Sharing

New media opportunities opened up to the world with the introduction of the internet. In the forty years since this technology came into the world we’ve become familiar with e-mail, comfortable with e-commerce and reliant on search engines. New technology has shaped the way we access and publish information. The internet has molded how we contact each, pulling us away from many of the older methods. Letters and phone calls from far continents still occur; but often MSN, SKYPE or Outlook provide more reliable methods of keeping in touch, and the people we talk to on these platforms are sometimes in the same building.

Denying the changes wrought by this technology means turning a blind eye on the influence new tools have on the way we work. Closing our eyes to the changes yet to come can seriously impede our ability to develop efficiently. The way we work and share our productivity has changed; mostly those changes are for the better. Those changes were partly planned for; some though simply seeped in from the changes found in society itself.

Within our own field of interest SAT 7 provides a great example of embracing new technology. Fourteen years ago they began to share the message of Christ in a new way. Their message went out into areas of the world with inherent difficulties; they used a new medium for communicating with those who could not be reached on foot.

In the same way the Guttenberg Bible was possible thanks to the new medium of movable type printing. Each new medium can bring with it ways to share information, through new distribution and production methods. In the case of Guttenberg the production of bibles of such reliable quality and in such large numbers made it possible to bring the word of God to the masses, with satellite broadcasting SAT 7 saw new methods available to deliver the good news to newly reachable areas.

New opportunities are opening up to us all the time. Technology available today allows wide access distribution networks for video and audio files. Podcasts and RSS feeds, iTunes and Peer to Peer file sharing provide and enable us to produce and distribute content, messages and even evangelistic resources throughout the world. Whether we use these technologies to allow our remotest workers to contribute to the production of resources or simply receive the projects we build here in house the future of delivery and production are there waiting for us to continually adapt to and embrace.

---

416 Words

Now I want to have a bath.

The bath tub is all white porcelain, smooth to the touch and reflective. It gives a glowing suggestion of the one bulb over head. The brass fixtures do not detract from the purity or the form, and while utilitarian in use they still speak of the classic concept everyone has when they think of a luxurious hot bath.

Turning on the water allows a crystal clear stream to jet out of the mixer taps; each tap has been adjusted to achieve a tolerable heat. A small dash of bath oils and liquid soap have already begun to react, creating small floating islands of bubbles each one tugging at the plug chain.

Out of the turmoil where the falling stream strikes the slowly rising water level each new bubble climbs. Larger bubbles drag with them their smaller brethren to the far unknown oceans. Masses of tiny bubbles cling together stacking one on top of another, ever higher with new layers forming under the last, slowly reaching for the sides which bring greater stability. Eventually the entire surface forms into a collection of valleys and hills.

The heat of the water in the cold room has added steam to the tiled surfaces; the shaving mirror also now serves no use but as a place to draw reflective doodles. Ventilation from the extractor fan whisks the humid air away, gaseous escapees fleeing the building to join their nimbus and cumulus cousins.

Condensing on the walls the steam rolls down toward the cork floor, trickling along. Beads of moisture race carefree and follow uncharted tracks, joining forces to gain speed and make headway, the bigger droplets are clearly cheating.

Patiently, and without any agenda the towels sit to one side. They feel the air currents brushing past their soft and warm threads. Waiting for the experience to come and pass their time without hurry or bustle. Like them the book awaits the experience but unlike the calm fearless towels this novel does not embrace the liquid terror that approaches.

One other body of liquid sits nearby, a rich dark red wine, the bottle standing open and proud upon the porcelain, beside it a glass two thirds full. Both containers are dappled in dew like buds. Small puddles form beneath their base, where the steam slowly drains back into the tub rejoining the main body of water.

This is going to be a most enjoyable bath.

---

401 Words

Keep running

The silence of the clearing is broken as a rushing noise approaches through the brambles and twigs. Stumbling to her knees a young woman pants and gasps for air, fear evident on her face. Everything she’s wearing shows some sign of damage or dirt, from the mud on her trainers and the splashes up the inside of her shins, the scratches on her thighs and the arms of her jacket. Her blond hair is shapeless and ruffled presumably by the branches she’s been failing to push away from her face.

