tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21792234630135847582024-02-20T04:20:40.249-06:00Burning PromisesShort Stories, Flash Fiction, and Prose <br>
Updated Weekly on FridayBroken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-29843605534276119722012-01-16T19:46:00.002-06:002012-01-16T19:46:58.461-06:00What it's like to hate someone<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think it should actually take a
little effort on the part of the offender to be forgiven for
something, call me crazy or ridiculous or whatever. I'm told all the
time, forgive your father, call your father, he's your father, etc.
I'm treated like a child because my form of punishment is cutting off
communication. I'm not running away. I'm just doing the one thing I
know that can hurt him as much as he's hurt me. He loves me, I'm not
oblivious to that fact; that's exactly why I know not talking to him
will hurt him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, let me straighten my thoughts out.
You see, he made my life a living hell. He threatened me and called
me an idiot, lazy, practically a disappointment. He treated me like a
lesser being and demanded respect without ever actually earning it.
He always told me you have to earn respect, but only in a ways that
informed me that he didn't respect me. He's the one who said “If
you hate it here so much, why don't you just leave?!” He said that
so many times, and I finally left.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, I'm the bad guy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He emotionally abused me to the point
of torture, where physical pain was a relief and escapism was my way
of life—drugs, video games, girlfriends, anything that wasn't home.
I loved going to work and dreaded coming home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What's it feel like to have your dad
tell you that you're stupid?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway, I'm the bad guy, because I
refuse to forgive him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I left, my stepmom called at the
number that I left on the table along with where I was going and why
I was leaving. She called saying that I should come back and that she
understood that my dad hurt my feelings and I explained to her that I
was not coming back.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He hurt my feelings. Like how a child
gets his feelings hurt and runs away. I didn't get my feelings hurt—I
was being abused and I left the abusive environment. That's a pretty
mature reaction, I believe. Nobody I know sees it that way.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After we hung up, she called back with
my four year old brother on the phone saying he missed me. I never
believed he fully understood the situation and I don't think he does
even now. He's young. Also, dick move on her part. Part of the
continued emotional abuse, I'll add. See, in that move, she let me
know that she believed that I was the one at fault. Not once during
our conversation did she apologize that I felt like I had no choice
but to leave. Wouldn't a caring parent do that?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Where did we go wrong?” they never
asked themselves.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's been over a year and I still get
messages through family members: “They wanted me to tell you that
Allen (my little brother) misses you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, really? Do they feel at all bad for
driving me away? Do they really want to talk to me that bad? They
have my number. Still. Only called it once. They also know the people
I'm around and have not once asked them how to get in contact with
me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wouldn't a caring parent do that?
Wouldn't someone who actually wanted me to come back do anything to
get me back? That's what I want. Is it so much to ask that my parents
love me enough to ask somebody what my phone number is and then call
it? It has to be, because I'm the bad guy, remember?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why doesn't he have to call me? Why
do I have to be the one to call?” I asked reasonably.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Because he's your father.” was the
response.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Right. Wouldn't a caring father call?
He loves me. Just not enough that he would do anything to get in
contact with me. Just not enough that he would regret pushing me
away. Just not enough to apologize and not expect one back, or even
to be forgiven. Just not enough to reexamine how he treated me. Just
not enough to want to make me happy. His love is selfish. He wants me
around so he can feel good about himself and nothing more.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let's see.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hmm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have to call.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even though, I was pushed away and let
them know that I felt I had no other choice.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even though, I left my number which
they called the night I left and never again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even though, they know how to get in
contact with me through other people which they've done by passing on
guilt-laced messages. Again, blaming me for leaving.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Listen, dad. If you fucking miss me so
fucking much, then why haven't you fucking called me to apologize for
pushing me away? Huh? What the fuck did I do to you to make you blame
me? If you fucking care about how much Allen misses me, then why
don't you goddamn call me and let him talk to me?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I won't forgive him until he actually
regrets pushing me away. You see, the goal is to make him feel like
he'll never see me again. I want him to feel so bad that he can't
forgive himself, then he'll know how I feel. Maybe, he'll apologize
at that point, and if he doesn't, too fucking bad for him, I guess.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But what if something happens? I'm
asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Well, the goal is to make him feel like
he'll never see me again, so at this point it doesn't matter much if
he dies without seeing me again or if I die without him ever seeing
me again. At this point, he deserves either one of those. He deserves
to die without me. He deserves for me to die without forgiving him.
