The Failing Truth

What have I become? I find myself on the end of a spectrum that seems to grow more painfully obvious with every great debate or argument of my existence. This is a road that I’m strangely familiar with, the scenery too repetitive to not know where I am. I am at the place I started.
It’s weird to see years go by, to lose hair and gain it, to see myself in the mirror and find someone else staring back…an older me, a me that I didn’t imagine I’d ever be. We are what we accomplish, what we’ve done and where we’ve landed, and the footprints are too close together. There’s something wrong when the sum of a man is easier to produce through the accomplishments never achieved. When the world is blaring at a level so overwhelming that screams are muffled beneath it, because I’ve become the background noise, not even the star of my own personal Truman show.
I’ll admit it, I feel defeated. A plan not finished, a dream gone sour, a vision unfulfilled. After absorbing so many different stories, reading and watching the things that have become mainstream, verifying what the world wants and measuring it to the flooding thoughts and ideas that feel so abundant, I shudder at the idea that my thoughts are not good enough–like a sea of lost potential lapping at the edges of my consciousness begging to be made whole, to exist in more than just electrical synapses huddled in the far reaches of my mind. It wants to be poured out, these things need to slip loose from inside, like anything in this life when words are held in they only poison the holder.
I almost wish I could raise a kickstarter for my life, help me find my sanity, help a writer become what he claims to be…just pennies a day and you can give a Santi his dream back. It’s not too much of a stretch, I know stress can do funny things, maybe these ideas have finally hit their capacity. Maybe my head and heart have found a way to push me, that if I don’t pour some words on a page directly from my heart I’ll poison myself with their authenticity. It did feel good to type these words. Maybe after I work tomorrow I’ll find that line again, and something more than a rant will spill free.


Mentally Choking

  So, a friend of mine stated to me that I needed to write.  Something I find myself unable to do.  I had a system, a way of creating, a formula that produced a product that I felt was extremely desirable.  But that system is offline.  My nightly habits of life are impossible, not if I want to earn actually funds to feed myself and to eventually move in with my girlfriend.  So instead I’ve been wallowing in my self depreciation, believing that the only true way to progress forward was to take two steps back…meaning, to quit my current job and return to my ungodly hours of writing.

  A quick side step from the topic, I wrote a book, this book is inadequate.  I honestly thought I was going to just become some sort of genius amateur writer, after closer examination I see my flaws.  I dissected my book, took the events and created a massive timeline which I coated my walls with.  Yes, there were bits and pieces that I found within it that felt like a gem or two, but digging for fragments doesn’t lead to a best seller(not that I know what does)but my guess is that I missed something along the way.  So day in and day out, I walk into my room and stare at it, then I go on with my day.  This several hundred page book swallowed my wall, and with each glance at it, I found myself choking.

  That’s when today took me by surprise, I guess I had one of those epiphany’s that people always speak about.  After complaining about my inability to write in my current way of life, my friend told me yesterday, “You gotta figure out how to work around it.  Gotta cut the world out when you can, then sneak back into reality for a bit.”  I put my whole story up, and in the face of those pages my inspiration seemed so meager, as if all the writing I could muster couldn’t scratch the surface.  Of course!  I couldn’t possible chew, let alone swallow such a massive undertaking.  The biggest endeavor I’ve tackled in my pursuit of writing was staring me in the face, all those hours of my life reduced to a timeline that made the paint on my wall disappear.  I took the steak that is my fantasy world and shoveled it into my mind, forcing it into my eyes day in and day out, every single piece.  My inner writer was turning blue in the face.  I’ve taken it down…stacked the pages, and now I’m prepared to put it aside for occasional viewing.

  So maybe I need to turn the table, sit someplace else while I digest.  I guess I’ll cut the world out and find a new way to create, separate myself from the formula that isn’t working.  To those reading this, I hope it’s helpful, if not please do laugh at my confusion.  Cause what’s the point in putting these words down if no one enjoys them.

The First Wall

  There’s a sort of hopelessness that comes with having a goal set. When the destination is marked on a map and the clarity of it all settles in, that there are miles and miles before I can rest my feet again. I plan to write a book. No, correction, I plan to rewrite my book. I feel it was done incorrectly during my first attempt. So I’ve come to the conclusion that it needs to be poured out, that new words need to fill it from the bottom back up again. But with writing, words are just drops, and it takes more drops than I can fathom to fill this emptiness. So, yes I see a goal, a place to head to and plant my flag of accomplishment. But like I stated before, there’s a hopelessness that comes with my goal. I know how many pages I wrote before, how long it took me to accomplish something that I now view as a failure, and I no longer have every single waking moment to pour myself into it. Now there’s more to life, work and responsibilities and friendships. So the pot is empty, the fire under it is warm, each word that falls in nearly sizzles away with each edit and frustrated moment of indecisiveness.