The look of terror and her twitching show the girl is beyond simple fright. As if in some unending nightmare she has been running none stop from a pursuer, some one just a few foot falls behind her. Now for a brief moment she can hear nothing of the monster behind her. This then is a moment to catch her breath; she’s to terrified to call out, and sits timid and fearful, afraid they might find her.

Her silent breaths, in the darkened twilight of this forest, don’t help to still the loud beating of her heart. Her senses alert and her nerves on edge she pauses for a moment longer then trying to sneak away heads to the other side of the clearing and hurries off into the dense trees.

The clearing falls silent again but only for a moment as the tranquillity left behind soon breaks. A hurried crunching of twigs and rustling through the brambles brings a dishevelled figure. Clearly fatigued from its pursuit and needing rest the ragged body slumps to all fours for a moment. Rapid breaths slow and soon shallow out till the only noise is the pounding of a single adrenaline fuelled heart inside her chest.

She stands on her mud caked trainers, feeling the wet denim around her thighs and the sting on her arms and upper legs where thorns have grazed through her jacket and jeans. She feels haggard and frightened like some small animal being hunted. Furtively she glances around as she moves towards the far side of the clearing ready to flea again. Knowing that somewhere behind her someone is chasing after her.

The clearing falls silent again, but only for a moment, then a young blonde woman stumbles out of the brambles. Dropping to the ground with exhaustion and fear, her mind shattered and confused. Knowing only that she must keep running as whatever it is that’s chasing her is not far behind. She can’t stop, she has to keep running.

---
423 Words

Sorrows

I wasn’t paying the singer any attention, and just got down to the business of consuming alcohol and drowning my sorrows. After my third double vodka I got a funny look from the barman but the night was still young and I had much to forget. I turned on my bar stool and looked over the clientele.

One of the booths had an old man, looked like a professor in a corduroy jacket with patched on the sleeves; he even had a pipe on the table in front of him. There was a table with three business jocks, all laughs and back slapping, shirts with loose ties. They were sharing a pitcher of beer and bonding in a way I felt was too fake for comfort.

The stage held a acoustic guitar a stool and one lonely looking blues singer. The face on this guy told you more than any lyric he could ever sing, this was the face of a man who knew pain. Though the joint contained more faces, the rested in the darker places of the bar and as such were beyond my interest. I started to listen to this sorrowful man singing his blues. Maybe my pains would shrink if confronted with larger stronger examples of their species.

His woman had left him, and his heart turned to stone, his lyrics told of his losses but I knew this song was just fluff. His heart what was left of it was not in this story. These were the troubles another man had wrote down. I wondered if he had a song to sing that would spill his own beans. I carried my fourth vodka towards the stage and sat at a vacant table.

My new vantage point brought other faces into focus but not a one of them had anything to distract me from the lonely guy. I let his song come to a close and then heckled up to him “Man you sing it, tell us how it is.” I called as I applauded politely

“That I might” he called back “Here’s one you might not know.”

“Well I wake up every morning

Damned cold and alone

Without you baby

Can’t make a house a home.

You just went up and left me

Left me nothing

Not one thing I was due

Nothing but my name

And these…

...destitute blues

My mama never told me

A woman could do such wrong

She never taught me

Never sang me sad songs

I wait for you to come back

I wait for you to write

I wait for hell to freeze over

Each and every night.

I want to tell you

I forgive you

I want to tell you

I’ll forget

I just want to hold you

But all I hold onto

Are the heartache and regret.

Guess I fell for you stories

The tall tales you did tell

The taller they came

The further I fell.

I got nothing against you baby

Cus’ I got nothing at all

You done led me astray

Yeah, You led me astray

When you got away

And all I got left

Are these…

…destitute blues

Ahh Thank you.”

I returned to bar mid way through and had settled up my tab and was leaving as he struggled to the last line. The car park was slick with the rain that had been falling earlier in the night. I was in no state to drive so I walked further into town and found another bar. I still had sorrows to drown. And in this place they just kept bobbing back up to the surface.

