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."

Important Milestones - The Sounds of Shattered Glass

Sometimes, you can't take a break from writing without feeling like you will lose everything that has made the piece you are working on what it is.
For me, this happens all the time.  I've rectified that issue to a point by writing down main points of a story that pops into my head - bullets, for the most part, containing my unfiltered thoughts.  Often, many of these do not make the cut - but sometimes a single bullet catches my brain and nudges the muse awake.  Then, with a fire in my veins, I'm off.

This piece was written more as flash fiction, or a possible scene. I didn't want to focus on character development, but rather the idea of moving forward in the story without moving forward in time.  It was an interesting concept that came to me when I wrote down what eventually became my writing prompt for this piece:

The Lasting Memory of Shattered Glass

In all honesty, it seemed beautiful to me. So I thought, why not talk about the violence in certain moments of pure beauty.  Below is what I came up with.  I look forward to hearing what you think!

Flash Fiction / Scene

TITLE: First Kisses Are Important Milestones, Too

Everything about a shattered pane of glass has its own uniqueness buried within.  The subtle, grating noise that emanates as the singular object breaks apart; the fluid, yet almost mechanical intonation that rends the air like a lion's roar; and the quiet, calming trickle of the individual shards as they settle into place.

A violent maelstrom of sound and chaos, ending in one soft, final sigh.

Every time you see a mirror, or a window, or a cup to hold your drink - there is a tug at the back of your mind that wonders at the sound it would make if it erupted in that familiar scene of violence.  Each instance unique in its own minute details, yet they all echo the memory of the first time you heard glass shatter against a more durable force.

When she leaned in and pressed her supple, warm lips to mine, I felt the world shatter around me like an unfathomable crystalline structure - ripping apart my assumptions, my expectations, and my worries - replacing it all with something so unexpectedly beautiful and unique that, for a moment, the world and the universe paled in comparison.

I can still remember, to this day, the automatic reaction from my arms as they rose to embrace her - pulling her in closer, our lips pressing tighter together as the heat of our breath slowly escaped its prison.  We were both young - both amateurs at the arts of love and lust - and yet, we were lost in this single moment, connected by such a pure manifestation of our desire.

Her hair a tickle as my hands wandered, mapping out the valleys and planes of her back and shoulder blades - even as hers explored the forests of my hair in return.  They tread expertly through the foliage, lingering in seemingly familiar places - never faltering, never waning in persistence and desire. Moments ceased to matter, caught as we were in the eye of the storm.  Passion replaced violence, and eternity seemed the only definitive factor of our existence - each of us lost in the embrace of the other. 

Blood rushed through my ears, drowning out the world with sounds of oceans so vast and welcoming that the journey would take a lifetime to complete.  A lifetime that I welcomed, so long as she stood there at the helm, guiding my ship away from port into the vast unknown.

My heart pounded a primal soundtrack to the hurricane through which we passed - struggling to keep time with the urgency of our actions, straining to escape its prison and revel in the heat of this irresistible moment. 

Her lips parted, her tongue seeking mine with vigor and earnest curiosity, and mine reaching out to greet it with welcoming fervor - a response that was lost among the soft escape of her joy. We stood - the axis of our universe - as the world shattered and broke around us, rebuilding to fit the shape of this moment, to encompass it in memory and burn it into our hearts forever.

Reason broke through our revels, and our lips pulled slowly away from each other, eagerly seeking one last touch - as if they would never have the chance again. Breath was released, anxious to fully escape its confinement, and the sounds of the seas faded from my ears. 

I opened my eyes and was caught immediately by the quiet happiness that shone from hers. Opened as we had been, we watched one another as the moment slipped slowly past and our minds burned the experience into place - never to be forgotten, never to be usurped: a regal presence to which the future must face comparison.

Unconsciously we seek to repeat our milestones: with every bite, we compare the taste to our past meals, with every song, we reach towards the shelves of our minds and play the tracks of our favorite sounds. 

Nothing, however, stands apart so much as a first, true kiss.

Except, perhaps, the sounds of breaking glass.