   So just to set the goal, I set a wall, a wall I’ve climbed once before that I fear I can’t climb again. Not with the new set of weights that I tangle myself in. It’s funny, to take a break from what I’m writing to write this. Most people wouldn’t understand that action. I know what most people who don’t write to create would say, “Just write it, that’s all you’ve got to do.” Well sure. Like so many people who create, I’m sure they just sit down and blow magic out of every orifice in their body. No, I know how it goes, I know how difficult it is to write. Like carving through solid stone, creating form from nothingness. It’s easy to put words down, but it’s difficult to write. Especially in a world full of convenient distractions.

   Anyway, I’m losing my steam, even now all the noises of the world spill into my small space. Trains far off in the distance, crickets all chiming in a deafening chorus of irritating madness, and my father speaking to my grandmother on a speaker phone that is loud enough to be heard from one corner of the house to the other. I miss my old schedule, writing at 2am. It was like the world was dead. Dead enough for me to think clearly and actually get something done. At 2am the wall didn’t seem so big, because nothing stood between me and climbing it.

Too plugged in

  I apologize in advance.  I’m not an average blogger, I like my stories and enjoy my fiction.  But today I feel like sharing my thoughts.
  I’ve grown tired of a growing trend.  People are consumed by their digital domains.  Enthralled with the unseen world of tweets, instagram, and facebook.  I’m not against technology, if I was, this post would be a load of…well you follow.  I’m upset with its all powerful grasp on the attention span of weak focus.  When people are staring at their phones instead of talking to their loved ones.  Fantasy is a wonderful place to lose yourself during a boring day, but it isn’t a place to live.
  I’m worried about our future, if we place our lives on the internet then we, ourselves, must remain plugged in to maintain it.

Oh the irony in posting this.

In Reality

  Unfortunately I’m at a stop light.  My lights have been green until this day and I’ve taken them for granted.  All the roads, with their infinite intersections, bring me to the same conclusion.  My car is stuck in neutral and I’ve been coasting this whole time.

  So things haven’t been ideal lately.  Work has turned me into an old man, one that can’t stay up late and who gets grouchy when denied his routine breaks and meals.  Slap on the eye infection and toothache, bad luck, and current arguments I’m involved in…you get the point.
  I don’t mean to post excuses, I’d rather post stories, but life has chosen otherwise.  I’m going to go lay down.  I hope inspiration strikes me down, life could use a break by now.

Part VI

The streets are alive with the usual amount of life and energy. Locke couldn’t help it, a smile forming as Zell came walking over. He took a look over himself, clean and confident. A small boy walks y with a handful of flowers Locke calls him over and hands him a gold piece, pulling a single rose free, and then walks over handing it to an eager Zell. “It’s beautiful Locke.”

Finally feeling the courage build inside of him he lets his feelings free, “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. That rose is nothing compared to you.” Zell’s arms wrap tightly around Locke’s neck. He could feel every sensation the velvet like caress of her cheek against his, her curves pressing into his chest, the softness of her dress between his fingers.

“Oh Locke. If only you didn’t let me die.”

“What?” Locke leans back, looking down at Zell. Her head lolls back, with lifeless eyes staring back at him, and a mouth gaping wide in terror.

Locke holds her still form, blood spilling from unseen wounds, his panic swelling inside him. Then without her lips moving, with a mouth frozen open in agony, Locke hears her voice, it’s just a whisper. Leaning closer he’s able to make out her words, “You let me die.” The volume of her voice waivers, so Locke moves even closer, trembling as his fingers run against her slick and blood soaked dress, “now you can come with me.” Her head snaps, jagged teeth protrude from her mouth, then she pulls Locke in quickly clamping down his throat. Locke tries to scream, but he finds soon he can’t even breathe, tighter it squeezes, his air dwindling. Locke puts up his arms but his attempt to push her away is feeble at best, his body weakly fighting her attack. His throat sealing shut with each painful second that her sharp teeth puncture their way into his jugular.

Virrus shutters, as Locke screams himself awake. “Are ye done now? Shouting in yer sleep, right before we set off ta war. Yer no good with yer timing.” Locke runs his hands down his face, the sand of sleep rolling free from the inside corners of his eyes.