---
603 words

Orcs Delay

Five of the Orcs fell back and blocked the mouth of the tunnel cutting us off. The rest of their number disappeared out into the pouring rain; we all knew they were heading to the village. Pursuing them was imperative but first we had to fight our way past the five green skinned warriors.

Arcane words and the sting of power made my skin crawl as Merril’s first spell leapt from her staff toward one of the Orcs, I registered the spells effect as some binding tangle wire that wrestled her target to the ground. My sword rested in my hand, palm flexing on the hilt, as I stepped forward to another of the green skins, I felt my opponent’s blade scrape along my own as we met in combat and my senses began to process the arena we were to tussle in.

The rest of my party had each engaged one of the Orcs. Withan’s mace was pushing his dance partner around with heavy repetitive blows. Tourai’s crossbow was out and I nearly missed one of his best shots as the first bolt homed in on a battle scarred Orc veteran, before he knew what hit him our roguish youngster took out Scar’s good eye. Caitlin was struggling to hold her assailant off with her quarterstaff but every blow was deflected and she kept tripping the Orc with inconvenient low sweeping maneuvers.

My own fight wasn’t too difficult. But with my mind on what we had learned was under the village green down the hill I felt an urgency that made this delay frustrating. Keeping my temper in check I circled with the Orc tasting the moments allowing the field of battle revolve around me. Even in such a small skirmish the feeling is there. I felt the beat of the drum inside my veins and began to press my attack. Feint and slice, whilst ducking under his blade and rising up with my own, clash against the underside of his arm greaves. His curved blade swings towards me and for a second I lose sight of it over my helmet, my sword raises to block any downward slash but I dive to my right as I read his posture and anticipate his incoming swing.

Rolling onto my feat I see the smug look on his face and rejoin. A fierce volley drives him towards the cave mouth, and I feel the cool air even through my armor. The ground turns soft as we step out onto the rain soaked slope. Battering my sword into him, the green skin flails to block and fails to notice my left arm come round to push him over. His feet slide out from under him and I kick his prone body down the hill. Spinning back into the cave to assist the others.

In time to hear Caitlin calling for help I rush behind her Orc and finding a soft area sink my sword between flaps of armor, forcing a squeal of defeat from his scaly lips. I offer my hand and Caitlin rises to her feet. Tourai has dispatched the two Orcs on the ground and Withan dispatched his own.

“It would appear the only one we didn’t kill was mine.” I confess.

“Not to fear, Dof’r” Withan mocks “We’ll pick yours up on the way. And there’s plenty more when we get there.”

---

563 words

Responding to Beatrice

The following is an in character response to Conner's love interest.

--

Maybe we all suffer for the sins of our sires. And the mistakes of our siblings. I know that before the embrace I was no innocent. I certainly qualify as one of Father Mason’s pure and worthy. No minor sins were mine. I wronged my fellow man for business and pleasure. I drove people to their deaths, driving boatloads of them into the rocky shores of foreign lands. I made a career out of bankrupting families and businesses.

So I can’t claim any immunity or a lack of culpability, I deserved this curse and I live on still and swindle more than my mortal fair share. This world should have been rid of me many many years ago. But I still haunt the nights. Truly the greatest part of my curse is where I rest my behind. This throne is not one I would have chosen as a seat. I have done my best, and I hope made some improvements, but I am woefully prepared for the responsibility or the power.

The connection between our pains does not cry loud enough to drown out the city or the country beyond. I know the tower screams in your heart, and I know you have concerns for the city, for me I hold you in my heart, beyond that I simply try to hold on to the reins of power long enough to outlast my brother. He cannot be given the throne, I truly hope the family can find a better choice, and hope our sire can be brought back to the throne, and soon.

I know I can’t stay in power much longer, I don’t have the strength, and I have the enemies. I will see this through as far as I can, my landings have always been my best feature, let us see where this fall takes us. This isn’t over yet, and even if your part has been played in the political arena, if your duties are folding and arranging so that you will be distant, even then the rest of us will play out till our own parts also find completion.

