Kindling – Part 1

When someone has hurt me, I take a week off and go to the woods. There’s a trail up to this pond. I leave around mid-morning, when the sun has just reached the top of the trees. The trail is shaded, so it doesn’t get too hot, even in the summer. You can hear birds thrashing around so often, rustling the leaves. It’s different if it’s a rabbit or something. Birds only make one rustle every so often. Rabbits make one big one and you can hear it hop away.

The hike’s not too rough. Only a mile and a half, with a real gentle slope. The tree roots are the real danger. I’ve banged up my knees on just about every single one.

I spend walking that trail thinking. Sometimes I’m angry. Sometimes I’m sad. But I’m out there because someone did something to me that I can’t get out of my head, so I think about it. I’ve been up there enough times that I barely pay attention to where I’m going. Probably why I keep getting caught in the roots.

The pond’s a real looker. I get there usually by noon, when the sun is directly overhead. Frogs start jumping in and the whole thing starts to just glitter like it’s made out of glass. That’s when I usually set up my camp. Sleeping bag, make a survival shelter in case it rain, dig a fire pit, fetch wood, that kind of thing. I have to focus a bit more, so I don’t think as much. Once I get the fire going, I start boiling water. By then it’s getting a bit dark, and there’s not much else to do.

See, in my head, some stuff you just can’t deal with. Like losing a family member. Or finding out someone’s been lying to you for years. That kind of stuff you can’t deal with in just a couple of days. So I put it away for later, like I’m freezing meat. You make your cuts, box up the meat, put it in the freezer, then pull it out when you can. Sometimes you got lots more meat than you thought, or the animal’s a bit bigger than usual. So you cut smart, make use of the space. But for every bit of meat you put in, you gotta take some out.

So that’s what I do. I pull out the old frozen meat first. I scream. Strip naked, piss in the water, walk on the coals, drink, whatever I feel like. Being alone in the woods really eases your inhibitions. I don’t remember when I stop. I think I pass out sometime around then.

The next morning, I sweep and clean the area. The breakfast is small and light on carbs. Nothing heavy. Mostly nut and berry mixes. I might even fast. The day is meant to purge out the last bit of what didn’t come out in the night. All the big bold, easy stuff goes out in the night. Day is tougher. You have to live with what happened. Gotta root out all the small little feelings you didn’t know existed and get ’em out. There’s not enough room in the freezer.


Character Profile: Flora Macedo

Flora has kept intelligent care of her appearance. She wears her auburn hair in a loose bun. Her makeup is minimal, with most of the effort spent on shaping her eyes. Her nose is small and rounded, her ears neatly pierced with two pearl earrings. Her clothes are conservative in both color and texture, and are void of any wrinkles or ill-fittings. Her purse, however, is incredibly large and bulky, yet she manages it easily underneath one arm.

Flora has a very confident step to her. She holds her head high and leads with her chest when she walks. Her posture is immaculate. She keeps her purse tucked neatly under her arm as she walks, preventing it from swinging side to side. If a narrow space were to appear in front of her, Flora’s brisk pace would hardly be slowed.

Flora learned early on that being a woman in the world isn’t a blessing. Lecherous men and catty experiences with other women have caused her to diminish her external energy. Instead of defiantly tackling the world, she has resigned herself to flow around it, taking care to avoid obstacles rather than face them directly. One would have to aggressively disrupt Flora’s routine to surprise her, and if successful, it would take a while for her to recover.

Like or dislike this character? Have an idea for a character that you want me to try? Let me know by leaving a comment (look just below the title of the post!).

The Argument For: Applying Realism to Fantasy

Any Game of Thrones fan surely noticed that the writing from this last season has slipped. I will avoid giving spoilers, but surely many noticed that multiple times, great distances were traveled almost instantly, crossing the vast continent of Westeros multiple times, usually ignoring the actual method of travel and often ignoring the time pressure of the always impending White Walkers. For some, it was breaking a sense of immersion or disbelief. Others had the reaction of “it’s a show about zombies and dragons; why attach realism to it?”

Here’s why.