He deserves to feel that for how he treated me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not gonna forgive him and let
things go back to how they used to be. What's the point? Forgive him
and what? Stay away like I'm doing now, or go back and be miserable
and abused. How can you forgive somebody who isn't sorry?</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-36137143107828048352011-11-25T22:51:00.001-06:002011-11-25T23:04:56.932-06:00The PC Driven CampaignPC motivations usually fall somewhere between "I like money" and "I don't like that guy." In there is the driving force that leads most PCs to risk their lives. Isn't there anything deeper than that going on? These PCs often have very rough origin stories. Most of them lost their parents at a young age and had to practically raise themselves. Let's try to add something to that.<br />
<br />
The PC driven campaign requires a different outlook on how missions are given. You aren't going to want that mysterious stranger in the tavern ordering the PCs around for petty amounts of gold and "whatever they find in the dungeon." No, your missions will come straight from the PCs' backstories. They will create their own missions and you will set them up. The goal of this is to have the PCs actively searching for what they seek. Whether they find it through rumors, by accident, or from that mysterious stranger, the point is they find it and not the other way around.<br />
<br />
<u>Money and Treasure</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
This PC seeks money and treasure, and not for greedy reasons. This PC's parents (if they live) owe a debt that they cannot pay and the PC seeks the funds to save his/her parents. This PC may also seek to one day open up a shop in a big city and saves for that day. Perhaps, the PC seeks only to contribute all of the money and treasure he/she finds to his/her temple or church.<br />
<br />
<u>Pilgrimage</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
This PC is looking for a series of shrines or some other artifact. Maybe, the church sent this PC out to pray at shrines across the country, or maybe they sent this PC to find a special artifact for the temple. Maybe as a right of passage, this PC must single-handedly defeat a giant and bring it's head back to his/her tribe.<br />
<br />
<u>Out for Blood</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
This PC has an enemy that he/she seeks to vanquish. This enemy could be something like "all goblins" or "the man who murdered my parents." It could also be more vague like "all evil." Whatever it is, this PC is actively hunting it.<br />
<br />
<u>Glory and Honor</u><br />
<u><br /></u><br />
This PC seeks glory and honor for reasons of pride or to honor his/her parents or church or tribe. This PC will take on difficult, high profile jobs that will put him/her in the spotlight. This PC may already be famous in some places.<br />
<br />
Some of these could take charge of a campaign if you are not careful. Remember that every PC will have motivations and will want to fulfill his/her goals, so don't let the game focus on just one.<br />
<br />
At least two things can come from this type of campaign. The in and out game where each PC leaves the group after accomplishing his/her goals and then the player brings in another PC to replace the one who left. Or, the bonded campaign where, having completed his/her task, the PCs stick together until everyone has completed his/her quest.<br />
<br />
Feel free to change, use, and abuse this idea in any way you like.Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-83489107160485816632011-11-04T20:00:00.000-05:002011-11-10T22:36:33.302-06:00MillionaireWhat does it take to be a millionaire? Well, the first thing one will endure is the initial chuckle or smirk someone sends out in response to the idea.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to be a millionaire," one might say.<br />
<br />
"Ha! Oh? You're serious," is the response.<br />
<br />
It may not be much of a bother at first. What do they know about one's plans? But, eventually it grows frustrating. How is it that nobody believes?<br />
<br />
<i>Probably,</i> one may consider, <i>because they don't know how simple it can be.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
Those one-in-a-million ideas that completely reinvent the way society functions aren't what makes a millionaire. No, those make billionaires. What makes a millionaire is determination and constant sacrifice.<br />
<br />
"But," some may say, "a million dollars is nothing in today's world."<br />
<br />
"Sure," one might respond, "but, you do not have one million dollars and look at what you have now. Besides, the goal is not to see how quickly the million can be spent--rather, it is to see how quickly the million can grow into millions."<br />
<br />
A million dollars is not a lofty goal. It isn't something one may acquire only through inheritance. It isn't as far fetched an idea as winning the lottery. So, what does it take to become a millionaire? It takes determination and constant sacrifice--constant sacrifice.<br />
<br />
If one gives something up for ten years, one can spend the next twenty or thirty years indulging in that thing. No vacations for five years means the most amazing vacations for the next five years or two vacations a year for the next ten years.<br />
<br />
Less money spent now means more money to spend later. And, not just the money saved--that money multiplied by compound interest will grow significantly through years of proper handling.<br />
<br />
It doesn't take very much. It's quite a simple thing to do, really. Spend less than what comes in and keep the rest for later, and eventually one is a millionaire and all of those people who smirked before are jealous now.<br />
<br />
The moral here is that, no matter how many smirks, laughs, and "Oh, I <i>hope</i> you're right,"s one may get, one will become a millionaire. And, one's friends will have an amazing time at the party when it happens.Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-85614052377879406342011-10-28T22:32:00.002-05:002011-10-28T22:32:30.434-05:00FearShe was a sketchbook drawing on a blank white canvas--her lines and curves were unstable and moved and jerked in a chaotic dance that would nearly tear her apart at every second that passed. Smoke billowed up from the cigarette in her hand and stabbed and swirled its way inter her form. She and the smoke became a jumble of flat lines on the empty space around her.<br />
<br />
She tensed up--an overwhelming feeling of being watched struck her. She whilred around and yelled.<br />
<br />
"I know who you are!"<br />
<br />
She could see it, the black canvas that outstretched and enveloped everything it touched, yet somehow remained on the edge of her vision. It was a nasty shadow reaching out to take her, to kill her, to end her.<br />
<br />
"You're only fear!"<br />
<br />
She yelled again to the empty room around her. Her words were silent letters that floated up from her mouth and dissolved against the canvas into nothing.<br />
<br />
"Get away!"<br />
<br />
She could feel it. It was inside her, burning her. It was the cold in her eyes. It was a heavy cloak that bore her down to her knees only to have her stand back up against the pressure.<br />
<br />
"Get away!"<br />
<br />
It advanced and yielded and retreated and advanced again while she turned and looked for it, always at the edge of her vision. She held her arms out and the smoke from her cigarette left her body to form a pillar at the edge of her reach.<br />
<br />
"Get out here, Fear!"<br />
<br />
She stood defiantly, and challenged the thing she hated most of all.<br />
<br />
"I can run; I can hide; you will follow me."<br />
<br />
Her form trembled and her lines grew thicker and darker. She yelled out in pain and gritted her teeth until they cracked.<br />
<br />
"I bet..."<br />
<br />
She yelled and took one final drag of her smoke, then threw it to the ground.<br />
<br />
"...I can put you out..."<br />
<br />
Her muscles tensed. The smoke rose up and twisted her form with tiny slivers of lines that crawled in through her feet and out through her head, then disappeared against the blank white canvas.<br />
<br />
"...like a cigarette!"<br />
<br />
Her foot came down on the smoldering remains of her cigarette.Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-70210518042100358052011-10-21T18:48:00.003-05:002011-10-21T18:48:39.851-05:00Our Dance<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In this room there's you and me. The
black walls melt around us and the ceiling drips, smearing your
lipstick running down your chin like cold blood running through veins
on the pale moon—your eyes the burning stars that blind the world
and tear my limbs apart, leaving me helpless calling your name.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We dance a lover's dance in silence
with snake-like rhythm against a voodoo beat, the rhythm of our
hearts. Drawn and crying, you sketch your hate on my lips as you bite
them, a desperate attempt to steal my heart. And now, I can't feel
you, just the taste of your lips and blood linger.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>But, when we danced, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I
echo your words with mindless absence and float to your voice </span><i>But,
when we danced, I felt your tears fall on my cheeks and I smiled and
I told you 'This will never end.' Where'd you go?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our fingers wrap
together and your cold, rosy fingers dig into my hands and tear away.
