Where the Road Ends - A Journey and the Search for Emotion, Understanding, and Acceptance

Writing is an emotional activity.  It requires you to feel everything that your characters feel.  Every sorrow and heartbreak, every joy and burst of laughter.  If you can't feel what you are writing, how can you expect your readers to understand what is going on? I stumble into this question whenever I first start out on a new idea - what makes this character feel alive, feel real?  I'm an emotional person.  I cry during sad movies, when a character I've grown to love dies in a book I'm reading, or even when I just think about some of the terrible things that could happen in this crazy world.

The opposite is true as well, of course. I can find joy in just about anything; from a funny looking crack in the ground, to the crinkle of a smile creeping onto the face of someone I love.  If you know where to look, joy is a simple enough thing to find.  The trouble is in the search, it seems.  That search is what inspired the idea for the story snippet below.  I thought about emotion, understanding, and acceptance, and the search we all go through to getting there, and it all came back to a single point in time for me: the journey from childhood wonder to the reality of adulthood. And honestly, I just thought:

Writing Prompt:

Why can't a child be faced with the reality of adulthood, become jaded, and then decide that you don't necessarily have to choose between one or the other?

Below is my initial take on the idea, and it is one that I hope to finish and add to a collection alongside a North Country Winter.  Let me know what you think!

Short Fiction

TITLE: Where the Road Ends

Do yourself a favor: head out to the street, stretch out your calves and your quads and your hamstrings, pick a direction, and just start walking. That's all you have to do: just walk. Don't worry, your feet know the way.

Walk until your legs and lungs burn from exertion. Walk until your feet hurt, and you feel like nothing would be sweeter than to give up. Then, keep on walking. Follow the forks in the road, and keep going. Don't look back, just look straight ahead.

If you do this (and you'd be surprised at how easy it is after a point) you'll come to the place where the road ends. Where all roads end. And then, you just keep on walking.

---

When I was a boy, I didn't have very many friends. 

It's the typical story of a strange boy who felt more at home between the pages of his books than in the company of other children.  It wasn't just children, though. Adults terrified me.  Not because of any tangible threat that they posed, but because of the future they represented.  Adults exuded stress, frustration, anger, and pain.  Childhood was not always easy, but I found joy among the most random of places, and it was not stamped out by the ardors of the real world. 

One day, I found myself alone in the backyard of our small, run-down suburban home.  My mother had left for work - she was always working in those days.  My older brother was tasked with watching over me.  As is the case for many older siblings, that wasn't likely to be top priority. 

"If mom asks, you never left my side." He would say, staring into my eyes with a burning fury. Adulthood had begun to grip him, even then, and he was being consumed by its flame.

"Do you understand?"

I understood. I always understood.  No matter how bad things got, I always understood.  He was my brother, and in his own way, I knew that he loved and cared for me. I never blamed him for the way he treated me - he had lost his childhood, and I was nothing but a painful reminder. For some, realization and understanding can color the world in a very bleak shade.  It can even cloud the beauty of our memories.

Our backyard wasn't very big – just a small patch of grass, perhaps half the size of a basketball court.  For me, it was an enormous region, filled with adventure, mystery, and hidden secrets. 

Such is the wonder of a child.

The edge of my wonderland brushed up against the broken panels of our home, meeting the rough asphalt of our driveway at a perfect angle. Lush, rolling fields gave way to blackened, cracked ravines.  Lost in my world of inexplicable reality, I never crossed that threshold. 

But on that day, the asphalt called to me.  In the heat of the sun, burning with curiosity and the itch of young explorers, I found myself staring across the expansive unknown. 

I remember the next moments more clear than anything else.  I looked out at the small back yard and failed to see the film that my imagination had played for me so many times before.  I saw the browning patches of under-nourished grass, the torn plots of mud where my small feet had torn up the land. I saw the sorrow that plagued so many others, and I recoiled. 

I turned towards the house - no longer a distant castle, home to a dragon whose eagerness for flame and gold had so long kept me at bay - and I thought of my family.  I thought of the future, the fear and the anger and the unknown that waited for me there, and I felt my childhood begin to fall away.

My eyes were drawn to the asphalt, then. 

I cannot say what drove me, what pushed me from the mud and the muck and asked me to venture forth alone.  All I knew was the certainty of the unknown that had just been presented to me, and I was frightened. 

