth, her patience at its end. Before she could so much more than breathe, however, the dim room exploded with violet light. Her father clapped his hands gleefully as the charcoal lines shone with an ethereal illumination. "What is this?" Sasha exclaimed as she raised her staff as if to fend off the near-blinding light.
  Her father replied euphorically, " The culmination of the world's efforts! The unification of a splintered people! The--"
  He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with terror. "No. No! You promised a reunion! You promised oneness!"
  "What is this?!" Sasha demanded again, the sharpness of her voice causing her father to look at her as though she just appeared.
   "I've brought down destruction upon us." He clawed his face with his fingertips with despair, looking back at the shining lines. "I've shattered Heaven's mantle, and what can it do but rain its fragments upon us?"
   No sooner had he said this than something tore through the town, crushing the front of their earthen abode. Immediately, another impact shook the ground, and Sasha saw the walls of her home start to crack and give. She gripped her staff for balance, trying to stay on her feet as she planted it in the ground. A loud crash sounded close by, shaking the earth mightily and tossing Sasha off her feet. After that, the ground continued to quake, and outside, it sounded like boulders raining from the sky. She regained her feet, crouching close to her father, holding him close as the world around her rang with concussive thuds. Her mind tried to sort out the situation, but she felt panic overwhelm her, and her logic frayed into nothingness.
   The two stayed huddled together under the sounds and tremors of some unknown cataclysm. Sasha couldn't have guessed how long it continued. For all she knew, by the end, eternity and come and gone. Yet eventually, the tremors stopped, and no further blows sounded from the outside.
   Slowly, she tried to stand, but her legs had gone numb from the vibrations of the earth and the lack of circulation. Still, she forced herself up, wincing at the pinprick-like sensation coursing up and down her muscles. She walked awkwardly around the room, warily avoiding the still-glowing web-lines, and reached the caved in doorway with effort. She pushed against the rubble. It gave slightly under her weight, but her strength began to fail before she could push through. She stood there, leaning against the wall as she caught her breath, then shoved against the rocks with all of her weight, pushing herself forward with her legs. The crumbled adobe gave way, and she stumbled into the light of day outside, her room and the hallway between completely leveled. Her breath caught in her chest as she saw the village beyond, and panic began to creep into her mind yet again.
  Hundreds of gigantic pieces of metal stuck out of the sand and the buildings of the town, like giant swords haphazardly forged and then stabbed and left in the earth. The smallest of them seemed to be at least as long as three people, and one piece towered over her, half again as large as her house before it had been destroyed. Beyond, the destruction was immense. Most of the buildings had collapsed completely under the impact of the dark metal shrapnel. Some had sheets of metal splitting them in two. Others seemed to have collapsed from the tremors caused by metal pieces landing nearby. As she looked around, she confirmed that every building in the village had been destroyed. Yet her father's room remained remarkably intact, even though a large slab of metal landed nearby and fell on its exterior wall. She ran back into the room, afraid it would collapse at any moment on her father.
   As she stepped through the doorway, she saw the room had been cleared of all rubble and furniture. The violet light formed a dome shape, appearing to hold up the roof above it. In the center of it, in the middle of his web of lines, sat her father. She walked forward, into the light, and immediately, the lines shifted and twisted, forming a circle circumscribing a strange symbol. Around the edges of the circle, letters she recognized as the forbidden language appeared. She stopped immediately, looking at her father apprehensively. He beckoned to her confidently and stood.
  Automatically, she approached him, not certain that she moved of her own volition. She halted before him, and he rested his hand gently on her shoulder. She absently noted its lack of warmth, distracted immediately as he said, "Sasha, my child, I am dying. All these years, you watched over me in my illness, your martial aspirations set aside to nurse your father back to health. But I fear your efforts were in vain.
   "A chaotic elemental possessed me, causing my illness. In my weakened state, it whispered to me a wealth of knowledge, of powers long-forgotten. Powers that destroyed an entire nation and left behind a completely uninhabitable wasteland.
   "I am dying, Sasha, and I fear I am unable to cease the unforgivable events I set in motion. The chaotic elemental has now abandoned me, its purpose fulfilled. All I have left are these last few moments, this accursed glyph, and you, my daughter." Sasha watched her father weep, trying to understand his sudden revelation. He held his arms wide for an embrace, and she tearfully stepped into her father's arms, feeling a sharp piercing pain shoot through her abdomen.
   She stumbled back and looked down at a long shard of the broken vase jutting from her belly. "My only hope for redemption, Sasha, is to send you in my place." She looked around at her father, who stood before the doorway, his back to her. She moved toward him, her blood splattering on the ground as she crossed to the edge of the glyph.
   Immediately, the violet vanished. Sasha's father spun, staring at her with a look of horrified disbelief. He surged forward as if to shove her back. As he crossed the perimeter, however, the glyph shone with an intense white light, enveloping them both. Sasha could feel the light seeping through her wound, spreading to every corner of her body.
   Her pain suddenly stopped, replaced with a strange rippling sensation. She felt like the skin of a drum being struck. She felt the light around her rather than seeing it. And then, as the thrumming inside her faded, she felt the light overtake her mind.