And again, I smell nothing but blood and you. <i>I'm here!</i> I cry
out, desperate to hear you again. <i>It doesn't have to end.</i> And,
we dance.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, the ceiling
collapses and you're nothing but an empty feeling that haunts my
dreams and wakes me up in a cold sweat in a room with black walls.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>I can't forgive you,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
I echo your words with mindless absence and float away, trying to
forget that time that we danced, but you left scars on my lips and I
still taste the blood.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Forget it,</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
I fall and accept the soft ground in a room with no walls or ceiling
and I build a statue of myself and climb to the top. </span><i>This
is me!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I yell. </span><i>This is
who I am!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I never liked our
dance anyway.</span></div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-2514735338115254432011-10-14T23:59:00.003-05:002011-10-15T00:00:00.215-05:00Three Bandits<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Daryn counted the bandits. “There are
three guarding the entrance,” he whispered to his three companions.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'll sneak around them and try to
flank them, you guys keep their attention,” Tina looked to Daryn
for support.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good idea. Gareth and I will attack
first. We'll focus on the bandit to our right with the longsword
Gareth, you stay back with the bow and I'll charge in with my blade.
Nathan, you draw the other two men's attention while Tina sneaks
around their right side.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They all nodded in agreement and
prepared for the battle.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gareth struck first, landing an arrow
in the bandit's chest with a thunk.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Daryn charge in behind the arrow and
sliced through the bandit's leather armor.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bandit turned to his partners,
“William, Sean, we're being attacked!” He swung his blade down
and caught Daryn behind the leg, knocking him to his knees.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nathan decided to distract the other
two bandits by throwing rocks at them, drawing their main focus to
him as Tina continued to sneak around their backs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The two bandits, William and Sean,
approached Nathan, weapons drawn. William gritted his yellow teeth as
he brought his ax down on Nathan, but was knocked to the side by Tina
as she struck him in the back of the head with the but of her knife.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sean turned to her, his dirty brown
hair falling into his face, and brought his own blade down on her.
She quickly intercepted his sword with her knife and threw him back a
bit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gareth drew his bow once more and took
aim at his target. This time his arrow pierced straight through the
bandit's leather armor and a bit of blood trickled out through the
hole.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Daryn stood up and grabbed the arrow
and shoved it in deeper, causing the bandit to cry out and fall to
his knees, blood shooting from his mouth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bandit dropped his sword and
grabbed the arrow in his chest.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Dannith, hold on!” William
recovered from the blow to his head and rushed past Tina and Nathan
to his partner's side. He swung the side of his ax at Daryn and
knocked him to the side and took position between his partner and
Gareth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nathan turned to Tina, “Follow my
lead.” He dove down and grabbed Sean's legs, pulling him to the
ground. Immediately, Tina was on top of him trying to pin his arms.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sean managed to throw Tina off of him,
but couldn't kick Nathan loose.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Daryn and Gareth exchanged glances and
Daryn tackled the bandit, William, while Gareth notched and shot at
arrow, landing it straight into Dannith's chest, knocking the bandit
to the ground, unconscious.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
William threw Daryn off himself and
stood up while Tina managed to successfully pin Sean down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nathan stood up and hit Sean in the
head with the butt of his blade, knocking him unconscious.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gareth shot an arrow at William, but
missed. Daryn stood up and took advantage of the distraction,
knocking William in the head.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
William saw his two partners go down
and decided that this was a losing battle that wasn't worth dying
for. He quickly fled the scene as one more arrow from Gareth's bow
whirred past his head.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Daryn and Nathan quickly tied the two
bandits up with rope and then they all let the adrenaline leave their
systems.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Is anyone seriously injured?”
Gareth looked around the group.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“My armor is shot,” Daryn tossed
the rags that used to be his leather armor to the ground, “Other
than that, I'm fine.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I wasn't hurt,” Tina looked around
the group.<br /><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Nor I,” Nathan spoke up, “How
long do you suppose these two will be out?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A few hours at the least,” Daryn
examined the two bandits, “They won't be causing us much trouble
when they do wake up.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Why don't we just slit their throats
and be done with them?” Tina eyed them, playing with her knife in
her hands.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Because,” Gareth looked at her
sharply, “We're better than that.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes,” Daryn agreed, “Now let's
go. There will be more inside and we must be prepared.”</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-31004722458008771832011-10-07T22:14:00.003-05:002011-10-07T22:14:55.487-05:00Better Backstories<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A character's backstory is a great tool
from which to draw for both GMs and Players; it is also a great way
to engage everyone on more levels of the game. So, why is it that we
settle for such poor unoriginal stories? Why are all the parents
dead? From where are all these orphans coming? It's a real epidemic,
but it helps explain the lack of friends or enemies. These characters
were never properly raised and don't know how to interact with other
people—what else could explain their behavior?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Next time you start a game, tell
yourself and your players that you will not settle for mediocre
characters anymore. “Because you always wanted to” is not a good
enough reason to join the militia. “Because your parents forced
you” is not a good enough reason to pursue a career in magic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
These characters often have nothing to
lose but their possessions and their lives and they risk all of it
every day. Why is that? Why are they willing to put their lives in so
much danger? Money is not a good enough motivation, and neither is
depression due to the loss of family. What is the goal of the PCs?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Try this, make a list of things you
could use from the backstories of your characters: people, events,
places, items, etc. Take that list, and use everything on it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If your list isn't as long as you'd
hoped, then next time you run a game, ask for something more
acceptable. Make your players flesh out your world for you. Ask for a
friend, an enemy, a place, a meaningful event, and a special item,
and make sure every PC has one in his or her story that links to the
PC in some way. If you have a party of four, you have twenty plot
items for you to abuse.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>A Friend</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
A childhood
friend, a pen pal, a friend from work, a close cousin or brother,
etc. This person means a lot to the PC and should have a large impact
on the PC's life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>An Enemy</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
A childhood
rival, an evil twin, an evil landlord, etc. This person has caused
deliberate harm to the PC on more than one occasion and causes the
PC's blood to boil at the mention of her or his name.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>A Place</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
Home towns are
too easy and will not do. You need something less obvious. A first
dungeon, a mysterious island that the PC stared upon as a child, a
town to which the PC cannot go for fear of being hanged. These are
more exciting and can provide more fuel to a smoldering game.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>A Meaningful Event</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
This is
something that has changed the PC's perspective on life and has led
the PC to where she or he now is. This is something that haunts the
PC's dreams. Births and deaths are easy, but acceptable. The death of
parents is not acceptable. This can be a future event envisioned by
the PC in a dream, or a massacre the PC took a part in, or an
earthquake that swallowed a mountain. Something powerful with a bit
of mystery sprinkled in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>A Special Item</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
This is
something that the PC and others revere. Perhaps, it is a family
heirloom or the ancient hero's sword that the PC now carries or the
necklace the PC's daughter made before the PC left for good. Whatever
it is, it's important.</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-68522022737161021892011-09-30T23:07:00.003-05:002011-09-30T23:07:42.855-05:00The Parents Are Dead Conundrum<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Okay, it's time to address this whole
'my parents are dead' thing. What is the problem here, players!?