I did what all little children do, though they may never recall the journey.  I turned from the shallow illuminations of my future, and I dashed [leapt?] into the dark, dangerous unknown. 

I walked.

---

Certain Things to Fear - Remembering Why I am Here

One thing all writers - and books on writing - seem to have in common is this simple message: read much and read often.  I'm constantly being told to read everything, especially those authors and poets that focus particularly in genres that I plan on writing.  Now, I haven't decided on a single genre yet - I'm keeping myself open until I grow into my skills as a writer - but I do have a few 'favorite' writers.
Recently I've taken to reading a lot of the works written by George Saunders and Neil Gaiman - especially the latter.  I've always loved the way Gaiman approaches fiction: a mixture of fantasy and horror that touches on the deeper musings of what it means to be a 'person.'  Combine that approach with Saunders' ability to depict human nature in an uncanny, revealing way and you've got a style that I think matches what I hope to do.

However, sometimes I get so caught up in short fiction, fantasy, and large novel concepts that I forget what introduced me to the world of writing in the first place: poetry.  Most people have always told me that poetry is a nightmare for them: difficult to write and often more difficult to understand.  I have always maintained - and still do to this day - that poetry is as simple as looking inward, and letting the writing come out naturally. There are many ways to present the creative nature of yourself, and all you have to do is find what works best for you.

That's what I think, anyway.

Writing Prompt:

Neil Gaiman - The Fairy Reel

Which leads me to today's work: a poem inspired by a fun little rhyme tucked away in a collection of short stories by the master of the macabre himself: Neil Gaiman.  It's a strange little thing that needs a lot of work, but I present it to you know for your opinion and general reading pleasure.

Please, let me know what you think!

Poetry

TITLE: Certain Things to Fear

You see there truly are some things in me

     in which, at times, I do believe.

A fear for all things I cannot see

     a darkness waiting with sharpened teeth.

With baited breath I often peak

     around the corners of my mind

and through the gaps between my hands

     at what new terrors I might find.

what beast lies dormant beneath the sheet

     what ghost haunts my past?

What buried memory will come

     and drag me down at last?

'Tis an interesting thought, no doubt

     one which keeps me up many nights;

because even the fearless among us

     are afraid to turn out certain lights.

and so when i close my weary eyes

     and at last open up my mind

I find myself wishing on a star

     that I could leave my demons all behind.

Instead the shadows lengthen here

     in this place of yesterdays and none

and from this nightmare I awake

     to be thrust into another one.

I look to you and her, my friends

     to him and it and me.

To tell if monsters do exist - 

     to come and set me free. 

The Midnight Spike - Death of the Internet - Short Fiction

This one might seem silly, but I've always thought that the Internet has all the makings of the perfect social experiment on a Global Scale. It impacts every single person in one way or another, and it has guided technological advancement ever since its first inception. I'm just waiting for someone to pull the plug and see what happens. Of course, that hasn't happened yet. But what if it did?

Whenever I think about science fiction, I realize that more often than not, some version of the Internet is always there.  I've always wondered what it would be like if that weren't the case, and what could possibly get rid of something as massively ingrained in our society as the Internet. In light of that, I got to thinking and this thought popped into my head:

Writing Prompt:

The Internet is down, and it's not coming back.

Here's everything that I cam up with so far.  I like it as a short story, but it might make for more of a novella or something similar.  I'd love to hear what you think! Just remember: this is an EXTREMELY rough first pass!

Side Note: I also kind of stole a fictional place from an existing work.  Most likely going to change that, because it is rude and ill-tempered behavior, but it fit so perfectly with what was in my head! Let me know if you catch it.

Short Fiction/Science Fiction

TITLE: The Midnight Spike - Death of the Internet

It started with the Internet. 

We all hailed the connected 'net' as the great wonder of our time.  I mean, sure, there were a lot of things that came afterward that impacted things in a much more immediately profound way, but most of those innovations arose from the foundation that was the Internet. 

Just think about it - we jumped from a world where phone calls and the local postal service were the only real ways to communicate to each other on a rapid basis.  If you wanted to collaborate with someone on an idea or innovation, those were your best options outside of hopping in a vehicle and meeting up somewhere with a lot of coffee and enough chalk/whiteboard space to get everything down. 

The internet brought us all together - it connected machines first, tying up phone lines for instant messaging and social networking - simultaneously distancing us from our fellows and bringing us closer together on the digital side.  It was a sort of revolution: the revolution of information. 