   Sasha came to her senses, finding herself lying in the dirt, the large overhanging sheet of metal outside her house shielding her from the midday sun. She propped herself up on her arm, looking about. Beside her, she found a pack, some canteens, and a note underneath that read:

   "If you would right my wrongdoings, go to Bryosk. Many forbidden ones reside there, hidden from the Eyes of the Meek One. Someone among them will surely know what to do."
   "I am dying. Your ways have ever been a mystery to me, and I regret that the only time I had with you I spent maddened by the elemental. Being a warrior, I assume you want vengeance. But know that to pursue me is folly. Our world is nearing destruction, and by the time you would find me, I would already be dead.
   "Go to Bryosk. Stop the elemental. Right my wrong."

   Sasha made to crumple the note in her hand, fury raging within her. As the note twisted under her grip, however, she noticed a single sentence written on the back.

   "Learn to use the glyph."

   She looked up from the paper, glancing toward her father's room. Inside was dark. She sighed and got to her feet, surprised that she felt far from exhausted, and walked inside. The light from outside didn't do much to illuminate the ground, but even in the dim light, she could see that the lines her father had drawn were gone.
   She left the room, shuddering despite herself, and walked back to where she left the half-crumpled note on the ground. Anger welled up within her, anger at her father, his useless instruction, and his unforgivable betrayal. She glowered at the note, then at the tear in her shirt where he had stabbed her. She saw something under the tattered cloth, and as she pushed aside the fabric with her thumb and index finger, she began to feel sick.
   Around the silvery scar that had miraculously healed, the glyph had been emblazoned as though with purple ink.

Make Up Post

Well, I posted something earlier last week, figured it probably wasn't the best something I've ever posted, and then un-posted the something that I posted. Now I'm going to try to make it up to those who feel forsaken, picked on, and/or slightly queasy.

I wrote the following as an idea for a character in the same little project doohickey that the assassin background below (if you haven't read it, read it). It's written in the character's admirer's point of view as she visits him in the hospital (or at least the hospital-analogue). Comments are constantly welcome, and for those with a literary mindset, required. Mandatory. Necessary to preserve one's well-being, if you see what I'm saying.

Do you?

Oh, and this is supposed to be written from a more effeminate point of view, one of which I don't possess, so hopefully, it's at least semi-close to workable.

--

Do you remember winter? Do you remember the cold pricking at your skin and the endless desire to throw on blankets to keep warm at night, comforted by their sheer weight? Do you remember the fire-warmed stone hearth, the earth-toned woven rug in front of it, and a pair of mostly empty mugs, worn with age, emitting a gently wafting steam?

I guess… You wouldn’t, would you? That was a world apart from now.

Five thousand years couldn’t have changed a man as vastly as these few years. Do you remember the playing grounds­—but I guess now isn’t the time for that. I’ve wanted to say, though, the saying of it isn’t easy for me… I wanted to… change… change with you. Ah, don’t give me that smile, sympathetic, cool and easy, like you know. You don’t know what not changing is.

…Oriay says hello. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be breaking down like this, just… He told me your mother and his go to Trebon Shrine daily to supplicate for your recovery. I used to go with them, but there’s nothing but pain there. You know that, right? Too many people with loved ones infirm or ill or dying. I just couldn’t keep going. Your mother understands, or so she said, but Oriay keeps pushing me to go too. With him. I’d rather not, I think. He’s… nice… charming, intelligent, funny. Not really someone for me.