Where are all the parents going? And, why is it that it's the same
old story? You know the story—bandits killed my parents. Enough is
enough. Let's make our parents interesting. What do you think?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Targets of Assassination</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
We're going to
transition into this slowly. Your parents are still dead; only this
time, bandits aren't the cause. No, this is something a lot more
intriguing. Your parents were assassinated. And, get this! It was on
purpose! Your parents were some pretty important people and some
other people needed them dead. Who did it? Maybe you know, maybe you
don't, but you as a player know. Write it in! Maybe the mafia killed
your parents and your character has no idea who did it; it's more
interesting when there's a face attached to your parents' killers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Sacrificed</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
We're keeping
your parents dead, so don't have a panic attack, but the next entry
won't be so kind, prepare yourself. In this one, your parents were
sacrificed or sacrificed themselves. Your god was demanding human
sacrifices and your parents were picked. Right before your eyes, they
were killed and offered to appease your god. Your parents were part
of a ritual that claimed their lives and the result of the ritual
marked you for life. Perhaps, it even granted you strange powers
because of the ritual. Your parents entered a long-fought war and
were killed in battle, or so read the report....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Ex-Adventurers</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
Don't
adventurers ever settle? Do they all become merchants? Well, this
time it's your parents. Maybe, only one of them was an adventurer and
came home periodically until that time he or she left and never
returned. What if your parents had met while adventuring together and
decided to settle down and have kids? Would it be so bad to have
somebody, anybody to come home to? Besides, they probably made plenty
of friends who will recognize your name too, and maybe they made a
few enemies as well....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Nobles</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
That last one
probably threw you off, so we'll go back to something you know
well—the noble parents. It's going to be different this time. This
time, you didn't rebel and leave on bad terms, no. In fact, your
parents encouraged you to become an adventurer. They loved the idea
so much, they even had you specially trained to be able to go out on
your own!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<u>Trying to Kill You</u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
“Egads!” you
say. “Why on Earth would this be the case!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
It's simple. You
know it's going to happen if you leave your parents alive. GMs get
off on turning your parents against you. Why not just do it yourself?
Your parents despise your existence. They see you as a stain that
needs to be cleaned, and the only way to do that is to kill you.
You've been running from them for almost your entire life, and you've
never been able to completely shake them off you. Those suckers are
just too determined to see you dead. Maybe it's your fault and maybe
it isn't; they're trying to kill you either way.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
The best part
about all of these? You know who your parents are! No more 'I never
knew my parents!'</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-24524574316535621982011-09-23T09:49:00.000-05:002011-09-23T09:49:05.328-05:00Taking the Focus off Player Characters<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The latest trend in gaming seems to be
a focus on characters—developing their personalities and ignoring
the numbers or, more likely, using the numbers as a way of
development the characters as more than just stat blocks. How can I
get my players to roleplay? How can I get my players to involve their
PCs more with the game? How can I integrate my PCs' backstories into
the world? These are common questions asked by GMs that focus on the
Player Characters. Players are asking similar questions. How can I
better develop my character and his/her personality? What are my
character's motivations?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of those questions are good
questions to ask and can help build an involved game that can draw a
lot of attention to the characters; however, perhaps we spend too
much time worrying about PCs and perhaps we focus on them too much.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As players, it is easy to look to your
character as your portal into the game world: as a vessel that lets
you experience all that the world has to offer; therefore, it's easy
to put all of our focus on development that character to be exactly
what we want. This can create some issues, and many of them are
common for us to experience.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Often, we will make a character and
have an ideal development for that character. We can picture the
character perfectly in our minds and know their personality in and
out, but when we play the character, we grow disappointed in how they
turn out. This might be because when we picture the character in our
minds, he or she is the main focus—the main character, but when we
play that isn't true; all of the PCs become the main character and,
in a sense, none of them do. We each focus on our own characters and
their developments while ignoring all the other characters and
possibly even the world itself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What if we began asking different
questions? What is an interesting story that I can run to get my
players interested? What's a cool situation that I can throw in to
force the characters to work together? How can I take my players'
focus off their characters and put it toward the world? Some of these
go hand-in-hand with the previous questions. Integrating a
character's backstory into your game is a great way to attract
attention from that player, and what if the characters all had a
shared backstory that they all created together?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For players, different questions need
to be asked. Instead of 'What would my character do in this
situation?' try asking 'What would be the coolest thing to do in this
situation?' or 'What is my character capable of and how can I abuse
that here to spice things up?' Instead of asking 'How can I better
develop my character's personality?' try asking 'How can I form a
better relationship between my character and the others in the
party?'</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What if the players in your game asked
those questions? What if there was more inner-party roleplay? What if
there was more 'What do you think, guys? Would that be cool?' Would
you have more fun? Would you be disappointed in your character's
development?</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-12498904723801480962011-09-21T21:48:00.003-05:002011-09-21T21:48:35.074-05:00And I Forget<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sitting here</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Counting the stars</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gives me hope</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I forget</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That my eyes are closed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that I'm in this bed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that everyone is worried</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That I won't wake up</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-32960948958439125772011-09-16T22:49:00.000-05:002011-09-16T22:49:16.648-05:00Quotes<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*on the way to college orientation*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “You know, son, you're
intelligent, but you aren't smart.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: *Loud Sigh* “Son! When are
you going back to work!? It's like you haven't been going lately!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Tomorrow . . . I only had
yesterday and today off.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*home alone in room watching cartoons*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Son! Get out there and help
your stepmom! She's pouring the mulch into the flower garden herself!