I’m not seeking closure, I do not feel the end has come, I know that in my eyes we are only just beginning. Where ever this decent leads me I want to find you nearby. I cannot warrant losing everything else if I also lose your part in my life. Don’t pull away now. It’s just getting interesting.

---
411 words

Mothership

The mothership hovers above the Human outpost, it’s fleet mind guiding each of its children, sixteen drone fighters in each wing, and six wings in total into the combat arena. Their metal skins bare against the cold vacuum, naked but ready to face the enemy fire. Each weaving one around another, with the sheer joy at waking fresh and ready to do their duty.

Every nerve ending aligned all synapses wired and ready to control the drone's thrusters and artillery, the children mingle with and open fire upon their opposite number. The human fighters, seeming much more clumsy, are piloted by grown men and women fully trained but still detached from the mechanics of their ships. Their reactions control their own bodies which in turn manipulate artificial controls, an interface that costs them every time they make a decision.

Each of the drones hears the fleet minds thoughts, knows the brothers and sisters around it. Like a tiny glowing candle they can see the pinprick of mental activity in every enemy fighter. The drones swoop through the ebon battle field, more manoeuvrable, smaller and harder to target, more in tune with the chaos of war that surrounds them, and more than a match for any two Terran fighters.

The fleet mind watches as four earth fighters close in on a pack of six drones. The drones rotate in formation like the cylinder in a pistol, seemingly unaware as they press on closer to the outpost ahead. The Terran pilots struggle to keep a hold on their chosen targets as three drones spin to face them and both sides open fire. Driving the earth ships apart the remaining three drones pull out of formation and give chase each after one enemy while the first three simply strafe at the other. With a hail of munitions fire the earth fighters are lost. And these drones break apart and hunt down more enemies.

A sting is felt by the fleet as one of the drones is taken down. Each feels the fleet mind’s sorrow and acknowledges the loss of a brother. The fleet commands and the drones comply; each drone closes and completes its assigned task as the last of the enemy’s fighters are destroyed. The mothership recalls her children and dispatches boarding vessels. Another outpost has fallen, and the wasteful humans aboard it will be harvested. Their protein will feed her children.

---
400 words

Over view of progress

Surfing the contours of the space time continuum might sound like fun to you, but I’ll tell you it’s fraught with danger. There are dips and peaks, traitorous troughs and mighty apex’s that occur around gravity wells and subspace foam. Navigating these currents and waveforms is a new frontier. So far the mathematicians have plotted five stable paths through this higher portion of space. Three of those lead back into the past, and only two of those are safe times to visit. The other two are 96% confirmed to be alternatives to our own universe.

We are a little more certain about the path discovered two weeks ago, even though it has had the least research the evidence provided seems conclusive. We are fairly certain we’ve located Earth and documented astronomic data to confirm location and age. So we’re pretty sure this new path leads to a copy of our planet and it is the same age as the Earth we stand on. The first difference we found was this is a world with no primates or humans. Further observed evidence points to a large aquatic civilisation spread out across the oceans. Communication with these Atlantean like cities will be undertaken in the new year.

The first alternate that we found is less dramatic. There appears to be a global avoidance of white fabric, something we have yet to truly understand. In preliminary conversation none of the residents of that Earth ever conceive of wearing white, when a member of our own staff has been spotted wearing white it caused no major alarm in the pigment wearers. It’s just one of the local human foibles.

In order of historic precedence the three paths into earths past lead to, firstly the late Hedeon era, the second path drops us off at around 500 BC, and the third is just a mere 150 years in the past. The later two paths do present the potential to interact with primary historical personalities and influence recorded history.

So far we have not had the opportunity to affect any major notable historic events via the three paths to the past. Our presence in the past has yet to cause any impact on the present. This has given rise to many wildly differing theories. But without further study nothing can be claimed concrete on that topic.

With each new path computed we gain more understanding about how we might discover more. And each study group that visits the four paths that are habitable brings with it great insights. We are already learning so much. Given time energy and funding who knows what benefits this research will bring.

We need all the help we can get.

