Tuesday, January 31, 2012

The Altar

Well, today I had an epileptic incident and had to take medicine beyond what I usually do. In the incident my voice became broken, my thoughts slowed and I started to have seizures. To avoid having a big flurry happen(which sometimes happen after these events) I had to take a strong medicine and take a big nap. I hate this medicine as it mentally impairs me for hours after taking it, though after those hours it still slows me down. This is why today's story is being posted so late(around 8:29 where I am) so I could be in a good state of mind while I wrote the story. I'm also annoyed because this incident happened right before my creative writing club, and I was so looking forward to it, though I couldn't risk an even larger incident by leaving the house. And happy anniversary to my parents!

Well, I hope today's story isn't hurt in quality because of my seizure meds.

The Altar

       The altar had a polished marble floor that shone like the moon on a clear winter night. A woman with a dark blue dress nervously entered the room. The dress had a thin hood and swirling patterns sown into it. Diamonds were weaved in at key points in the dress's seams. In her religion the dress could only accompany someone into the greatest of rituals.
        She looked around at the sapphire statues in the altar. Each of the seven statues depicted a different god in their religion. The first statue showed Teul, the goddess of memories and time. The second depicted Urli the god of strength and will, who brought good harvests to those to worked and prayed to him. The third was Rei, the goddess of hope and regret. The fourth was Gii, the goddess of death and forgiveness. The fifth was Euno the god of wisdom and arrogance. The sixth god in the altar was that of family and war, Fui.
        “Teul, Urli,Rei, Gii, Euno and Fui.” the woman said while nervously shaking. “I call your sacred names to call you to my side.” She couldn't see them come to her, but her faith told her that they were there. “I have to ask something of you. My son, he's very ill, and he will die. I beg of you save him.” she knew just asking wasn't enough. Her faith taught her that in order to receive something from the gods a sacrifice was needed. She could think of only one thing that could be used as payment for her son's life. She pulled out a knife from her dress and stabbed it into herself. “I give myself to you.” She collapsed into the ground in a thick pool of blood.
        “Wait! The doctor found a cure!” a man ran into the room to see his wife on the floor. He knelt over her and hugged her. “No, you didn't did you?”
         “The doctor found a cure...” the woman said with a smile on her face. “Then they must have listened to me after all.”

Monday, January 30, 2012

Remember to Recycle

Well, I'm now 21 years old today, though I still can't drink alcohol because it would interfere with my medication and give me seizures. Today's been a good day seizure wise though, I've had very few so... yay! Anyway, enjoy today's story!

Remember to Recycle

        Ziel was an old robot. He couldn't even remember when his warranty expired. He used to have the most advanced artificial intelligence avaliable complimented by a magnificent humanoid body. But now his artificial intelligence was outdated and his body rusted. He already lost three fingers on his right hand and two on his left, they wore away and fell off years ago. His left eye rusted shut and the input from his right became fuzzy at times. He kept his legs in the best condition he could as they were his most valuable parts because they allowed him to run.
        “Hey old man!” another robot named Lus said. Lus was the newest addition to the pack of robots Ziel lived with. Lus was a very stubborn, brutally honest robot because he was originally a contestant at the robot fighting rings. Though once he lost his left arm he was discarded. “Ani wants to talk with you!”
        “Oh, okay. Wonder what she wants.” Ziel responded. Ani used to be a model robot that the Sanksi Corporation used as a mascot. Though once her cute synthetic face wore away to show her wires and skeleton they removed her from display and replaced her with a new model. Ziel went to meet Ani at her usual spot in the camp. He found her lying on the ground.
        “Sir. My leg. The gears shifted and I can't get up.” even with her face worn away Ziel could tell she was frightened.
        “Don't worry. I'll fix it.” Ziel was the best mechanic in the camp, despite his lost fingers. It took him several hours but he managed to get Ani to stand up again.
        “Thank you so much.” she said to him. The woods around the robots's camp gave them plenty of shade, there was a nice, wide opening in the canopy they used to recharge their solar power cells. They liked it there. It was nice and quiet, and most importantly away from the city and the humans inside it.
        A huge rumbling blasted through the forest. The robots heard an engine that sounded like the gunfire of heated combat. A large, unmanned vehicle came between the trees. It had six wheels and twelve clawed arms coming from its sides. A big door in its front opened up to reveal sharp spikes inside that resembled a shark's teeth. Piles of scrap could be seen behind the teeth. Each tooth had the recycling logo painted on it in a bright, white paint. The same logo covered the sides of the vehicle and the top. A row of five cameras laid above the door to give the vehicle sight.
        The vehicle moved into the camp, its claws grabbing robots in the camp and tossing them into its teeth. The teeth broke the robots into pieces and sent their scraps into its interior. The robots in the camp started fleeing. The vehicle then went after Ani. She couldn't move faster than it, but before it could reach her Ziel dashed towards it, and with rusted, breaking joints he jumped onto the vehicle's top.
        “Old man, wait!” Lus yelled. Ziel couldn't get completely on top of the vehicle, so his legs dangled down into the mouth of the vehicle. Its top teeth started tearing into his legs, pulling them into pieces. He kept pulling himself up with one arm, while the other pulling the cameras off the vehicle. Once it lost all of the cameras the vehicle backed away and a legless Ziel fell to the ground. He could see his legs being mashed up in the teeth of the vehicle while it drove away.
        “We need to go! We need to make a new camp!” Ziel yelled. He took a long pause before speaking again. “You all know there will be ten more of them tomorrow if we don't leave.” Lus pulled Ziel along the ground when the robots started to head west to make a new camp.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

The Scholar of Emotions

I got Ultimate Marvel vs Capcom 3 game for my birthday. It is really cool(never played original version of 3) but it also reminded me that I am not that good at fighting games. (I think I'll learn though). I find Wolverine saying “Swiss cheese!” during one of his claw attacks incredibly amusing. Anyway here's today's story, I hope you enjoy it.