“Virrus,” Locke turns his head and scans a nearby plate of food, pulling an apple off. Sitting up he rubs his thumb over the surface and loses himself in the its red reflection. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Aye, don’t we all lad. I don’t think any a man goes inta war with a good feeling. I’d swallow it down and get ready ta do whatever it takes ta clear the city, cause anything less might getcha killed.” Virrus takes his bag and slings it over his shoulder, tying its strap to his jacket, then grabs his staff and walks to the mouth of the tent. “You best eat, store some food in your gut. Good chance it may be the last thing ya ever eat.” Virrus turns his head till he can look Locke in the eye, “it might be the only thing that you eat till it’s all over.” With that he exits the tent, and leaves Locke, who wastes no time in feeding his hunger.

Drill is outside the hut, a pair of gold and silver bracer’s and shinguard’s bound to him with symbols and marks on them. He adjusts the band of black material hanging over his right eye, “Hey Virrus, they had only a little armor that isn’t made of wood. I grabbed these, but no one can tell me what magic is on them.” Virrus took his arm, scanning over the runes and engravings, a smile slowly stretching out.

Before he can speak a warrior steps up and slams his wooden staff into the ground at their feet. “It is time, we leave for war stone walkers. Come now, you three will take the lead.” Hearing the commotion Locke fumbles his way out, tossing his coat on with a pear clenched between his teeth. The warrior sneers at Locke, “Try not to die too quickly.” Then the soldier storms off to join the others.

Locke takes a bite and catches the pear as it falls from his mouth, chewing loudly. “He means me doesn’t he, he’s telling me to not die too quickly isn’t he.” Drill grabs Locke by the shoulder in a reassuring manner.

“I’ve taken the time to grab you this belt from their armory, it looks magical—well good luck.” Drill turns and marches towards the assembly of soldiers. Locke stares at the belt and then raises an eyebrow.

“You know, armor from an armory sounds like a better bet,” Locke mumbles to Virrus who eyes the belt.

“It seems that lad now has an eye fer magic.” Virrus lays a hand on Locke’s shoulder, “yer best bet is to put the belt on, it might save yer life.” Virrus walks past Locke, Locke takes another look at the metal belt and then puts it on, following Virrus to the crowd.

Near a warped tree, that seems to twist in on itself, the shaman runs his hands over it, whispering and chanting, the gathering chants one sound over and over again. The wood creaks, its twisting branches bending together, the center of the trunk bowling inward and turning into a dark mass. The shaman shakes, trembling as a light peaks from the center of the darkness, and then the chanting comes to a stop. “It is time,” the shaman speaks and all the Forest Tribe leans in, embracing his words. “Rynarr,” on hearing his name he takes a step forward, “You! You are chosen by him to be the wielder.”

“With great honor,” Rynarr states, while bowing and taking the broken sword, it’s blade broken in half. He loosens the sheathed sword at his side, with a loud thud the giant wooden blade that was nearly the size of Locke fell to the dirt.

Locke was scanning the crowd, for anyone as confused as he was feeling right then. “Um, Virrus? Why is he leaving the big sword and taking the broken one? It’s not even made of wood like all their other ones.”

“Nevermind. Ya no idea how powerful that piece of mangled metal is, I know men who’d kill an entire nation ta hold that relic he’s got right now.” Locke leans towards Virrus to ask another question but Virrus lifts a hand, leaving Locke to sigh in contempt.

Rynarr hoists the relic into the air, the Forest Tribe cheers and he shouts over them all, “Now the portal holds open! Let the stone walkers pass through and lead this army to victory!” Locke takes a big gulp and follows Drill and Virrus to the tree. Without hesitation Drill walks through. Virrus turns his head and nods to Locke, nervously Locke nods back. Virrus passes through the center of the tree and vanishes. Locke takes a deep breath, then checks the army behind him, their bright eyes all burning into him, then turns back and takes a step in. His body feels the tug, his insides lurch forward as he falls towards the center of the tree, slipping towards the portal back home.

End of Part VI

(As a reminder, I’ll be posting every 2-3 weeks from now on.  Again, thank you all for reading, I appreciate every person who takes time to read my stories.  Much love and keep coming back for the next installment or brand new short story.)

Rise of Wolsgret: Part VI


I’ve been very distracted lately, I’m aware there are those who do read my posts and I’m grateful for all of you who’ve been following my stories.  I think I’ve hit a bit of a funk, and soon I’ll be distracted with a full time job.  So I’m proposing a new schedule.

I’ll be posting every 2-3 weeks a new post or continuing story post.  I barely have enough to post this week, so I’ll see you all next week with a new post.

Hope you’re all enjoying your holidays and don’t forget about me, they’ll be something new very soon.