When you read, watch, listen, or otherwise consume media, you’re applying your suspension of disbelief. In other words, you’re choosing to become emotionally involved with the characters for the sake of their story. Everything the people responsible for creating that story is done with that one fact in mind. You as the audience member are the participant willing to be taken for the ride. If that ride is ruined for you, for whatever reason, there is no pulling back. It’s like going to Disney World just for a picture of Mickey and then finding out that he’s not at the park for the day. The entire trip is ruined.

As writer’s, we create our suspension of disbelief via worldbuilding. Whether it’s a contemporary drama set in New York, 2003, or a high fantasy comedy set in Fartbilkington, Central Glordon, 761, every rule we establish must be maintained. That means no iPhones in 2003. And if in Glordon, all elves have pointy ears, then a round ear humanoid can’t be an elf.

When you break suspension of disbelief without giving its due, you weaken your story. It pulls the reader out of it. That’s why having rules or systems are important. If your characters can teleport, why haven’t they been teleporting the whole time? If it takes less time to travel cross-continent then it does to move from a small fishing village via boat, how is your slowly approaching doom any threat?

So when you’re writing, pay attention to the world you’re establishing. Travel that takes weeks should take weeks, even if you handwave the time behind “three weeks later”. If something floats upwards when it burns in your story, then don’t put your villain standing in front of a fireplace, even if the setting seems perfect for it. If you simply must break an established rule, give an excuse, even a bad one. “This? It’s a prototype for some new phone Apple is making.” Sure, your reader might roll their eyes, but at least those eyes will end up on the next page, and not on Google fact-checking your inconsistencies.

There are probably countless more examples of blatant handwaving. Got any favorites? Disagree with me? Let me know! Click “Leave a comment” just below the title of the post and give me your two cents. Please. I’m broke.

The Frozen Exile – Part Two

Jack gnawed at the root, trying to break it in half to get at the meat inside. He had been impatient again. A mistake, but one that could be corrected in the future. Jack was reminded of one of the first tenets his guide told him.

“You will make mistakes. Make sure they’re ones you can afford,” Fox told him. “You don’t want to repeat them out here.” Fox drank from his bowl, a soup that he had prepared. The water was melted from snow and nourished with the tubers Jack was struggling with now. Fox had always managed to soften the vegetables so that the skins slipped right off, leaving only the nutritious and hardy meat. This was the first time Jack had met Fox.

Jack did not fare well in the initial hours of his exile. The winds ripped through the cheap leathers the village had permitted him. The sunlight reflecting off of the snow blinded him, and he couldn’t tell the difference from one drift to the other. He remembered climbing up to the top of a drift, and seeing nothing but vast fields of white, and feeling, for the first time, remorse and despair for his future.

Fox found Jack slipping up the side of a drift, but the greeting was far from standard. Jack was unaware of Fox’s presence until a crude spear pierced the snow next to Jack’s hand. Jack retracted his arm, but the reflex threw off his balance and Jack slipped quickly to the bottom of the drift. Another crude spear tapped the bottom of his chin.

Fox was only as tall as a barrel and a half. The man was layered immensely in pelts and furs, making it impossible to tell his actual frame. A quiver full of crude spears hung from his side. In front of his eyes sat what appeared to be smoked glass. His mouth was covered with a brown worn cloth.

“Talk.” The command was muffled, yet Jack could hear a slight strain in it. The man in front of him was old.

“I- I don’t know what to say,” Jack spoke for the first time in eight hours, his own voice sounding raspy. His lips cracked at the movement.

“That’s fine.” Fox lowered his spear. “Follow me, quickly.” Fox turned quickly and walked away, prodding at the ground with one of his spears every so often. Jack stumbled along, struggling to maintain pace in the drifts. After one particularly rough fall, where he floundered in the snow for a minute trying to stand, Fox had disappeared from sight.

“Fox!” Jack shouted, trying to follow the paces in the snow. The footptrints were disappearing quickly in the heavy snow and Jack’s flailing was demolishing the rest. He paused, his heart beat quickening. “Fox!”

His voice sounded muted in the rising storm. The wind was picking up. All around him were pristine drifts, disturbed only by his destructive pacing. Yet in the distance, he could see a dark shape coming towards him. “Fox!” he shouted again, moving towards the figure. He crashed into the snow when a hand reached out from the snow and grabbed his ankle.