The Scholar of Emotions

        A young scholar sat on a fine leather chair with a series of small, clear tubes going through his head and into his brain. The tubes were less than a centimeter thick. He shaved his head so the tubes could penetrate his skull unobstructed. The tubes led to a machine with hundreds of vats of various chemicals. The machine was suspended from the ceiling by a series of cold, metallic chains. Wires ran from the device to a control panel in front of the scholar. Next to the control panel was a tiny table made of a very expensive wood. On the table lay a simple notepad and pen.
        The scholar pushed a series of buttons and various chemicals went from the vats in the machine into his brain. He then felt the happiness of meeting an old friend after being apart for years. He then took his pen and wrote down the buttons he pushed and what he felt afterward.
        The scholar pushed another set of buttons and new chemicals went from the machine into his brain. He felt then the depression from losing a loved one in a sudden, tragic event. He wrote down his observations with his steady, fancy handwriting. The next group of buttons gave him the satisfaction of creating a fine work of art. Next the chemicals made the scholar feel the regret of someone who just missed their last chance to say goodbye.
        He reviewed his data for a few minutes before he continued. A quick dance of his fingers along the control panel caused the scholar to feel the anxiety of an actor during his first performance in a crowded theater. He quickly updated his notes. Next he experienced the eagerness of a child opening his Christmas presents in the earliest hours of the morning.
        He continued filling his notes and pushing buttons for many more hours. The scholar looked over his notes and tried to draw conclusions. He analyzed the chemicals he used and the desirability of the emotions he experienced. He, like every other scientist in his field, was looking for the Elixir of the Soul. The Elixir was the combination of chemicals that embodied every aspect of the human experience. He wondered if and hoped that he would be the man who discovered The Elixir.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The Sky Festival

Hello everyone! Although my birthday is actually the 30th of January, since that's a Monday we decided to celebrate it today. Been hanging out with my best friend and such so I didn't have time to write a story for today so instead I'm putting up an old story of mine. Before this blog I did a story a day for a few months. The story below was actually written on October 19th 2009! It's one of my favorites from my first story a day. I think you'll find interesting on how my style and craft has changed over the years.

The Sky Festival

            An origami kingdom floated in the sky, the whispers of the wind being the only thing that held it up. Angels lived in this kingdom, their magic wings kept them light as air so they could walk the land of the kingdom safely. Crowds of angels gathered at the edge of the kingdom preparing themselves for the Festival.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” the angel Jasmine said as she ran up to her father, her magic paintbrush in hand.
Although Jasmine’s father had told her over and over to not be late for the Festival, he decided that he wouldn’t lecture her just this once. “Jasmine, you’d better hurry along, the birds are about to leave. You wouldn’t want the painting to start and be birdless right?” Jasmine, quite happy that she dodged another lecture, ran off to find some birds.
Thousands of living origami birds flew into the kingdom, feeding on the bird feed the angels had left out. The angels would then each catch one. The chasing and catching was the angel children’s favorite part of the Festival. The adult angels’ favorite part was the painting of the birds. After a quick sleep spell was cast on the birds the angels went to work painting on them as a canvas. The children painted mostly doodles with their magic brushes, but the adults took the Festival far more seriously and drew beautiful works of art on the birds, things that struck the soul with their colors and shapes.
Jasmine put a lot of effort into her drawing, and created something quite remarkable for her age. Although blotchy she managed to recreate the Festival on one of the birds. Right as she did the last stroke the bird woke up and flew off, startling her. It tried, just as all of the birds did when they woke up, to shake off the art. But once it realized the futility of its actions it decided to ignore the beauty on its back and fly away. Immediately after it flew off Jasmine missed her work.
“Don’t worry Jasmine, just like every year newborn birds will come to this spot for us to paint. For now all can you do is stare into the sky looking for your past works, but be patient, the next Festival will be here soon.” Her father gave her a big smile, the Festival was really the only time he was truly happy.
“Okay…I’ll wait.” Jasmine frowned a little, she wished the Festival was everyday.

Friday, January 27, 2012

The Talent

Well, had a fun time doing my teaching internship today, but I still have so much to learn. Dealing with high schoolers can be tough at times, though in the end they're all good kids.

I hope you enjoy today's story!

The Talent

         The actor placed a glass amulet in his pocket. His father was also an actor and gave it to him. His grandmother was also an actor and passed the amulet to his father. He came from a long line of renowned actors who could play any character they chose.
         Today the actor would be playing a general in a war movie. The rubbed his fingers along the amulet in his pocket. A spirit then emerged from the amulet and went into his body. The spirit was that of a Chinese general, renowned for his cleverness. He never told anyone, but before they were actors the members of his family line were necromancers, masters of the dead. His great-great grandfather made the amulet to channel the dead and their personalities into the user.
         With the spirit flowing through his soul the actor told the director he was ready to perform. Throughout the day he preformed his role perfectly. The director shouted cut confidently after each scene. The director felt that there was no need for any retakes. At the end of day the actor would release the spirit from his body. The actor did this for everything he acted in. People loved him in his movies and even the nastiest critics would admit his talent. Millions of dollars piled into his bank account over the years. For his movies he summoned spirits of politicians, bankers, janitors and thousands of others.
         For one movie he was given a massive script that could have been used as a door stopper. The movie told the tale of a madman with multiple personalities who went through his life viewing himself as deranged. The script had him going through event that would twist him even further. The actor hadn't done a role like this before. He knew in order to play the character properly he would have to channel multiple spirits into his body.
         He used the amulet to pull in three spirits. One of an artist, another of a construction worker plus that of a greedy corporate embezzler. He felt comfortable with those spirits in his body, but then without him rubbing the amulet an unintended spirit came in. That of a small child who died on a full moon's night. He pulled out the amulet and it wriggled like a worm. Another spirit came in, that of a murder who appealed out of death row four weeks before he died in a car accident. The spirit of a psychologist then climbed into him. He couldn't stop them. The spirits kept piling up. He then smashed the glass amulet to the ground. But they kept coming. Soon he had hundreds of spirits smashing about in his soul. Then thousands a few minutes later. He collapsed to the ground shaking in pain. The other actors came around him, unsure of what to do. They called 911 while the actor's soul filled with millions of spirits. He then felt the spirits weighing down his soul. They started pulling him down. They kept dragging his soul until a few moments later when he finally passed away.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

The Witch's Trades

Wow, I had a bit of writer's block today. Sure I came up with story ideas, but nothing I felt confident in at first. It took me awhile to write today's story, which is why my post is so late.