For the first time, ideas could be shared and discussed freely without physical restrictions inhibiting access to resources, colleagues, etc.  Of course, not everything could be done with the initial version of the Internet, but it was a blazing spark that lit the powder keg of the digital age. 

Everyone worked towards refining and shaping the evolution of the net.  Scientists, social engineers, politicians - everyone was online, and everyone wanted to see where it would go.  We brought cellular telephones to everyone, passed information and Internet connection through nothingness, cutting wires and necessary connections rapidly.  All the while burying our faces further and further into the digital ocean of information and connection.

Not all intentions were benign.  All of this interconnectedness drew the darkness in many like a shark to the scent of blood.  More information was being stored online, which meant more information could be taken by anyone who had the skills.  The age of cyber warfare had begun - in the backroom of an office by an employee who knew he could beat the system. 

That's how it all went to shit.

A North Country Winter - Remembrance, Emotion, and Beauty in Despair

Much as I love writing prompts.  Sometimes the best prompts are the emotions you feel when you least expect it.  I think some of the strongest emotions come from sadness - even joy, in a way, is experienced so viscerally because of the absence of sadness.  Without that sorrow, you never know what true joy is.

At least, that's one way to look at it.

A lot of the times, when I'm doing other things or just sitting around thinking about my friends and family, I'll be struck with a sort of nostalgia that I never thought I would experience.  Always seeking to recall days gone by and feeling a sweeping sadness that I didn't appreciate everything a bit more back then.

One such time struck me a while back when I was thinking about home.  Thinking about all the things I never said and never did, and what kind of man I am today because of where I'm from.  I felt terrible, and I didn't really know why.  Then I tried to imagine what it would be like if I had to go home for something terrible, and that nostalgia was met with true sadness and loss.  What would a person do in a situation like that.

That's when I started writing about a fictionalized version of home. 

Short Fiction

TITLE: A North Country Winter

Winters are unique in the north country.  You can see it in the faded, chipped paint on the buildings - battered and broken, yet only a rare few ever left to rot.  You can see it in the trees and the way the skies roil and churn overhead, sounding a familiar warning of the days and nights to come.

But mostly, if you look closely - If you stop for just a moment and suck in a deep breath of that fresh, bitter cold air - you can see it in the people.

I've lived in a few places, spoken to people from a few more, and one thing that I've always noticed is how much a place stands out in the effects that it has on the people who call it home.

Those on the east coast are bred with the ocean on their backs, the bitter cold of the changing seasons, and the refreshing aftermath of another predictable year. The west coast harbingers ride the shockwaves of life with no more than a shrug at the disruption - content with their lot.  Those in between pleasantly at odds with the heat - beaten by the cold, and warmed by the return of the sun.

No matter where you go, if you just talk to someone, listen, and watch, you'll see something of the place they call home.

When others look at me - the fine few who catch my eye and hold the gaze - I think they see the steel of the north country; forged by years of harsh conditions, and tempered by still harsher days. A steel as cold as a fresh northern winter, as sharp as the wit of a poor man's daughter, and as true as the heart of a grieving son.

~~~

I've watched these trees fly past countless times before.  When I close my eyes, I can count the branches, place the different leaves where they belong before the cold sets in-and remember every time I've passed them by.

Today, I don't see the trees. 

Today, I don't count the branches or place the leaves where they belong - I don't even notice their passing. 

Today, I see the buildings, the people, and the skies.  I see a north country storm brewing and I blink away the tears that make this vision shimmer before my eyes. 

The buildings have changed.

They look like shells now - all the color drained from them during the colder months. Pale skeletal guardians on my path towards the end of the line.

There was a time when these buildings resembled the people of this town - they were vibrant, busy, and capable of weathering even the wildest of storms.  They sprung leaks and drafts and all manner of ills, but they stood tall and bright and filled with the determination of their fleshy counterparts.

This town is a small one - they always are.  It's tucked away between farmland and the Canadian border, whistling away under a bright, shiny name: the star of the north.

~~~

I wasn't alive then, but this part of the north country knew wealth, once.  There were factories, I'm told - places of work and businesses to drive money and security and safety into the surrounding area.  There was a theatre for locals and visitors alike - alive with the popular favorites of the time and bringing people together, no matter their class or station. Then time moved on and so did some of the people.  Visitors didn't come as frequently and those who did lingered even less.