I shouldn't have to tell you these things!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “I didn't even know you guys
were back.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: Grr! “Don't talk back to me!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stepmom: “Hey. Child was acting up at
the babysitter's. He spit on a little girl.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Wow. Did dad tell you what
Child did this morning?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stepmom: “No, he didn't. What did
Child do?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “I caught him peeing on the
carpet.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stepmom: “Oh. I'll ask your father
about it. It's about time for me to call him, anyway.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*dials phone*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stepmom: *blah blah* “...hey, Child
has been acting up lately. I heard about this morning. How did you
punish him?” . . . “No, I'm just wondering so I can punish him
the same way if he does it again.” . . . “I'm not checking up on
you.” . . . “Yes, I told Son about the limb breaking. He said
he'll get it tomorrow, since it'll be his day off.” . . . “Yeah.
Well, he's tired and it's dark out and it's a big limb. It's like
half the tree.” . . . “Don't worry. He said he'll get it
tomorrow.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*sleeping*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Son! Wake up!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Huh? What time is it?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “It's 10:30! You don't get to
sleep in till 10:30!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Oh. Sorry.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Why is that broken limb
still in the yard!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “I was gonna get it today. It's
my day off.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “No! It is not your day off!
You work for me!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Yes, sir. I'll go get it now.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
*Father walks out, leaves door open
comes back minutes later*</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Are your arms broke!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Sir?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Why's the door still open!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “...I thought you needed it
open.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “What's that under the
dishwasher?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Oh! It looks like just water.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Well, why didn't you clean
it up!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “I didn't notice it until you
pointed it out.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Are you blind!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Maybe I need glasses.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “You watch it!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: “Son! Why is this milk out
with the lid off!?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Son: “Stepmom must have done that.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Father: *cheerily* “That girl.”</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-18603809656005738982011-09-14T19:58:00.000-05:002011-09-14T19:58:10.258-05:00I Can't Forgive Him<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We all just pretend it never happened.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But every time I look at him,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I remember</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I can't forgive him.</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-46630047630944758802011-09-09T21:37:00.003-05:002011-09-09T21:38:01.143-05:00Victim of my Greed<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oblivion is a place of nothing, and not
much of a place either. I formed here, the guardian of nothing. I
started changing things once I got bored. I would take lost spirits
from the mortal realm and bring them to Oblivion. It became
something—a transport to the afterlife, a chance at redemption for
those who would have been forced to wander the mortal realm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some revered me as a god and chose to
remain in Oblivion with me. Others shunned me as a demon. I dealt
with those who would lay curses on me the only way I knew; I
destroyed them, made them one with the nothing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But things became stale and
unexciting—once again, I was bored and my followers could not
entertain me. I looked upon the afterlife and saw the wonders of
having everything and I grew envious. I wanted it, but I could not
take it. The leader of the afterlife was too powerful for me and my
mere army. If only there were two of me....</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I turned to the mortal realm; perhaps
one of the lost souls could grow into a being like me. After
lifetimes of searching and studying and trial and error, I found a
mortal with potential: a scarred soul, lost in the midst of those who
would shun her. She kept a secret lust for another.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I would have to test her. Would her
lust for power match mine? Her love had taken another lover and I saw
my chance. I came to this woman in a vision and offered her the power
to gain her lover back. She would become one of my minions in the
mortal realm—a witch, as they were called. As a price for this
power, she would enter Oblivion upon her death.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She knew the risks. My mortal minions
were being actively hunted in their realm. She did not care; she took
the deal and gained her lover back. This was not enough for me. I
came to her many times and taught her well; she grew strong and
hungry for more. She wanted to rule the mortal realm—that was not
my will.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I came to her lover as, what she
called, an angel. I told the lover of the witch, my protégé, and
led her to the witch's lair. My protégé caught her lover and
betrayed her. She sentenced her to be burned at the stake, a price my
protégé should have paid.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I watched the witch take her own life
in regret. Good. We would have the afterlife as ours.</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-66098512932455054552011-09-07T22:07:00.001-05:002011-09-07T22:07:12.368-05:00Who is This?<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She called him and said,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I love you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And he said,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Who is this?”</div>
Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-84895996981772499362011-09-02T19:50:00.000-05:002011-09-02T19:50:03.441-05:00Victim of my Betrayal<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The fire crackled and she screamed like a devil and the crowd chanted, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I turned my eyes away and started back to my house; the chanting echoed in my ears long after I had entered my basement. I remembered my lover's glowing red hair before the fire torched it, long curls that bounced past her shoulders.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When she saw my lab for the first time and her eyes grew wide and started watering, my heart sank. The betrayal she must have felt threw her into a rage. I still have piles of swept-up glass from broken vials in the corners.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“You're not a witch!” she said. She held my hand and stroked my face. “This isn't yours!” She made excuses.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I had to be calm, but she couldn't be. She fell to the floor and clung to my dress pleading, “Please, no.” But the answer was yes. As cold as it must have felt to hear, “Yes.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Our love was hard enough for us to keep a secret and I knew she couldn't handle the betrayal. When she left, she left full of hate and I filled with sadness. I knew what would come next, but I'd hoped it wasn't true.