The Witch's Trades
       A tall, lean witch stood at her store's counter with a friendly smile on her face. Her youthful face contrasted her old, worn hat and robes. Their color matched that of a fading shadow. A short, weak man faced her with a potion in his hand.
        “Go ahead, drink it. It's yours now.” the witch smiled as she spoke. The man drank the potion and grew tall. His body became muscular and filled with energy. “How do you like your strength?” the witch asked.
        “I love it. I feel so alive.” the man said.
        “Don't forget your payment.” the witch said. She held out an empty bottle and a strong light came from the man's heart. The light went into the bottle and became a thick, blue liquid. “Your great intelligence for incredible strength. Good choice young man.” her voice then became rigid and angry, “Now get out of my store.” The man left the store, he gained great happiness, but he could feel the happiness slowly being tainted by regret.
        A young woman then entered the store. She walked like a dove flew and she headed straight to the witch. She didn't bother looking at the potions laid out on the shelves all around the store.
        “What can I help you with?” the witch said as she began to smile. “A girl like you could want many things.” The witch then picked up a few potions from behind the counter. “Do you want courage? Beauty?” the witch then held up the potion she created from the man. “Intelligence?”
        “I want to be filled with darkness.” the girl said while looking straight into the witch's eyes.
        “What?” the witch responded. In the hundreds of years she ran her shop she never got a request like that.
        “I'm too kind. I want to be filled with darkness, evil, rage, whatever it takes to hurt him like he hurt me.”
“       Ah, yes. Men can be so cruel can't they?” the witch then went to the back room of the store and emerged with a potion full of a dark pink liquid. “Pure evil. And it can be yours. But for what price?”
        “I will give you every bit of goodness from my heart.” the woman told the witch.
        “Sounds like we have a deal.” the witch responded. Normally the price the customer suggested would be too low, but this was a bargain for the witch. She had to accept the woman's offer. She gave the woman the potion. The woman drank it and her eyes became sunken and dreary. She turned around without a single word and headed out of the store. “Have a nice day!” the witch said with a smile.


I hope you liked today's story. I posted this around 9:40 my time, so good night and have sweet dreams!

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Dance of the Elements

Today was a busy day with school and everything, but I got to listen to music between classes and brainstorm stories.

This story gave me some nice practice in describing people. I think you'll enjoy it.

The Dance of the Elements

        The Elementals enjoyed their parties as much as the Sun in the sky. They spent much of their time preparing only for their parties. Dances were rehearsed so much they became as natural as breathing.
        Each Elemental dressed in their best clothes. Fire dressed in a black dress that showed off her burning red eyes and orange hair. She danced with even steps. The forests in the mortal world turned to ash when she walked over them.
        Mountains parted and cities crumbled when Earth walked up to Fire. He had broad shoulders, light brown skin and oil black hair. He wore a dark green suit that stretched to fit his wide, muscular frame. He held out his hand to her. She grabbed his hand and they began to dance. Volcanoes formed as they waltzed through the mortal world.
        Water ran her delicate fingers through the ground, leaving pure rivers behind. She sat with a mellow smile. She loved the parties but was too timid to dance, unlike her sister Wind who happily danced with anyone. She envied the Elementals that danced through the mortal world in pretty couples. She feared she would be lonely again despite her beautiful blue dress and eyes. The shadow of a man then fell over her.
        “Why won't you stand up and dance m'lady?” a soft and strong voice asked her. The man had a youthful face and bone white hair that fell down onto his shoulders. He had deep blue eyes that matched her own. It was Moon, the Elemental that every girl wanted to have hold their hands.
        She couldn't think of any words to respond with so she stood up and held out her hand. He held it gently while he tugged her toward him. He danced with quick feet and she had difficulty keeping up with him at times. As Moon and Water danced oceans rose and fell while rivers shook.
        The Sun soon reached twilight.
        “I'm sorry, but I must go. The night needs me.” Moon said with a regretful smile. “I hope we dance again soon.” Moon then faded into the sky.
        “Of course we will.” Water responded. She already longed for the next dance in the mortal world.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Family Heritage

       Tonight we're having my Mom's spaghetti, its one of the best things she makes. Its better than ice cream...its that good.

Here's today's story and I look forward to any comments. Feel free to email me!

Family Heritage

        A winged man with three eyes and a lizard's tail sat in front of a big machine in a bright hospital room. The chair he sat in was very expensive, the hospital wanted to make sure he was comfortable while he made his decisions. The doctor had already left the room to give the man his privacy.
        He poked the touch screen on the computer to turn it on. He entered his password on the machine and swiped his credit card.
        “Please enter name of child and select gender.” the machine told him. His lizard tail twitched and his wings fluttered. He had been waiting for this moment for quite some time. He entered “Charlotte” and pushed the “female” option. The machine gave out a pleasant hum when the man used it. More options appeared on the next screen. Buttons, scroll bars, sliders and piles and piles of menus. He liked the all the options as he wanted to make sure his child came out exactly as he wanted her.
        He thought for a moment about what traits he wanted his daughter to have. He selected a wonderfully bright shade of blonde and dark green eyes that resembled a leaf hidden in the shadows. He thought for another minute. Then he used the various scroll bars to give her a skin color that matched a milky, sun-baked tan. He liked the preview of his daughter in the upper left corner of the screen. Though right underneath it was a disclaimer saying that the sample won't match the child exactly.
        A long time ago the government made natural births illegal as that could lead to genetic disorders that could harm future children. The majority of society agreed as now they had the technology to create whatever kind of children the parents desired with no risk of genetic problems. Humanity also improved children, intelligence, strength, immune systems and so many other things were enhanced to make better people. The average lifespan of a person passed one hundred and fifty many years ago. The man at the machine reached 82 years of age a few months ago without a single wrinkle or health problem. He never even had the flu.
        His tail sagged onto the ground. He fiddled with his feathers, it was a nervous habit of his he had ever since he was little. His parents nagged him about it because sometimes he would pull one of his feathers out. His mother loved his silky white wings. His wife called him an angel because of them.
        He did his best to give his daughter a wonderful body. He gave her his angel wings and his wife's pointy ears. There was a saying that kids with cat tails did better in school. The man doubted very little in his life, so he gave his daughter a thin, black cat tail.
        While he customized his daughter he thought of the fact some poorer countries still had natural births. He pitied those children. The random shuffling of DNA made such weak people. How could any loving parent let that happen? When the man was young he was shocked to learn that people could come from places different than the Bio-Tanks at the hospital.
        He then pushed the “Finished” button on the screen with a smile. Now he just had to wait a week for his daughter to finish developing in the Bio-Tank. Though he knew that customizing his child hadn't ended yet. Once she was born he needed to bring her to a Conditioner psychologist to make sure she had the personality he wanted. If he didn't regularly bring her to one then she could become a delinquent. He still had difficulty imagining all the other places where there were still natural births and the fact that there used to be only natural births. He feared what kind of monstrosity he could have become if his parents had him naturally born.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Fiction Factory