That smile again? Don’t you remember? I told you…

They brought you in covered in blood and muck. They said you killed it, the monster haunting the village, killing children and adults alike. Hardly anyone could believe it. I didn’t believe that you could end up so… broken. I never doubted you would be a hero, just like you said. Years ago, though it must feel like eons, you swore in front of everyone that you would make your father proud. Even as he stooped himself in drink, even as he idled his way into infirmity and death, you fought to that end.

You did it, Kaell. You truly did it!

--

Monday Musings (More Mundane Mumblings)

First and foremost! Excuse the alliteration. I couldn't help it.

Second, have you ever been driving (or driven, for you underage folks) down the road and said to yourself, "Gee, self. I cannot help but notice that that person in front of me has a silhouette greatly resembling a person of the opposite gender," and then proceeded to make guesses as to what that person might be like? Maybe I'm alone here. But I think it's interesting making up knowns out of unknowns. So, for instance, the girl in front of me as I was waiting to get on the highway was an orphaned girl from history displaced through dimensional shifts, etc., etc. Far-fetched. Illogical. Somewhat cliche. But inspirational! I liked being able to just push away reality in a little square of actuality, and it got the creative juices flowing.

So, there's that. And I'll likely be getting into a new character development because of it, though the character won't be a displaced past resident. Probably.

Now, one of my things has ever been watching people as they are going about this and that. I was sitting in the halls of UVU today, not really doing anything in particular except watching as fellow students meandered hither and thither. At one point, an Asian guy walked past, and I thought to myself, "Man, that guy looks cool." And then I stopped myself, due to something so irritating, I must now rant about it.

I found myself asking if I thought he looked cool because he was Asian. A ridiculous thought! I told myself so, but I was still annoyed it came up at all. There was a time when people were people to me. Yeah, I noticed that Antoine didn't look like me, and Carlos looked different from both of us, and Ken different from we three. But when I was younger, it didn't matter. No one said anything about it because Ken's name was Ken, not Ken the Asian. We didn't call Carlos Latino or Antoine Black, African American, or what have you. But no, people have to complicate things. Yeah, I'm a white guy, 22 years old. Statistically, apparently, one of the most prejudiced against states of being (not that I put much stake in that, actually). As a matter of fact, I'm white, white. Nearly clear. I've even been made fun of for it. Which I get, but why should anybody think differently of another when they just look different?

Now, culture, I get. People feel more comfortable around people with similar ideals. This is why people of whatever origin like to stick with like people. It's comfortable. There's a deeper connection. Maybe not as interesting, but it's not something you can ignore. I personally don't feel like I have a niche, but then, people don't always get along just because they are of the same culture. Or maybe their culture is a little less definite. In the end, as my Philosophy professor hated people to say, who's to say?

One person who does fit in well with my thinking, as concurrently separate as his thinking is to mine sometimes, is one of my coworkers. Maybe 'cause we're both writers (to a point). With him, it's easy to have conversations. Sometimes, they're about writing, often not. I enjoy working with him, and he's one of a few coworkers I consider a friend. Anyway...

My point, I suppose, is be excellent to each other. And by all that is good and holy, someone tell me how I can overcome my anti-social behaviors (such as people watching)! Actually, my point seemed to meander greatly. Sorry 'bout that.

Oh, and thanks to everyone who read my story! Thank you even more to those who gave me advice, criticisms, and other ideas! Truly, the only way an author can get better is to suck first!

(I'll try to get the reference for that back here later to let everyone know what I mean.)

A Bit of a Read

Now, before I get into the purpose of this post proper, I just want to put out there right away that while it's been roughly ages since my last post, I have no real intentions on catching people up to speed. There are a few reasons for this:

1. It's past my bedtime.
2. I'm a touch lazy.
3. It would be long in the telling and while probably therapeutic, probably neither necessary nor advised.

So there it is.

Also, I've just finished a lourvely book which my friend and coworker lent to me that I advise all fantasy-enjoying types to read. Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind kept me enthralled throughout today, and fortunate was I to have such a long day to devote to it, since interference from work or any other medium would have like driven me up a tree. My point is simply that it was good. Possibly better than most books I've read, and certainly better than the books I read over the summer, which is a story for a different time. Maybe.

But that wasn't my main purpose tonight. A few days ago, I posted on the good ol' social networking site Facebook that I had written something of a rather somber, ominous tone. Being the attention-starved waif I am, I found reactions to be lacking, and so I'm going to kick it up a notch and post it here. It's a long read, so plan accordingly if you read on.