The human race is diminished whenever a decision is made to serve personal benefit rather than to abide by the distinct benefits for all society, as laid out by the best intentions of our moral code.

That is to say, selfish choices keep the human race from achieving grand things.

Imagine a team of writers who work on a fictional character, this character is defined as having the strongest of moral codes. That in no circumstance will the character ever make a choice that benefits them over another person. The team set up many challenging situations where the character’s values are put to test but between them they always examine the situation and write the script such that in the end the saintly character does the right thing.

Each of the writers are aware of just how heroic the character they collaborate on is, but as they finish work each day they go out and live in a way such that their decisions never once match up to the moral certainty found in their work.

When we face day to day dilemmas we live selfishly. Taking what we can to benefit ourselves. Occasionally charity might be shown to those we feel capable of caring for, but as a society made of individuals we constantly fail to maintain an average level of care for one another.

Not every difficulty facing mankind today comes from out inability to see how each of us fails to lift this average, but there are many wrongs in the world that stem from our failure to care for anyone but a certain few. World hunger, war, sickness, racial hatred, intolerance, these problems come from poor decisions and priorities that do not allow for your fellow human beings.

Compassion for your loved ones is not admirable, it is the bare minimum and only the beginning of where you should start. Compassion for the latest heart wrenching target of media attention does not alleviate the responsibility we all have to improve the standing of everyone. Charity may begin at home, but it should go out to the ends of the earth.

I am guilty of picking me first, and letting others deal with their own problems. I’m not looking to be raised higher or receive assistance beyond what we should all have as a basic human right. I am not claiming to be better than any other human being. I am claiming the average human being is a pretty poor example. And again – we need to raise that average.

Think about this next time you have to choice, it should not be about them or us. It should be a choice between me and us. And you should always choose us. We need all the help we can get.

Shadow's Throne

Brother Marcus watched as the gyroscope turned and the various spheres and geometric shapes aligned themselves. Of all the forces ruling over mortal lives destiny was at times one of the simplest. Certain established patterns had bee noted, almost every man woman and child had heard tales that taught the basic fates, and travelling entertainers depended on these recognisable patterns for plays, ballads and stories. But the seers and prophets had a different outlook when it came to the paths men travelled.

Some watched the stars, or paid attention to portents and omens, some read palms, or studied the teachings found in deep meditation. But a few understood the mechanics behind the patterns and could with some calculation project the outcome of the fates before they even had chance to take shape.

The apparatus ground down to a halt and the room grew silent, the candle light was dim and made it difficult to see much of anything, but a new light shone behind Marcus’ eyes. He scurried out of the chamber and rushed towards the Abbots office calling out all the way through each corridor “The Shadow Queen’s Throne returns!”

---

“I ask you who am I to hold back the bounties of far Murzurka?” Hassleway called to the crowded market “These rugs and the fine cushions won’t cost you ten stars, I won’t even charge you five stars. Do you know how much you can take these away for today madam?” Appreciative smiles and shakings of heads were all the customers could give as replies. So he continued with his patter

“I’m going let them go for three stars and a quart. And I’ll tell you what why not throw in a second set of cushions. Now that kind of deal is only available here and now. Thank you ma’am, please see my assistant Carla, she will wrap those for you.”

Sales continued until the last two cushions went for a star a piece, Hassleway watched the last customer depart and then sat on the wagon’s flat bed waiting for Carla to return from running deliveries. Counting through the takings he had enough to cover his expenses and live a little too. The market was much quieter and when the lovely Carla came back they hitched the wagon again and rode back to the inn.

“Has, with all the stocks gone are you thinking of going overseas again?”

“Well yes.” He looked to her in the wagon “You’ve been learning well these last few months, what do you think the plan is?”

“You’ve made deals with the mining authorities in Devil Chipping, and arranged passage to the empire. Are you exporting ore to the Mazurkans?”

“That’s the plan, I have orders from three of the Baronies to fulfil. The mines have had a good year. And I’ve bought all the contracts to distribute the merchant guilds take from the region.”

“Not all the ore then?”