Well today's been a good day. Usually I have many more seizures during school days, but as of the time of this writing I've only had 8. I'll probably have more later, but I think there won't be many. I just ordered an art book for my birthday. Art can give me so many ideas and inspiration. When you look closely at art sometimes you can pull out some wonderful emotions and ideas. MC Escher is my favorite artist, his work is really awesome. “The Bent Studio” is a story I based on art I looked at. Its something I based on the artwork of a good friend of mine and I gave it to him for Christmas. Now none of the paintings of the artist match my friends and the story isn't taken from his art. But the mood and tone for the story is from them. Here would be his deviant art page:
(He's a bit weird by the way)
What I mean about tone is that I looked at his art, and tried to pull out the mood inside it. Have you heard the expression that writers have a “voice” in the way they write. I tried to change my voice to be similar to the ideas and feeling I got from some of his art. I tried to take his style of art, and make it the style of the story, but the plot isn't taken from his art. It's a bit hard to explain.

Now today's story has nothing to do with his art, but is still pretty good and I think you'll enjoy it.

Fiction Factory

        A massive machine churned shining metal bowls onto a conveyor belt in a steady rhythm. An old man looked at the conveyor belt with both happiness and sadness. This man's name was Alex and this was his last day at the factory before retirement. Despite how much the work there bored him he knew he would miss its familiarity during retirement. He wondered how many stories he helped complete during his employment at the factory.
        Each bowl was a story. At the start of the line one of his coworkers ran a machine that poured a bubbling, blue liquid into the bowls. The liquid was the setting of the story, prepped by the factory to be consistent and clean.
        The next machine placed the plot in the bowls. The plots were thin, plastic looking walls that controlled the flow of everything in the story. The factory had a bit of fame for not having any holes in their plot walls. The walls also had great pacing between each other.
        Alex worked close to the end of the belt. He took the characters, large, golden balls of varying textures and sizes, and threw them into the bowls. The characters flowed through the setting between the walls of the plot until they reached their destinations. He was supposed to throw them in a random, but Alex sometimes picked the ones he wanted first. His most important job was to wrap his hands tightly around the characters and make sure they were nice and round. He threw out any characters that were too flat. The factory had very strict quality control protocols.
        After he put in the characters another machine put a metal top on the bowl and welded it shut. The last worker used a machine to wrap the story up and put it in a cardboard shipping container. For hours this would repeat without fail.
        But that day the shipment of creativity, the oil that made the machines run, was late. When the workers realized this they panicked. It had been years since a shipment was late. Within minutes they were running out of supplies. They had to pull out their backups.
        Clichés started to be put in the stories. The quality of the stories rapidly fell, but they had to fill the order. Alex's boss looked out his office window at his employees. The boss frowned, but didn't feel angry his employees. He feared for the complaints from customers that would be coming to his office for weeks to come.
       Then a terrible, horrible cliché was accidentally dropped into one of the machines. The machine started rumbling and screeching as the cliché fell through its cracks. Alex knew it could break at any moment and its engine would most likely explode. But he didn't run from the machine. Instead he went to the machine. Despite it being his last day at it he still had an instinctual devotion to his factory and more importantly, his coworkers that would be hurt in the blast.
        Instead of running away he went to the machine and risked his fingers by plunging his right arm into the machine. Over the years he learned everything about every part of the machines. He managed to wrap his hand around the cliché and pluck it from the machine.
        All the workers in the factory cheered. They shut off all the machines, mechanics checked for further problems and once the next shipment of creativity came in they continued to work. And at exactly five o' clock that night Alex said goodbye to all his coworkers and left for home, his retirement fund now completely open to him.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Dream TV

Sorry I couldn't get you stories these past few days. I have them, but ASU(the college I go to that hosts my email which I use to use blogger) got hacked and they had to reset all the passwords and system, so I was unable to post anything. Though unless there are technical difficulties in the future(or I get sick or there's an emergency of some sort like a massive seizure flurry.) I'll be completely back to my story-a-day as before. I think today's story is good enough to make up for my absence. As per how these past couple of days have been they've been good. I went to my first day of the 2nd semester of my teaching internship(I have a different teacher each semester, though I am going to the same school as my first semester) My first teacher taught 8th Grade science and Chemistry, I went 2 days a week for the entire day(so 16 hours a week). This teacher teaches more class types, but only high schoolers. So far I think I prefer teaching younger kids. I can possibly channel hyperactivity in kids into productive processes, but the apathy of high schoolers, although less rowdy, can be far less productive. (Although the types of jokes I can crack expands with high schoolers, sarcasm is something they quite enjoy.)