And the star of the north was forgotten by many, left to fend for itself.

When I was a boy, the factories were all just shadows and hollow reflections of what they once claimed to be.  To the children, they were monoliths and dungeons and adventures that called out to us - sometimes, we even answered.  For the most part, we listened to the call, scratching at the wanderlust in our bones, yearning for more - and then we kept walking by.

We didn't realize it, but we felt the importance of these monuments, and, as only the young and innocent truly can, we left those legends at peace - content with the passing memory.

We were told, time and time again, to read our books and play with our friends.  To try in school and maybe, if we are lucky, to leave this fading star to see the world that had once decided to pass it by.

We took that advice for granted, as young ones always do.  We misbehaved and caused trouble, and reminded our parents of what they fought so hard to keep alive - the spirit of the north.

It wasn't always obvious, the sacrifices our parents made.  Sleepless nights after days of cleaning houses and businesses, early mornings to prepare us for school, only to leave moments later to make enough for dinner that night.  Instead, we got lost in the heroes of the past - Washington and his cherry tree, Alexander and the Gordian Knot, or Robin Hood and his Merry Men.  I remember it all, because she always wanted me to.

If we close our eyes and look at what has passed, look at what couldn't be seen at the time - we see that those men and women in our books set many an example, but the mothers and fathers and grandparents and brothers and sister and friends that made us who we are today: they were the real heroes.

After all, even if you didn't know them at the time, you never really forget your childhood heroes.

A Shot at a Fantasy Adventure - The First Step Is Always The Hardest

Oftentimes when I write something, it is just because it kind of popped into my head. I know some writers refer to this as the manifestation of 'the muse,' but who knows? What I know is that writing is not something that is 100% structure or 100% creativity - you need to find a balance that works best for you in the moment, and throughout the continuation of a thought that comes and goes with the fleeting nature of a whim. 

I've always wanted to write my own fantasy adventure - I've sat down and started more than one. What I end up getting stuck on is plot; I can draft up characters, give them an initial goal and then lose my train of thought when it comes to the question, "what next?" So instead of planning it all out, when it hit me this time, I just sat down and wrote. This scene is what popped out, and what I've been using as a basis for world-building. Let me know what you think - I always enjoy feedback!

Fantasy Adventure / Scene

TITLE: TBD (First Step to Darkness)

Joran stumbled as the cobblestone path broke into pieces before him. His step hung on a rock - and for a moment he hung, suspended in the air, exhaustion pulling him from his body to watch the scene unfold. Then he fell, sprawled among the stones with cuts and scrapes joining the marauding band of injuries already present on his skin.

From where he lay upon his back - waiting for his breathing to steady - Joran watched the stars in the sky and wondered at their magnificence. Father always told him to be wary of the night, but look toward the heavens in troubling times.

"Son, those are angels in the dark," he would grumble, his voice dragging the words across one another like pebbles underfoot. "They help those who know how to heed them. One day, they'll be all you have left in this world."

He was a god-fearing man, Joran's father. Mostly due to his own evils - but he always believed angels would protect his family when the devil came calling. Even to his last breath, he didn't pray to a god above, but to the angels in the vast reaches of space.

For all the good it did him, it's a wonder Joran even looks to the skies at all anymore.

As close as he was to the village, there were few travelers on the road. Those that passed him by did so with an open sneer - avoiding his gaze and rushing to some unknown destination. His travels had left Joran battered, bloody and ragged from head to toe, and his fall had set his pack loose - tumbling his meager belongings all over the crooked path.

He didn't blame them - people rarely spared travelers a second glance these days. Borders were becoming chokepoints for bandits and 'tithes' for safe-passage, kings were beset with eagerness for glory, land and power - and war was on the horizon. Stopping to help a stranger was to invite disaster - and Joran was left to pick himself up without so much as a helping hand.

But despite the dangers of the road, there were far fewer travelers here than Joran had been led to expect. Inraya was meant to be a bustling village - a hub for weary travelers and merchants alike, its name synonymous with hospitality and solace.

As the sun relented against the horizon, yielding to the coming night, the streetlights remained dark, and the streets sputtered to an eerie, disturbing silence. Joran spared a second glance at the skies, offering up a mental prayer to whatever might be resting in the cosmos above, and rushed towards a sign reading 'The Red Banshee."