And one last thing before I open myself to questions regarding my mental and emotional stabilities, this is a rough draft intended to create background for a character in another work my friend Ben and I are working at. Slowly working at. It's also rough, and will probably remain as such. You have been warned.

--

My father, ever a man of virtue and honor, worked as a sentry at the lord's estate in Zharmaen. We saw him a week out of the month, typically, for the first year that he worked, but he worked hard and earned our family money enough to buy a place nearby. It was during this time that our family grew very close, having lived so disjointed so long. My father taught us all things of the city, for we had lived before among farmers and shepherds, and our family grew comfortable with the hustle and bustle of civilization, small city though it was.

I turned six around this time, and already my mother had instilled a sense of virtue and diligence in my daily life that, though the youngest, I took on many of the chores myself. My oldest sister, Jisune, became fast friends with the local baker's daughter, and with my mother's blessing, worked part-time at their store. She and Eile did their share of work, though Eile possessed a fiery spirit that often found her getting in fights with the local boys. My father laughed at this, but my mother worried constantly about what the neighbors must have thought. They seemed to have accepted us, however, and so life went on.

Many things of varying impact happened over the years, but few are truly integral to my story. Jisune became an apprentice at the lord's in-house infirmary, learning the healing arts from a man many considered to be a genius. Eile began working under the smithy, helping him with his miscellany, though everyone else wondered how she caught the warm regard of the aging misanthrope. Between chores and schooling, in which my mother enrolled me, my father would teach me the art of the sword and the duties of a knight, though it was unlikely that a boy who inherited his mother's slight body would ever be enlisted for defense. Still, he taught me and guided me as though I would follow his steps. And while I never developed his overwhelming power or his solid stances, he praised me for my unusual dexterity and keen mind. Of course, as a boy of then eight years, I never penetrated his guard or managed to turn back his practice assaults, but I learned many things of combat and war, and also of honor and ethics.

At school, I struggled not in my studies, but to find friends. Few boys thought a quiet, introvert much fun, save for the occasional prank. To my father's pride, I never retaliated, instead stoically taking these occurrences as harmless fun. Those who similarly fell prey to bullies began to flock to me, and I taught them as well as a boy could about the importance of maintaining face in the midst of trials. And our group met with great success in thwarting recreation at our expense. I became a leader of sorts, not ever truly standing up against anyone, and yet somehow emerging victorious.

Another couple years passed. Jisune nursed the sick, never developing her master's skill in healing, but in her own right a decent healer.

Eile managed to ensnare an unwitting young man or two into courting her, but in the end, she found herself wanting someone with a similar spirit. Her work with the blacksmith did little to quell her inner flame, instead balancing and tempering it like the blades she began to help make. Our father became a captain of the guard, and suddenly we found ourselves with excess for the first time in our lives, though we continued to live carefully and store up money for the future.

I continued growing much as ever, though more in mind than in body. Medium-height and thin, many of my peers still held me in high regard for my peaceful negotiations of situations made difficult by less friendly classmates. The opposition, finding their fun tarnished by such a small boy, began to get more fierce and malevolent. Once and awhile, I was ambushed walking home from the schoolyard. Sometimes my father's training served me well, and I was able to escape. Other times I was not so fortunate. Those who gravitated toward me either fell away, not willing to be tied to the enemy's enemy, or became more closely linked to me, believing I could save them. And I did when I could, and when I couldn't, I would suffer with them.

My mother worried increasingly for her two youngest. Eile I didn't think would ever not worry her, and I came home often with a bloodied lip or eyebrow or a blackened eye. My father and she fought often, as she didn't believe that his codes of conduct should be so deeply ingrained in a child my age. But he was proud of me, and I was thrilled to be so accepted by him. I felt as though, in my own way, I had a piece of heaven in my scraped hands.