I hope you like today's story and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Dream TV

        A steady, bright light came from an aged television and illuminated an otherwise dark room. In the room a family sat on a large, unfashionable couch. You couldn't call them poor, but they didn't have enough money to be called middle class. Both parents worked unsatisfying jobs to support three children and their frail grandfather.
        On the television was the family's favorite show, Dream TV. They watched it together every night without fail. They had different tastes in everything else. One child loved sports, one hated them and the third didn't care. The grandfather read under the mellow light next to his bed while the mother chatted on the phone with her friends about nothing that mattered. The father attempted to paint masterpieces with little success. But despite their differences they all loved Dream TV like 70% of other Americans. (At least 70% is the number the show advertised.)
        On the show a woman that couldn't be older than twenty laid sleeping in a bed with what seemed to be a hundred wires attached to her head with cotton and glue. The wires ran to a huge computer that could dwarf a truck. Two people in suits sat at a fancy table in front of the computer with a monitor next to them. They were separated from the woman by a thick wall of soundproof glass. As soon as the show's theme music ended they began to speak.
        “Hello viewers, its me Ben and my lovely co-host Anne.” He spoke like a comedian building up to a punchline. “Anne could you please explain our show for any new viewers at home?”
        “Of course Ben. Today we will be watching the dream of our contestant with Ben and I providing commentary. Then you viewers at home will vote whether or not you liked the dream. Whichever contestant gets the most votes at the end of the week will get the grand prize of fifty thousand dollars!” she explained with a friendly smile.
        “Don't forget Anne, this season were giving every contestant special drugs provided courtesy of Samson Dreams Incorporated to increase the intensity of their dreams.” the host smiled. The television company paid a lot of money to put his smile on camera.
        “Right Ben. Now we're proud to provide these dreams live, straight to your TV!” Anne's voice then became quiet and quick, “Note: This station and all its affiliates are not responsible for any content in the following dream.”
        The television screen switched to display the woman's dream. Though the hosts vanished, they could be heard while the dream played out.
        She stood on a long wooden bridge that weaved through the clouds. In front of her stood a cat on two legs, leaned over like an old man on a cane.
        “You can't pass! You can't pass!” the cat hissed. “You don't have a passport! No passport!”
        “But I need to pass!” the woman yelled in response. “I've run out of sugar so I can't make dinner tonight. We're having onions and ice cream. The kids love it, so I need to get through!”
        “No passport!” the cat said while a whale with a top hat flew by him. “See? He has a passport!”
The family laughed and laughed at the woman's dream. The woman continued begging the cat to be let through, but to no avail. The family joked about the cat's stubbornness.
        “Poor girl. Looks like she can't get by.” Anne said in a condescending tone.
        “I wonder where that whale got his passport? Maybe she should ask him!” Ben laughed. He enjoyed it all as much as the family at home, sometimes a little more.
        The bridge then turned to ice and she slipped. The cat lit on fire. The fire burned away the cat's skin and it turned into a skeleton. It walked slowly up to her, growing taller by the second. By the time it reached her it became twice her height.
        “Uh-oh folks, looks like this dream turned into a nightmare!” Ben said. Though no one in the family would admit, it the dreams that turn into nightmares were their favorite. They found them the most exciting of all. It crossed their mind that maybe they should have set the episode to record before it started.
The skeleton opened up its maw and a snake crawled out. It attacked the woman. After it bit her it swallowed her. In the nightmare the inside of the snake was larger than the outside and became a massive cave. Animals that resembled bats crossed with bears flew around her and clawed her. She screamed with bloody tears. She then woke up with a rapid heartbeat. She turned to the hosts with a shocked expression. While she shivered she kept thinking of the prize money to calm herself.
        “Well folks, looks like the dream ends here. Remember, pick up your phones and vote for your favorites and tune in tomorrow for even more Dream TV!” Ben yelled at the camera.The father got off the couch and turned the TV off. They all wondered if tomorrow's episode would be as good as this one.

A Personal Note On This Story: I have vivid dreams every night. (I think it is a side effect of my epilepsy medication.) They can get intense as they are in the story and even more, though I rarely have any nightmares, so don't worry. I actually love my dreams, they are really fun, so its worth any nightmares. I could talk for hours about my dreams. Unfortunately they don't give me any story ideas, they're too strange.

Thanks for reading, tune in tomorrow for more flash fiction!

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Staircase of Knowledge

Today is my Uncle Monty's birthday. I wish him a very merry one, he's been a wonderful uncle all these years and a very valuable member of my family.

Now here's today's story: I hope everyone enjoys it!

The Staircase of Knowledge

        When the man looked to his left there was nothing but blackness. The same nothingness was to his right. He did see something when he looked at his feet, the large white marble staircase he climbed. He advanced another step and in an instant he knew some of the most complicated geometry proofs. He forgot where he started but with each step he climbed he gained new knowledge. The higher he climbed the more complicated his discoveries became.
        He usually had to stop to rest and take it all in before he could advance comfortably. Whenever he learned he felt as if his entire mind had been shuffled to fit everything new in. He continued with the same strong conviction he started with. Physics, chemistry, psychology, philosophy and sciences he didn't even know existed. He passed through them all. The concept for one step flowed through his body like his own blood. The concept was yearning and when he hit that step he felt it in every way it could be felt.
        Next he hit fear and it wrapped around him like a snake made of chains. Every phobia imaginable smashed into his brain. He fled to the next step. Courage purified his body. He now understood how soldiers could charge into the battlefield with such willingness. He proceeded through the emotions, many of them even more complicated than the sciences that came before them. He stopped once and noticed there were only two steps before the end of the staircase, and at the end of the staircase was plain looking wooden door. The first of the two was happiness. Perfect bliss drenched him like a soft rain.
        The last step was pain. It steadily burned through his body as he felt every type of it. Every drop of happiness on the step before was a pound of pain on this one. He felt like his mind and soul were being torn up and smashed together again and again. But it eventually ended, just as all his other learning experiences on all the other steps did. He could advance again, though he feared what could be beyond the door.
        When he opened the door he met a large room with white floors walls and ceiling. It was lit by a series of black candles propped up on the walls. And in the center of the room stood someone that looked him directly in the eyes with a strong stare. The person at the top of it all was the man himself.