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">With the remaining equipment I had after our fight, I concocted a potion to make my flesh clear and my footsteps silent and I followed her. Straight to the sheriff's home. It was out of my hands at that point. My work was vital to ending the witch hunts and I couldn't let it be lost. I had to act.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I had a precious advantage and the plan was formulated and put into motion. I beat her by a precious few minutes and silently slayed the sheriff and his family. I knew she would be in shock at the sight and I knew I'd have to to rush back home. I grabbed some vials and raw ingredients and placed them in a hidden place in her home and it was done. As soon as she reported the crime, she'd be the first suspect.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The rest was like walking through a dream. The search only lasted a few hours before the items I had planted were found. There was no trial, she was a witch and they had the proof.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It took only a few hours to get the fire set up for lighting. She never looked at me the entire time and she never spoke my name, not even to cast blame. I guess that's what hurt to most. I had just condemned her to be burned with fire and she wouldn't do the same to me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">—</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I wiped tears from my cheeks as I prepared my final potion. The curves of the vials were her curves; the fires were her burning; the bubbles and fumes were her whispers. I put the potion to my lips, her lips to mine.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">In the end, my work would be abandoned, unfinished. But, I couldn't forget the picture of her eyes locked on mine as her face became smothered in flame. I would love to imagine we'd be together in death, but I was to be cursed to oblivion.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My hand trembled as I tilted the potion and drank my bitter death.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-92083981430083115022011-08-31T09:20:00.000-05:002011-08-31T09:20:27.005-05:00He Couldn't Remember<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He couldn't remember what she looked like.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, he just closed his eyes</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And pulled the trigger.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-74944094491556515752011-08-26T07:51:00.002-05:002011-08-26T07:51:13.397-05:00Psychosonic<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I flicked out my cigarette and watched the cops ram a car into a building: a reminder of the dangers of my job. The man in the car had been blasting this psychosonic music out his windows—the kind of music that messes with your mind and makes you feel superhuman. It was the kind of music that made you stupid enough to blare it out your car in the city.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Blam!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Blam!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Two shots—one to the head and the second to the chest to make sure, and then the cops rolled away. He got what was coming to him; everybody knew how dangerous it was to own that music.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The briefcase I carried burned in my hands, “Hey, Tommy. Why do you think we do what we do?”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tommy was my partner. Real quiet on these trips, but not from experience; he was young and nervous. He wore his cap backward and a button-up shirt missing buttons so he just let it hang open. He was a good guy, though. Dependable. He knew how to fight and when to walk away and he had the scars on his knuckles and chest to show for it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He thought for a minute before responding, “I don't know. Boredom? We need the money to eat and I guess we both just want what happened to that guy up there to happen to us one day.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Yeah,</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I thought to myself as we walked along in silence, </span><i>We all have a death wish, don't we. Every person alive today wishes they weren't, but it's not so easy as that, is it?</i></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">We held our breath as we passed an officer on the sidewalk and tried our best not to make eye contact. They wore these big goggles that glowed titanium yellow and could see into your soul. At least, that's what it felt like every time one of 'em looked at you—like they were looking straight through you and could hear every one of your thoughts and feel everything you were feeling. It always gave me chills.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">When we passed him, I watched the tension leave Tommy's muscles and the burning in my hand cooled down a bit. The path we tread was grimy and littered with bits of newspapers and missing person signs. I kicked a soda can onto the street and watched it fall through a gutter. The air smelled of rotten eggs and there always seemed to be a thin layer of dust over everything, you could feel it when you breathed. The only reason I smoked was to take the taste out of my mouth. That's what I told myself as I lit another one up.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Tommy was a big guy, he stood about five inches taller than me and I wasn't short. He didn't grow any facial hair and kept what he had on his head trimmed short. He wasn't much to look at, but he was a good partner. We were standing in front of a building, our delivery in hand, and Tommy buzzed the room. The door unlocked with a </span><span style="font-style: normal;"><b>*click* </b></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span>and we walked in.</span></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> The man we were delivering to was a real mess, a nutjob: a typical client. His room smelled worse than the city and was cluttered with dirty clothes and plates of half-eaten food, save one corner. In that corner sat a music player and some headphones. He looked up at us with big, sunken-in eyes and drool crusted on his gaunt face. His hair was matted down in places. He gave us the cash and I gave him the briefcase and that was that.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> As we walked back, I looked up at Tommy and said, “Do you really think this is worth dying for, Tommy?”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> He shrugged and answered, “I don't know. But, what's worth living for these days?”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"> I guess he was right.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-44364228969532819932011-08-24T09:15:00.000-05:002011-08-24T09:15:57.170-05:00That StarYou see that star right there?<br />
Not that one--<i>that </i>one.<br />
The one past the moon and our galaxy.<br />
Past Andromeda.<br />
The one that goes past the edge of our universe<br />
And keeps going.<br />
I miss you so much<br />
It could reach that star<br />