War broke out between Zharmaen and Moufain in the far north. Many soldiers were taken from the lords' estates across the kingdom, but my father was able to remain, taking me out to the nearby forest to reinforce his survival training in case the war reached as far south as our residence. However, a crew of bandits learned of the reduction in security and raided the town, cutting down people in the streets, pillaging the stores and the wealthy's residences. We saw the smoke rising from those places they had gutted then torched and ran back to the village, but by the time we had returned, the fires were mere cinders, and the town nearly deserted. Bodies lied in the street, splashing grotesque color on the muddy cobbles. I was violently sick, but my father allowed me no time to nurse my churning insides. Heaving me across his shoulder, he carried me through the now unfamiliar streets. He paid no attention as I lost my stomach behind him. We came upon the road to our humble house, and my father stopped so abruptly, I was nearly tossed onto the ground in front of him. Absentmindedly, he caught me with his right hand, but his left moved in the familiar pattern of Iyuan priests. I looked, despite my mind screaming to remain ignorant, at the remains of our house. The walls had fallen in after the flames ate away at their supports, and like a rag flung carelessly over its rack, my mother's body hung over the broken in window in her shredded apron.

My father dropped me. I managed to land neatly enough and sidestep as he half strode, half ran to the crumbled building for which he worked so hard. To the corpse of his wife for whom he worked even harder. I stood, gaping. Wide-eyed. Terrified as my innocence leaked away like the blood of so many seeped between the cobbles. My father knelt at the doorway, bringing his wife to rest in a more serene position belied by the corpse-mask of terror. My knees shook, my mind both a-buzz with mis-firing thoughts and painfully blank. A thought caught: "Why was he so calm? Why, when I am so broken?" I wanted to beat him, I realized, for not grieving as I was. I balled my fists in agony, steeled my legs, ran and struck him in the back of the head, not caring that my fist burned as bone impacted heavier bone. My father turned his head slowly, looking at me blankly. He looked back down and his arm shot toward me. I put up my arms to defend against a blow and found myself entangled, then smothered against his broad chest as he sought to hold on to the last vestiges of his life. Heavy, hot drops fell on my hair.

Minutes passed, then my father's head shot up. He murmured my sister's names, then ran toward the blacksmith, which was closest. Inside, the smith sat in a corner, a sword dripping blood in one hand and his opened side in the other. He looked up hazily at my father, then, recognizing him, slumped forward in shame. My father made his way to the door, hesitated, then ordered me to bandage the smith while he went to look for Jisune at the lord's estate. I had very much wanted to follow, but I did as he asked, tearing strips from one of the smith's tunic and tying down with the leather strips normally used for grips. From the pack I still wore, I gave the smith water, then laid him on the pack, taking the blanket from his bed in back to lay over him. Once he was settled, I waited, trying to work my mind around what was to be done next.

My father returned with the medic under whom Jisune apprenticed. He moved to the smith's side, checking the bandaging and tut-tutting, but I watched my father carefully controlling his abundant emotions. He turned again to the door, but the medic stopped him, asking him to remain for the night. He explained that the brigands had taken Jisune, that she wasn't dead, but they wanted to increase their number. I watched my father blanch, but the healer continued, saying that they fled quickly on horses to the east. The best course of action, he continued, was to rest, then to track them down. After several tense moments, my father grudgingly agreed.

In the morning, my father extracted our hidden funds and what supplies we could scavenge from our home. Before the sun had risen, we left the city behind, traveling east to the next small city. My father intended to hunt them down, but he wanted even more to offer me the same opportunity. I had forgotten I was small and not that strong. Hate accompanied my despair. When we set down for the night, my father would train me until sweat dampened my clothes. After he drifted to sleep, I would get up and train more. We talked little over the next days, but shared each other's obsession.

The hunt took a year. The brigands used High magic to mask their trail, and initially, tracking them was impossible. We persevered, my father using muscle and coin to eke out answers, while I integrated myself into the waifs of settlements, using my charisma to find the leaders and the respected among the thieves, gathering information through those channels. While we were together, we pooled information as he trained me with daggers and the short sword. After too long, we found them. The night before, we camped a small distance from their hideaway. As I drew my knives across my whetstone, I could feel my limbs shake in anticipation. I'd never killed anyone before. I looked forward to killing the next day. My father sat on his bedroll on the other side of the small fire, making homage to his knightly oaths. We sought different things for the morrow, but it didn't matter. What mattered to me was simply that there would be blood.

There was a great deal, in fact. I still have no recollection of how many fell to our steel that day. Twenty, possibly thirty men. We fought our way to the leader's chamber, resting briefly in nooks and crannies when we could to catch our breath and bind our wounds. Five, maybe six times I nearly died, narrowly avoiding wild slashes from the rabble that made up the brigands. Finally we made it to the pretentious double doors, making an easy mark of the leader's residence. We halted just outside, catching our breath as blood hammered in our ears. My father nodded. Whether I was ready or not, we were going in.