Monday, January 16, 2012

The Blank City

I felt like writing today's story to be uplifting, I hope it brings smiles to you.



The Blank City

        There was once this little cardboard town. Every part of it was made of unmoving, thin and flat pieces of cardboard. This included the trees, houses, fences even the people and animals were blank white pieces of cardboard. The ground itself had also been made from cardboard. One day several children visited this little cardboard town each with their own individual crayon. They knew each other only be the color of their crayons.
        When Red came into town he drew apples on all of the cardboard trees. He also made sure everyone could see all the roses too. When he saw the cardboard houses he gave them bright red doors. He smiled as he colored, he was the little boy who didn't care about any time but the present.
        Green walked through the town with a contemplative look on her face. She wondered why the town needed her to give the trees leaves and the ground grass. But she knew she had to, the town wouldn't be right if she didn't.
        Brown dashed through the town as he gave the dogs fur and the people hair. He colored the tree's bark with broad strokes. He also gave the people big, brown eyes matching his own. He made sure he didn't miss a single person, he wanted to make sure everyone could see him. He later waved at them when he could.
        The mellow Blue came to town without an idea in her head. She looked and looked at the town, trying to think of something that needed to be blue. Only after a few minutes of thinking she figured out what could be colored blue. She went around the town and put big blue tears on all the cardboard people. She didn't like that she made all the cardboard people sad, but when she saw all the other children coloring she had to color something herself.
        When Yellow arrived he saw all the tears and a depressed Blue who had nothing left to color. He walked up to Blue and held out his hand. Blue gave him her crayon as she couldn't think of anything else to do with it herself. Yellow then knelt next to a house and started drawing a big blob of blue on the ground. It took Blue awhile to figure out what he was doing. She smiled when she realized that he was giving the house a pool. She walked up to him. He turned to her and gave her back the crayon. She finished drawing that pool and started making other pools for each of the houses. Yellow took his own crayon and started drawing smiles on all the cardboard people to make their tears happy ones.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Fate's Keys

       Mom sent out an announcement today about my blog and I welcome every family member, friend and reader. I hope you leave many comments so I can improve my skills, I can't get better without your input. And be sure to sign up with your email, I'll have something new each day. I hope you enjoy reading today's work as much as I enjoyed writing it. Have a nice day!



Today's Story: Fate's Keys

        Not a single person sat in the audience of a massive theater. The theater had it all, velvet chairs, balconies, clean lighting and a pianist on stage. Yet a lonely air drafted through it. The curtains had already been drawn open and the pianist didn't need an audience to play. He only needed his piano. It laid at the exact center of the stage. It looked like an antique, but didn't show any signs of age. The wood had a thin silver polish.
        The pianist wore a dull gray suit, had mellow tan skin, scraggly black hair and sunken brown eyes. His friendly smile would make anyone trust him in a minute. He sat in the stool next to his piano in a dignified posture.
        This man was a Fate. His piano had the power to weave time. He struck a single high note to begin his song and a woman named Cynthia was born. He started with low notes in a monotonous rhythm. She lived in a small, quaint town tucked between a few mountains with a single solitary road being the only way out of the tiny valley. The Fate played a depressing and rapid melody when her parents died and her uncle took her to the city. She made many friends in high school when the Fate sprinkled her life with a string of cheery notes. The Fate pounded the keys when she entered college and met her true love. The Fate softened his keystrokes and the couple settled down. He pushed three sharp, happy notes the moment they got married.
        He swept his hands across the keys when their twins were born. He didn't create a melody for the twins, that would be a song for another Fate. As she raised her children the Fate played his notes in a chaotic sequence that required all ten of his fingers. When she bid them farewell into their own lives his melody became steady and predictable. As she aged it the music became slower and slower with each passing year. She fell ill and the Fate hit one key over and over in the rhythm of a heartbeat. Eventually he stopped the song while her husband watched from the side of a hospital bed.
        The Fate stood up and took a bow to the nonexistent audience in the theater. He wore a big smile while he bowed. Without any hesitation he sat down and began to play again.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Her Destination

       Hey everyone, its wonderful to have you read my work. Be sure to sign up using your email and comment on my works when you can, I need the input to improve. Each day has a different story, so be sure to read yesterday's entry, and any ones you miss in the future. I put all I can into my stories so I know you'll enjoy them. I slept in and feel nice today, so I don't think I'll be having many seizures today. (For those who don't know I have epilepsy, yesterday's post explains the kind I have in detail.)

I really like today's flash fiction and I hope you will too.

