Story I

I awoke as I usually do: my senses telling stories of the time that I'd been away from my body, my mind slowly letting go of the adventures of the dreams that I love and hate with all of the passion in me.


I never wake without regretting it in some part of my heart. The world in which the rest of humanity acts just seems to pale in comparison to that which makes up my dreams. But then, few people have dreams like I do. At least, if anyone does have dreams like me they don't ever mention it...

Most folks, if you ask them about their most vivid dreams, will tell you of flying or standing in front of their old school mates in the buff, only to wake and find reality a calm comfort to their thin-stretched nerves. I've never really had that experience.

I wake to find the world a glaring nuisance. I want to return to my dreams, not because they're pleasant, but because I feel so much more real There. Not that There is any more real than Here, but, everything seems to mean more. Or maybe it's not that things mean more, but simply that it is easier to see what things mean There. Anyway, the world of my dreams just appeals so much more. It's a world that fills my soul with love and makes me fear for life itself in one fell swoop. In this world you get up and go to school or work, saying "Hellohowareyou?" to every person who makes eye contact with you and never once actually wonder what the answer is. If anyone says anything beyond "Fine,thankyou.Howareyou?" most folks hardly notice. But to ask a question without listening to the answer in that other world is folly. In that world that stretches beyond this reality there is a certain genuine nature to things that this place cannot compete with.

Because of this, falling asleep is much like waking from life to find that life is only the start of living. And waking is like being forced into rented dress clothes that are far too small for you. I can't move properly, and am afraid to test my limits for fear of breaking something on mistake, and being made to pay for it later.

But just what am I talking about? Here it is: I dream.

Nothing new to that I suppose, but I dream bigger and deeper and wider than most. I don't know how, and I'm not convinced that it's just all in my head. But when I sleep I dream. And when I dream I truly live. Nowadays anyway...

Once this wasn't the way of it. As a kid I knew my dreams were powerful, and I believed in the power of my dreams just like any other child. Nightmares were just as bad as things in reality if not worse. But most people grow out of that, and so I convinced myself as I grew up into adolescence that it was that same with me: my nightmares were a fantasy, the glorious dreams were fake. Perhaps it was because I was convinced of this that these manifestations of imagination and spiritual life left me. I started to dream dreams that everyone dreams: walking in fields, flying, being wealthy and having everyone like me for no reason. My dreams grew dull and pointless. Just like my mind and spirit.

Then the darkness came.

[[:To Be Continued:]]

On Good Tales I

I've been thinking quite a fair bit recently about what makes a good story. What elements in writing that I find most attractive and enveloping. And because I can't seem to come up with anything else to write about, I'm going to write about some of those thoughts.

Thought One: Swords

Swords are amazing. Bladed weapons in general are a personal favourite of mine and have been since I was a child. But the sword is the king of bladed weapons.

It has such a noble history. And so many diverse and useful qualities. One of the most basic weapons is a club, and very useful too it has been proved. But the sword one-ups it. Not only can you bash your opponent to a pulp with it, you can also debilitate and distract with the slightest touch!

And let us face the facts: swords just look elegant. They have the dangerous lines of serpents and the innocent boldness of a feather wrapped up in one wonderful shiny package.

And in the best of myths they play key roles. What would Aurthur be with out the magical Excalibur? Where would Aragorn be without Narsil/Anduril? I could go on for a long time. It seems that many authors have decided that their protagonist's and antagonist's alike would best be served by a sword.

And there just seems to be something in the blade...

The forging process seems to leave all sorts of opportunities in story-telling open. What is it made of? What went into it? Some authors go to great lengths telling of how the weapon is made, others resist the urge to go into details and just give vague descriptions. But the greatest leave it a mystery to be wondered after. Perhaps they will just hint at who may have made the sword, or that it's form is taken after a certain style... or say nothing at all. The reader is left to wonder, and wonder we do...

Also, there often is a spirit of morality about a blade. It seems to hold the very power of life in itself. It can take it away so very quickly that it cannot be held, or even gazed upon by a character without some moral judgment being made upon the them by either the author or the reader. The bestowal of a blade for use is the utmost honour, and the removal a portrayal of most extreme distrust.

Then there is the use of the blade. The motions of the wielder are capable of saying so much about their internal state. Smooth fluid motions can be a sign of either complete lack of emotion, or the most mature control of it. Wreck less anger is very easily portrayed by the opposite movements. Earnestness can be demonstrated in the energy and dedication of a stroke, and likewise a jovial heart in light deflections of attack and witty dialog thrown into the fray.

The mere presence of a sword in a storyline creates a world of possibility that has barely been scratched by this post.

However, just talking about it has given me some wonderful ideas for future works. So thank you all for being a good audience.

-Josh