And come back.Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-18599836023784362912011-08-19T08:04:00.004-05:002011-08-19T08:07:07.212-05:00Thanks<div style="color: white;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6764437890087407" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“You don’t talk back to me! You don’t have the right to talk back to me!”</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I stood firm and wiped the tears from my face. No more yelling, I was sick of it. “Don’t talk to me like that, dad!” My fists were clinched and my face was red.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">His face twisted in rage. “Do you wanna fight me!?”</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What? No!</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> But I couldn’t say the words faster than his fist could break my nose. I fell to the floor and backed myself against the back of the couch. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What’s happening?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I couldn’t feel the pain, but I knew it should have hurt. Tears and blood mingled around my lips, but I couldn’t taste it.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Stop crying, pussy!”</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My face hit the floor and I could hear my step-mom come into the room, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What’s happening? </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She was on the floor next to me and she was scared. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What’s happening?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I tasted his shoe on my face and I felt my lip slowly swell, but it didn’t hurt.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, stop!” She screamed, but only once. She laid unconscious next to me.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I tried to back up farther, but the couch was in the way. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Please stop. I’ll tell my teachers that I bit my lip too hard and it swelled up.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I wiped blood from my face. It smeared against my arm.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t you get that on my couch! This is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">my</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> house! You don’t wipe blood all over </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">my </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">house!” He lifted his foot, but I cowered back and he stopped.</span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The door outside was behind him. I couldn’t make it. The sun through the window burned my eyes. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What’s happening?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></div><div style="color: white;"><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I was in class and my teacher smiled and gave me some chap-stick, but my lips weren’t chapped, “Thanks.” I smiled and took my seat.</span></div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-33596657055730620832011-08-17T08:27:00.002-05:002011-08-24T09:19:10.386-05:00Pretending<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He knew she would leave him one day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But, he held her close</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And pretended it wasn't true.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-28323116979854779402011-08-12T06:41:00.000-05:002011-08-12T06:41:08.790-05:00The Escape<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As we scaled down the wall, the taste of fresh air burst in my mouth and, for the first time in years, I felt the cool night air blow through my clothes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was a tough climb down, but we weren't in any position to rest, my partner, Tobias, and I. It was his plan and my ingenuity that got us out of that godforsaken hellhole, and the pain in my muscles from the climb was nothing compared to the pain of losing my freedom. In his eyes, I could see the same conviction.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On the shore of the island, far from the piercing cries of the sirens and the barking of the watch dogs, we finally granted ourselves a minute to catch our breath. I could smell the salty ocean and feel it fill my lungs: a sweet aroma compared to the medley of odors inside the prison. I gazed at the stars. “Look up there,” I said to Tobias, pointing to the sky, “What do you see?”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“The sky? The stars. I don't really see much of anything.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“You know what I see?” I asked, not expecting an answer. Pausing for emphasis, I stated, “Opportunity. You know, Tobias, I've always been an opportunist.” In those billions of stars and planets, in the almost endlessness of the ocean on all sides, I saw my freedom and all the possible new lives I could create. Everything was stretched out before me like an empty canvas, and I had the paint.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tobias had carried a makeshift raft that I worked on for months, made of raincoats provided to us and our inmates. We promptly inflated it and hopped on. The salty ocean air burned my eyes. I welcomed the new sensations. The taste of the water on my lips, the dirt and grime clinging to my now wet clothes. The pure silence of the whole experience. Tobias stared into the sky, apparently seeing for the first time what I had seen earlier. Tears smeared the dirt on both our faces.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We never saw the rock sticking out of the water off the shore. The darkness of night and the waves hid it from us until our raft smashed into it, knocking Tobias and me on our faces, and then the death hiss of the air as it drained from a puncture in the raft. We were almost close enough to turn back, but the current was pulling us out farther and our paddles had fallen in the water during the impact. My heart raced in my chest and I could feel the adrenaline pumping through me. Tobias was yelling something, wide-eyed, frightened. We both tried to paddle the raft toward the shore with our hands, but it was too late. It had flattened and we were sinking with nothing to hold onto.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Three days later, a young officer approached the chief guard of the prison. The constant roar of inmates fighting and yelling was never out of earshot in this place.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Sir, their bodies were found, caught against the rocks on the southern end of the island.”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Thank you, officer. I want a full report on my desk by the end of the week. Dismissed.” The young officer nodded and walked out of the room, leaving the chief alone. The chief turned, a deep frown crossed his face, a permanent feature of the man. “I knew those sumbitches wouldn't make it. Nobody's ever made it off this island, and nobody ever will.”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Back at the sinking raft.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">As the raft sank and Tobias held onto it with his life, I swam east just like I'd practiced every night for the last six months. I grabbed onto the same rock to which I tied my personal boat, made from wood and other debris that had washed up on short, much sturdier than the raincoat raft. I turned to watch Tobias sink, as I knew he would. He couldn't swim; almost nobody inside could swim. After decades locked indoors, it's easy to forget.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I hopped in my boat and dumped the body of the man I'd killed, only an hour before we'd left, into the water. I untied the twine, I made, and pulled inside the boat and began rowing away. Tobias's body floated against the rocks just like the other man's. Their faces would be picked away by the fish and they would be unrecognizable by the time they were found.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">I leaned back in my boat and looked once more at the sky. <i>Freedom,</i> I thought before closing my eyes. For the first time in twenty-five years, I finally knew freedom.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-18056299486438483802011-08-10T08:14:00.000-05:002011-08-24T09:19:10.386-05:00Please, Don't Jump<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I watched her jump.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I didn't want her to but,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was what she wanted</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">So, I didn't stop her.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-36720980349767634272011-08-05T09:01:00.000-05:002011-08-05T09:01:45.998-05:00Fighting off the Crows<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Hey, guys! What's up?” A young girl walked up to the group, her black hair almost purple in the light. Her sharp, thin well-defined features clearly marked her as a half-elf. Her smile was big as she pushed her long hair behind her right ear, letting it hang in front of her eye on the left.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh! Hi, Little Susie. We're just on duty, so...nothing.” Tina smiled at Little Susie.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“On duty again? Weren't you guys on duty last night?” Little Susie tilted her head slightly and raised an eyebrow.