The leader sat on a wooden throne, attended by women, many of whom shrieked at our gore-smeared appearance and shrank to the back walls. Two did not. One wore a sword, trained by the smith in basic technique. The other wore no weapon, but true to a healer, didn't quail from the sight of blood. Two jaws tightened as the eyes above recognized the intruders. But the family that abandoned them would not rip them from their master.

"Stockholm Syndrome," Grahem spat.

The interruption stirred the assassin from his self-inflicted trance. "Yes. They were told we gave up searching the next day. They hated him at first, I'm sure, but they somehow grew attached to him. I don't understand it."

Grahem nodded. "How could you?"

"My father didn't understand it, either," the assassin continued, ignoring the question. "Maybe he didn't understand it more."

Knight oaths dictated that my father would combat the assassin leader alone. Reinforcements of a sort came as they began to fight, so I left to take care of them, to die, if necessary, to give him the chance to free my sisters. I didn't want to die, though, and I fought viciously, faster than any of them out of sheer hate and desperation. They fell, the five or six that were there, by underestimating me. But the last one slashed me deep in the abdomen. I thought I was dead. I prayed to any deity I could think of to let me live, to let me return to being part of a family. I passed out.

When I awoke, my wound was bandaged poorly, and in front of me, amid the corpses, sat my father reciting his oaths to his sword. But something was off. His litany was unsteady, rising and falling. As my vision cleared, I saw he was slouched, rocking back and forth like a babe.

"What happened?" I asked as I rose.

He froze, turning to me slowly, a mad tic in his eye. "They're dead. All the enemy: dead."

I looked at him trying to reason the meaning in his words. Then I understood. I ran into the room behind us and found no life whatsoever. All the honor and virtue and oaths I was taught meant nothing at that moment. I was twisted in an instant, realizing the futility of these things people cling to. And so I freed my father from them. I was an assassin thereafter.

The Week and Some Days in Review

Right, so say there was this guy, who, for memory's sake, we'll call Richard, and see, this Richard guy, he had a blaaaaaaaargh, on which he said he'd keep people posted on while he was in California doing his thing. Now, this Richard, he's not always the most diligent of guys, see? Especially when it comes to writing in this blaaaaaaargh thing of his. So someone called out a hit on him, capice? He's been--how to say it?--captured, taken, absconded with, and otherwise disappeared from the public eye. And now, in our fortress of solitude, our home away from home, we're going to give him a choice. An offer, you might say. And it looks like he didn't choose to part with his kneecaps. (Oi, Franky! Put that bat away!)

*Ahem.* Anyway, yes, here I am in the fortress of solitudinal lair called the dining room table of my apartment, writing to all my fans! But, to be honest, except in the past couple days, the time I've been here has been kinda boring.

I've been getting my tech training in the mornings, though as of yet, my skills are still somewhat lacking. Other than that, some manner of stigma in my mind has kept me from using the pool more than once in my stay here. I'm not really sure why, exactly. Something about the cold water seeming to squeeze the breath out of me every time I submerge, but it's just in my head.

But I never mentioned this in my last post. Dublin is really beautiful! It's hot when the air is stirred less than normal, sure, but it's close enough to the ocean to get a balmy breeze more often than not, and taking a walk through the little trail they have paralleling the local creek (the name escapes me) is nothing short of pleasant. Also, I've managed to stay minimally sunburnt. Always a plus.

That said, though it feels like a large populace, Dublin doesn't have too much to do the same way cities normally do. There is an IMAX theatre for those interested in that sort of thing, but since I'm not really the movie-going type, that holds little excitement for me. In fact, the place I've found most entertaining is the Barnes and Nobles across the street. And that's only because I bought a book there which kept me entertained for a good couple of days. Er, the book did, not buying it.

Speaking of which, your friendly neighborhood money-burning Richard bought some pizza at work to feed his grumbling stomach. In total, the pizza cost eighteen dollars. The book cost eight. The pizza lasted until the afternoon after, and the book lasted two to three days, and was largely more filling. And to make things more complaint-worthy, tax in California is something like 9.75%! Wasn't it around 7% in Utah? The difference might not seem like much, but it piles up quickly.