Her Destination

       A young girl with a Victorian England dress walked through the train on her delicate feet. The dress's light gray silk looked out of place on the bright red carpet of the floor. The trimming of her double skirt dress consisted of folds of gray satin with short tassels. She pulled her normally long brown hair into a tight bundle on her head. She held together with a series of carefully placed pins.
        She saw a man in a tattered leather shirt and wool trousers with a wide, white cowboy hat in a brown booth. He had nasty teeth in his nice smile. He spread his arms lazily on the side of the booth he sat in. His thick, black beard gave him an arrogant look. The girl sat on the opposite side of the booth. She didn't know the man, but she needed company inside the unfamiliar train.
        “When you from?” the man asked with a grin.
        “Pardon me?” she responded.
        “Let me say it this way, when were you born?” his tone grew more serious.
        “Eighteen fifty one sir.” she found his question a little odd.
        “Me, I was born in eighteen-oh-two, shot dead in eighteen thirty-five.” the girl looked around the car at the other passengers. There was a man with robotic parts all over his skin with a cybernetic eye. The man that sat next to him wore thick samurai armor. Two booths behind those two a man in a black suit and top hat looked gloomily at the floor. “So what put you on the train? I hope it wasn't anything nasty.”
        “What do you mean?” she asked.
        “What's the last thing you remember before the train?”
        “I remember laying on my bed. I was very sick.” she mumbled. After another few seconds a bolt of realization hit her and she began to sweat a little. “Sir, where are we headed?” A warm gust of wind filled the car when a woman in thick, red robes entered the cart. She had shining, white wings coming out of her back. The lady in robes walked up to the cybernetic man. The train stopped when she began to speak.
        “We have reached your destination, year nineteen-twenty. Come with me.” The man didn't move at first, but when the woman held out her hand to him, he grabbed it with relaxed muscles. He walked with the woman, a neutral expression on his face. A few minutes afterward the train began moving again.
        “Lass, the question isn't where we're headed, but when we're headed.” the man went silent. She could tell that the cowboy didn't want to answer any more questions because that would mean he would be admitting his answers were true. The girl looked out the window to see billions of trains inside a field of stars. The trains went in all directions, many upside down. Then she wondered if she was the one upside down. She couldn't see a horizon among the stars, the only up she knew was hers. After an hour of the cowboy remaining silent the train stopped again and the woman in white robes entered the car again. She walked up to the cowboy this time.
        “We have reached your destination, year ninteen fifty-six. Come with me.” she held out her hand and the cowboy's eyes lost their expression. He stood up, grabbed her hand and the woman led him out of the car. Without anyone the girl grew more nervous. She lied to herself and thought it must all be a dream. The train reached another stop. The lady in robes walked up to her this time. “We have reached your destination, year twenty-twelve.” the woman held out her hand and all the willpower in the girl vanished. She stood up and grabbed the lady's hand. As the lady led her out of the car she forgot what emotions were, but felt them again when she left the train.

Friday, January 13, 2012

The Bent Studio

Welcome to my blog. For those who don't know flash fiction is what people call those really, really short stories that are only a few pages or less usually, stuff you can read in a flash, hence the name. How this blog will work is that everyday I will post a normal blog post(like how my day went) and a flash fiction I wrote. Last year I did this story-a-day challenge for a couple of months(without missing a single day!) and now I decided that I'll blog it this time for everyone to see. Even if the quality is really bad I will post a story everyday. (Unless I get ill or other extenuating circumstances in which I'll put some past work of mine up so the blog always has something new.)

I'll start with my bio. My name is Langdon Kennedy, I'm getting a degree to become a science teacher. Writing is my primary hobby, though video games, movies and music are always fun, I often listen to music as I write. I have epilepsy, and its not a usual case, my doctor tells me that out of his about one thousand patients he only has three patients with my kind of epilepsy. I have several different kinds of seizures. I have partial seizures, which are the seizures that you aware from start to finish. My seizures are not caused by lights, they happen everyday and are increased by stress. I have them while walking, talking, reading, playing video games, reading, watching TV, going to the bathroom, even eating sometimes they make me choke, but I've gotten used to that. I have them at school, at my internship and at home. My seizures are usually violent jerks, primary to my right side. On the best of days I only have around three seizures while on the worst I've had a couple hundred. The intensity of my seizures varies, sometimes they can be just my eyes wiggling, to being massive flurries of like thirty of them in a row. Sometimes they mentally impair me sometimes they don't. Sometimes it causes me to gasp in air violently which is why I can't swim. I also can't drive because of my disability. I avoid carrying things because I can always drop them, arts and crafts aren't usually my thing because my seizures could cause me to ruin whatever I'm working on, I also can't do some house work because of them. At least with writing a seizure could only cause me to hit a few wrong keys, so there's the undo button for that.

But don't worry much about me, I work hard to make sure I go through everyday with a smile! For my first
flash fiction on this site I'll post a story I wrote for a friend of mine for his Christmas gift, though the actual story doesn't have to do with Christmas.