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah,” Nathan's voice was monotone, “Boss must love us.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“After last night, you'd think he'd give us a break,” Daryn rolled his eyes and pulled his mouth to one side in disappointment.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah, I heard about the scary wolves,” Little Susie made a baby face as she said it, “Ha!”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Hey! They were no walk in the park, okay?” Daryn took on a defensive stance.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Little Susie chuckled, “But the way you tell it, you guys fought a dragon!”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Wolves, dragons, it's hard to tell the difference sometimes, right Daryn?” Gareth elbowed him and knocked him slightly off balance.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. What are you up to, Little Susie?” Daryn's attempt to change the subject was less than subtle.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I'm glad you asked!” Little Susie perked up, “I'm on an important mission and I need volunteers, and since you aren't doing anything...I was hoping you guys would volunteer.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“What's the mission?” Nathan lowered his eyebrows and crossed his arms behind his back as he leaned in a bit.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I'll take that as a yes!” She hopped a bit as she spoke, “Today,” her tone lowered slightly and she scrunched up her mouth and eyebrows, “we're going to take on the oh-so-important job of scaring the crows from the corn fields.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh?” Tina fingered the knives on her belt.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yep, and I'll show you guys how. It's not as tricky as it sounds, but it takes practice.” She grabbed Daryn by the wrist and dragged him behind her. The rest of the group followed accordingly.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“The trick is,” Little Susie's voice was a whisper. The corn field stretched out before the group as they hunched down, little sprouts dotting the field with rows of green, “you can't just scare them; they'll just go to a different part of the field. You gotta scare them from all sides, so they think there's nowhere else to go. Follow my lead. Daryn, you stay with me. Tina, Nathan, and Gareth, you guys go around and try to encircle them.” She grabbed Daryn's hand and walked, crouched toward the crows. The other three began sneaking around.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Once they formed a solid circle around the crows, they started sneaking in. “Damn!” Nathan cursed himself as stones dropped from their pouch at his side. The crows turned to him and all flew up and away. “Hey!” Nathan's eyes grew wide, “I did it.” He stood up, arms on his hips and chest puffed out. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Little Susie chuckled as the crows landed a few yards away and Nathan's chest deflated. She motioned for them to regroup. “This time,” she looked at Nathan, “we'll make sure all our stuff is on properly, okay?” Nathan looked down sadly and Tina playfully punched his shoulder.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Fine,” he said, “Sorry, guys. This time I've got it.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“They'll be more wary now,” Little Susie got serious again, “We've gotta be <i>extra </i><span style="font-style: normal;">sneaky.” She motioned for them to circle the crows again, and held onto Daryn's hand, dragging him with her.</span></div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">The group got in close this time and Little Susie motioned for their attention. “Follow my lead,” she mouthed as she counted down with her fingers from three, “Three...two...one. Raah!” She let go of Daryn's hand and charged forward and the others followed. The crows lept up and knocked each other in confusion as they flew away from the field. “Good job, guys.” Little Susie perked up again and bounced as she spoke.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Thank you. Thank you,” Gareth bowed.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“They won't be back for a while,” Tina looked triumphantly at the fleeing crows.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah, well, we'd better get back to our patrol,” Daryn smiled at Little Susie, “We wouldn't want to get in trouble.”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Nathan made an obvious frown, “Leave it to Daryn to ruin the fun.”</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Don't worry, guys. Maybe you'll run into another dragon,” Little Susie chuckled and skipped away. The others laughed and patted Daryn on the back.</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">“Yeah, yeah. You guys can shove it.”</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-55857489449431957642011-08-03T09:23:00.003-05:002011-08-24T09:19:10.387-05:00The Computer is my Mask<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">If I stare at the computer monitor,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">People just assume</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">That I'm not really crying.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2179223463013584758.post-87033734402790267462011-07-29T10:10:00.002-05:002011-07-29T10:10:39.287-05:00My Grandfather<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I used to go hunting with my grandfather when I was a kid. We'd go on the weekends almost every weekend; it was the highlight of my weeks. We would go to this reservation a few minutes from his house and it was like an adventure—it was so exciting, having to be quiet and getting to carry a gun. When I became a teenager, we would share a few beers while we were out and he'd always tell me, “Don't tell you're parents I'm giving you this.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was pretty much the only time we'd ever spend together; going out hunting, drinking, goofing off. I loved it more than anything and I could see in his eyes that he enjoyed it too. I killed my first buck, cooked my first squirrel, shot my first turkey, and my first duck with my grandpa and he was always so proud of me when I'd get one. I was thirteen when I shot my first buck, a little four-pointer absolutely nothing to brag about, but you couldn't tell me or my grandfather that. We came back to his house, where my parents and siblings were waiting and I just strutted up to the door with my chest puffed out and quietly, with a smug look on my face, pointed to the back of the truck where my prize was sitting. That was the best deer meat I had ever eaten.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As things go, I got older and the trips started spreading out more; some of it was my life catching up to me and some of it was my grandfather being less able to keep up and go out as much. We still enjoyed a good hunt together, but it became an annual thing, no more once a week or once a month trips for us. It was still just as much fun as it had ever been, and I still looked forward to it every year, counting down the days until our hunt together.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">One year, I was twenty-five at the time, he called me up and asked if I was gonna make it to the hunt this year, but I told him I was just too busy this time; I'd have to get a rain check. Truth is, I was going out with friends to bars and clubs to pick up chicks and get wasted; we were gonna have so much fun out that night and we'd get so much pussy it would hurt. Found out the next day that my grandpa had an accident while he was out hunting. He was trying to climb one of the fences out there and half-way up had a heart attack and fell to the ground. He died alone out there because I wasn't with him.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I never forgave myself for that. If I had been out there maybe I could have helped him and saved his life, maybe it never would have happened if I'd gone with him, he wouldn't have had to exert himself carrying all the stuff and he would have had my help climbing the fence. There are so many maybes, but it's my fault he died and I have never been able to forgive myself for that.</div>Broken Fingerprintshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01795549438342106742noreply@blogger.com0