I also decided to make my roommates gyosa the other day. Some comments included "This is good!" "I love potstickers!" "Can I have the recipe?" and "how u mine 4 fish," though I think that last one was a subconscious KoL reference on my part. Sorry about that. I plan on making more tonight, hopefully to the same effect. Anyone who wants to is welcome to fly out here and have some!

Now for the more serious news. Yesterday, in our office, we had some people quit due to lack of jobs. This much concerned me a little bit, and despite the fact we had a rather productive day yesterday, I'm a little worried this office is heading for a downturn. Now, we're also getting more salespeople coming in in a little less than a week, but I'm still unsure of how well this office will maintain itself.

Also, I'm a little irritated at how I'm being utilized, and how it looks like I will be utilized for some time. For the time being, I'm an office worker, and just an office worker. I'll be learning the equipment and maybe even how to install it if I'm lucky, but until another person is brought into the office to help out, it's what I'll be doing. At the moment, that's not so bad, since the production of sales to install has been slow. It's just that, I came down here to be a tech, and I've even purchased a GPS for that purpose. Now I might not be going into the field until early July.

Well, anyway, life isn't so bad here. I've been managing to keep boredom from causing me to try kayaking off roofs, so I suppose I can't complain too much. And I've been texting my IHOP friend from work, which has been nothing short of pleasant, and probably something beyond that, too. Other than that, I parted with a few dollars for a game which I will now proceed to not play in favor(-ish) of going to work on my day off. Hi-ho, hi-ho.....

Let's Play "Re-live the Trip!"

Ladies and gentlemen, from the third floor apartment in Dublin, CA, it's your host Rrrrrrrrrrrrichard!

Anyway, to make up for the last woefully short post, I am going to explain just how my trip to California went down. The plan was sinfully simple: I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning, get all nice'd up for breakfast at IHOP with one of the nicest girls in the world, stop by the DMV at 7:00 to register my girl (more on that later), eat breakfast and say some goodbyes, go home and say some more good-byes, stop by Cedar and say hi to one of my friends, and drive, baby, drive to Anaheim, making it there in the early evening and going to bed, ready the next day to get to training.

And then this is how it actually went.

The morning started of well enough. I got up, got dressed, albeit in slightly less dressy clothes than I had planned, owing to the early hour. I drove up to the DMV, arriving there just after 7, only to find out that I needed another form filled out and signed. Great.

I decided to put it off, feeling the breakfast was of more importance. We ate and talked and had a generally good time, and then it was rather difficult to say goodbye, as is the way of things. Eventually, though, she had to go to work, so our respective hands were forced. Such is life, I fear.

After a quick conference with my life advisor (a.k.a Mom) the DMV issue was cleared up, and I returned home clutching the new plates that spelt my freedom to drive my car as I saw fit. Which usually falls pretty well in line with the law. Mostly. I said good-bye to mother and sister and set off into the wild blue yonder!

Quickly, however, it became apparent I was traveling the wrong way. A rough estimate of when this became apparent was somewhere around the time my boss called me to say that she was switching me to another different office... I about-faced.

Not to be daunted, I remained undaunted and headed north to Salt Lake. Since I hadn't planned out the trip north, I realized I would have to rely on my instincts and basic geographical know-how to navigate the treacherous highways toward Dublin. This last sentence is something we soon-ish-to-be English Majors like to call "foreshadowing." Possibly "irony," too. Don't you think?

Upon leaving SLC, I quickly hopped on I-80 East toward Cheyenne. I could tell this would be a long journey by the miles of sagebrush-dotted flatland I beheld before me. I braced myself against nature and automobile and driver, for I would not let myself fail! Something more tugged at the back of my mind, however. Yes, I'm sure some of you at home have grasped it.

I remember when I was younger, visiting my grandparents' house. They had this little foam puzzle of the United States that you put together state-by-state (except the Northeast, since it was a conglomeration of smaller states) until you had our glorious nation assembled in glorious technicolor. Well, except Alaska and Hawaii.

So, in my mind's eye, I placed Utah down with my mind's hand. Lightning fast, I had assembled all the states except California, which was lain, slow motion, on the far left of the puzzle. Left... ah...... the mind's gears began grinding, and the mind's compass began whirling.