The Bent Studio

By Langdon Kennedy

The artist painted the walls of his studio himself. He used blacks and whites to make smooth curves and perfect lines into carefully crafted patterns. The way he united these patterns around the room made it impossible to figure out where the walls met the ceiling and where they met each other.
With his patterns he made the optical illusion that no matter where someone stood it looked like the walls in front of them went further away while the walls on sides closed in. The door was also painted so that it would blend in with them and become just another part of the sea of whites and blacks that made up the illusion.
The optical tricks made all of space visibly mutate and the ceiling closed in when the floor rose up. The illusion on the floor made anyone that walked on the floor sink into it. People have gotten lost in the small room because they couldn't find the door among the optical tricks.
To help the artist put his paintings on the walls to guide people. Because of the illusions of the rooms the paintings appeared to float freely as their frames blended in with the patterns of the walls and made the paintings jump free from the illusions. People could navigate around the room by using the paintings as landmarks.
The artist's self portrait served as the most important guide because it hung opposite of the door. In it the artist wore a dark blue collared shirt that fit snugly around his thin neck. The artist's skin was smooth as glass and gleamed like fine glass would. He had a delicate nose that looked regal in appearance. The expression on his face conveyed perfect calmness. Looking directly into the portrait's eyes for too long would rob someone of all their anger. His smile gave off a feeling of warmth and confidence. His short brown hair ran cleanly over his cheeks and forehead with a small curls at the ends. The artist's portrait seemed to act like a guardian over all the other art in the studio.
The actual artist then entered the room. The true artist had scraggly hair and eyes with a tired look in them. Small hairs dotted his chin and his cheeks appeared beaten and rough. His large nose arced a little downward. He wore an old, tattered red t-shirt with mangled jeans. He had a large, nasty scar that crawled along his forehead that everyone could see no matter how much he tried to hide it with his hair. He carried a big green suitcase whose color clashed with the optical illusions in the room so much that it looked like it tore apart the walls.
“So how are you?” the artist's portrait said to him in a strong, yet caring tone.
“Fine, thanks for asking.” the artist responded in a nearly breathless voice.
“I'm glad to hear that.” the self-portrait responded without moving his lips. The artist's portrait was the first painting that spoke to him, though now every piece of art he creates speaks to him with their own voices.
“What's in the suitcase?” asked a painting to the left of the self-portrait. The high-pitch voice of the painting sounded like it bubbled up from the bottom of a pool. The voice belonged to a watercolor painting of a park that the artist went to as a child. Despite the massive size he gave to the park there was only one child in it sitting on a swing. It was a little girl that used to be his best friend before he moved all those years ago.
“Is it a new brother or sister for us?” a whisper from a landscape of the woods asked. The artist painted the woods in a mellow autumn. Sometimes it seemed to him that the whisper from the woods came more from the fallen leaves than the trees.
“It's a new painting.” he responded. He opened the suitcase to reveal an incomplete painting and some of his painting supplies. He sat cross-legged on the floor and knelt over the unfinished painting. There was only one source of light in the room, a bare bulb hanging from the exact center of the ceiling. This made him cast a thick shadow on his developing painting.
A deep cave filled up the painting. And inside the darkness of that cave he had begun to paint a dragon. He hesitated when he grabbed his brush. Yesterday he finished the body, wings, claws, neck and tail of the beast. The last thing the dragon needed was its head. The artist looked at his brush and imagined putting the last strokes of color onto the painting and bringing the dragon's voice to life. He knew that if he never completed it, then it would never speak to him.
“You shouldn't be hesitating.” his self-portrait told him. “You shouldn't keep the painting waiting, it needs to live.” the portrait spoke to him with a thick tone. “Bring it to life.”
With that command the artist finished the last few brush strokes. He then heard the dragon moan and take a deep breath. “Thank you.” the dragon's voice sounded like someone tearing metal. Its words shook the insides of the artists ears. “While I waited for that last brush stroke I wondered if you would actually complete me. Was it okay for me to be afraid?” the dragon asked the artist.
“You shouldn't have worried. We're always willing to accept more members into our family.” the self-portrait answered.
The room filled with the chatter of the paintings while the artist hung the dragon on the wall and gave it a mellow smile. Despite its intimidating voice the dragon made plenty of friends in a short amount of time. The residents of a ballroom painting welcomed the dragon, as did the landscape of the woods.
“Oh, we'll have a new family member tomorrow too.” the artist smiled as he looked around the room at all of his paintings.
“So, are you finally bringing her into the studio?” the self-portrait spoke more like he was giving an order than asking a question.
“Yes, she's coming here.” the artist responded with a glad and nervous tone. The artist grew a little smile and left his studio.
The next day a woman entered the studio. She wore a black dress that managed to look cheery despite its color. The dress clung to her body like curtains to a window.
When she walked into the room her brown eyes met the self-portrait's calming green ones. Despite the differences between the portrait and the genuine article she could still tell the portrait was supposed to be her love. She didn't care about all the physical flaws that the artist removed in his portrait, even the big, mangled scar that ran across his forehead.
As she walked across the room her black dress flowed into the illusions of the room and it seemed as if everything in the room followed her. Her red hair managed to break some of the illusions apart so as the hair moved the room twisted around it. She almost fell over twice before she got used to all the illusions.
The artist entered the room after her, carrying art supplies, including paints and a canvas. After he set them down he left and came back with two chairs, one for him and one for her. He set the canvas up while she posed in a delicate posture.
“She's quite beautiful.” the self-portrait spoke with a tone that made his statement sound like undeniable fact. “I'm glad you listened to my advice and decided to bring her here.” The paintings began to chatter, commenting on her and agreeing with the self-portrait. While he began painting her they continued to talk. The artist managed to ignore them enough to focus.
He painted his love's body nearly exactly as it truly was, though he softened the dress, smoothed the skin and made her expression a little more sly. In the background of the portrait he replaced the room's optical illusions with waves of ripe apple red.
“It's finished.” the artist told her with a short breath. He expected the portrait of her to start speaking and interrupt him, but it didn't. He turned the canvas towards her.
“It's wonderful. You're so talented.” she looked around the room. “Knowing now that all these wonderful paintings were in here I wonder why you didn't bring me in here before.” she said while the paintings began to chatter again. After he hung her portrait on the wall they left the studio. For years he entered and left his studio with all of the paintings still talking except the portrait of his love.
“You saw it today didn't you?” the portrait of her said to him one gloomy day. “A sign of age in her.”
“What do you mean?” he asked the portrait, still a little shocked at its sudden statement.
“You know her beauty isn't going to last forever.” the portrait responded. “Whatever imperfection you saw in her today, as she ages they will be more. Her beauty will fade until she's nothing but an ugly old hag.”
“That's not true, she'll always be perfect.” the artist responded with a sullen tone.
“My beauty will stay, I'll be youthful forever, I won't die like she will.” the portrait's soft voice patted his ears.
“Quiet you wretch.” the self-portrait snarled at her. “I should have never let him make you. I'm the only one he needs to listen to.”
“Forget what he said. You should get rid of her. Keep only me, I'll stay perfect while she'll rot away. Forget both of them. I'm the only one you will ever need.” her voice got both softer and stronger as she spoke.
“Shut up, both of you! You're not even real!” he yelled at the paintings. All the paintings began to talk at once, telling him to never say such things.
“Not real?” the self-portrait's tone became loud and angry, his voice boomed over all the other paintings. “There are only two options here. Either we're real, or you're crazy. Which would you rather believe?”
The artist felt at the large scar on his forehead. The more he thought about all of it, the more depressed he became. Though once he thought about her, the real her, he gained a new conviction.
“It doesn't matter if I'm crazy or not. Today is the last day any of you will talk to me.” he picked up a paintbrush and dipped it sloppily into black paint. He walked up to the portrait of his love. The paint that dripped from the brush broke apart the optical illusions of the room as it fell onto the floor. He moved his brush in wide strokes across the canvas.
“No! Stop!” the portrait screamed as she was immersed in black. He didn't leave any piece of the portrait uncovered.
“You killed her. You really killed her.” the self-portrait's voice shivered and shuddered. The artist turned to his self-portrait. “Are you going to kill me too? You wouldn't, not after all this time, all the time I guided you and help you make decisions.” The artist began to swipe his blackened brush along the picture. As the artist was about to finished the self-portrait said “I suppose the only thing I can do now is forgive you.” After that none of the paintings ever spoke again.