Aggravated, I turned around and headed west to Reno, the more obvious choice in the first place. Not altogether pleased with the way the actual forward motion was slow in coming, I soon began to relax and enjoy the scenery rushing by as I drove in my lovely MX-6. For hours, the trip floated along pleasantly. I remember, more than once, coming over a hill and seeing straight highway up to the horizon. Considering my sister and I spent the night previous juxtaposing Chuck Norris and Peter at the Pearly Gates jokes, it came as little surprise that one of my first thoughts was to mentally (with my mind's voice: I have the whole mind's set) sing "Be still my foot,/Fast come the speeding tickets..." In another instance, I switched it up a bit with "O leaden foot,/ The cops, the cops are watching!" Yeah, Utah and Nevada are boring.

Somethings good did come out of that looooooong trip across the plains. I got to see the salt flats, which I wasn't sure were salt flats until I ran into a restaurant bearing the same name in its title. I can't remember the rest of its name, though... I was nearly convinced it was snow, and I really badly wanted to get out and explore it more thoroughly. Unfortunately, I felt I should hurry, hurry along.

My friend with whom I broke fast that morning kept in contact through text throughout the trip. She had asked me if I had a name for my MX-6, and I told her I hadn't yet. Well, as I was inching along at about 130-ish km/h, I found myself considering how I thought of my car. "Well," I said to myself, "she likes to go fast, I like her acceleration..." So, my car, while I have some ideas for names still floating around, is most definitely a girl.

A few hours past that, my musings becoming less and less memerable, I arrived in Reno, and stopped for gas. It was getting dark, and I tried to find wi-fi to check my route to Dublin from there, to no avail. Frustrated, I called home for direction, which I got, and started on my way again. The evening began to look ominous.

As I proceeded into California, I noticed an increase in road work, and around 50-ish miles in, they had set up a detour for the trucks, busses, and RVs. Now, I'm still not sure whether they also detoured cars, but somehow or another, though I would swear to everything I hold holy that I followed all the signs to a tee. Whatever the case, I spent the following hour and a half (at least!) with constantly steeled nerves as I wound through the mountain roads in the dead of night behind a truck who treated every turn as though he was pulling a trailer. After what seemed an eternity, we emerged onto a decently-sized highway leading to Sacramento.

Once again, my mind's compass decided to go all wonky and I got the impression that Dublin was north of California's capital (it's actually southwest). I'm sorry to say that at that point, having been awake far longer than my body is usually happy to accomodate, and having just gotten out of a rather stressful series of switchbacks, I called back home with much irritation. I just want to point out that my mother can be a pain in the butt sometimes, but she really comes through when she is needed, and considering that it was 1 in the morning her time when I called, she was pretty patient with me.

She got me pointed in the right direction and I drove, and drove, and drove... I could feel my conscious thought becoming less and less lucid as I went, but I finally managed to find the apartment complex in which I now lay, on top of my bed. There was one more obsticle to overcome, however...

It was 2 A.M when I finally arrived. I'm an idiot when it comes to a choice between others' convenience and my needs. I walked up to the door and listened very intently, and I thought I heard voices, and then I didn't. I was tired. I should have knocked louder, but I tapped it lightly, so as not to disturb anyone from sleep, then, when nobody answered, I went back to my car.

Now, I love my car, more than I've loved any car I've owned previously. If she were a person, I would probably at least flirt shamelessly with her. But she isn't very comfortable to sleep in. That and the flourescent ambience around and the fear of being towed away in my sleep made for a very light sleep, and I woke not very rested at all. I drove around Dublin a bit, spent some time trying to get the lay of the land (and failing), then finally, around 8, I gained access to the flat. Shortly after, I flopped down on my bed and caught a few hours of sleep.

So here I am, one long, terrible car ride and then a rather lax day later, blaaaarghing. I'm dead tired. I am going to sleep as soon as I share this with the world so they can pity me endlessly.

G'night!

California Adventures!

Well, one hopes. Yes, tomorrow, I will be on my way to exploring the vast expanses of the world, specifically in Orange County. I'm excited, I think. Kinda hard to say. Anyway, I expect to be posting all about my adventuring adventures and odd oddities. I guess this is just sort of a heads-up, since I'm not really sure what else to say.

Hmm... I guess I'll leave you with an improvisational haiku.

Ah, Olive Garden,
How I long for your breadsticks!
Happy Mother's Day?