“No Carla, after the king takes a cut, and the miners take their shares, the merchant’s guild buy the remaining stoke pile. They then offer the raw materials up for bidding and well I sank most of my savings into securing the trade rights.” He took his time to explain all this to his apprentice “Other merchants would have to buy off the miners themselves, I can just turn up to the local guild house and show my papers.”

“Ok, don’t you want the miner’s ore as well then?”

“No the Merchants share will be enough. We’ll be in Devil Chipping in a little over a week, and then we’ll be delivering to the noble houses of the empire in a few months time.”

“We?” She squealed “Really you’re going to let me go with you?”

“Of course, apprentice, you need to see commerce in action.”

Online at home

I haven't had an internet connection at home for a while, but it turns out I now do.

I missed the chance to post up yesterdays words and intended to post three sets tomorrow. But now I can do two today. Just before the day ends.

So on Saturday I wrote a couple of short items that describe scenes on my fantasy world Eliode.

And today I took a stab at some philosophy, writing about moral obligation.

Salvation

Through the bars high over his head Carl saw the early morning light begin to shine on the walls of his cell. The muffled sounds of activity on the courtyard above trickled down to him, there would be crowds gathering to watch him die. He scurried to the cell door and collected his breakfast of gruel. There would be jeering and tossed fruit or even mud, either would be more appetizing than this gruel.

The sound of chains rattling in the corridor announced the jailors approach. Sloppy cheap boots pounded on the stone floor as the prison guards shared a tasteless joke before unbolting the door and stepping in side.

“Carl Rhinett, you have been found guilty by the Bylaws and Ordinances of the Winddale City. You have been given the trial due a free man of the King’s land and sentenced that on this the thirteenth of Leaf-fall you shall be hanged until quite dead in the presence of those witnesses assembled.” Throughout this Carl remained silent, head in his hands. “The condemned man may make a request at this time, one final comfort on the morning of his death. Can the judiciary or staff provide some simple service to you in these your last hours?”

“Well…” He raises his eyes and looks at the guards and the scribe reading from a scroll “Traditionally what do condemned men request?”

“Often, a letter or message can be carried to a loved one.” The scribes voice became more sympathetic now he was not reading from an official proclamation “Maybe a stiff drink, or other refreshment. Occasionally a whore can be arranged, but of course in your case we can’t risk that. The offer is really limited to small favors, after all your life is not worth much to the city officials, so no great expense will be spared.”

“I can be trusted with a woman you know; I didn’t mean to kill that poor girl!” His snapping tone made one of the guards fidget and move towards him, cooling down Carl spoke on “No that’s fine I don’t want any more of your women, they’re definitely more trouble than they are worth.”

“If there is nothing you need I can leave you in peace.” Offered the scribe.

“No I think… I think I would like to see a priest.”

“That can be arranged.” The scribe made a note on his parchment and turned away, the guards led him out and Carl was once again alone.

Within the hour a priest was provided and the two were left with some privacy. Carl began to speak of his fears of the unknown, and how he had no god to go to when he died. Platitudes were exchanged and Carl relaxed a little. He asked how the priest had found his faith and while he listened to the man’s testimony raised his arm and brought down his breakfast bowl on the priest head digging the edge deep into the skull.

Quickly he exchanged clothing with the holy man, then arranged the corpse on the corner, drawing the hood over his head Carl moved towards the door. The guards responded to the knock and allowed him to leave.

“The poor young man is quite terrified of what lies ahead.”

“He won’t have to worry for long Father.”

“Well I hope my words lead his heart towards some peace.” Carl continued to impersonate the priest ”He prays now for the deities to forgive his sins. Do not disturb him while he is in prayer I beg. His immortal soul may still be saved.”

“Humf! As you say father.”

“Bless you.”

Back in that cell Carl had found a kind of salvation, and felt open to sharing blessings. But primarily he just wanted to get out of Winddale.

---

631 Words

Surreal Guilt - Romantic Apology

There was a time when the life I led made sense, when I could get out of bed in the mornings and know without having to think about it that my world would follow a logical order. Oh the odd random encounter might occur, and there were those few times when inebriated that the reliable solidity turned a little fluffy and refused to come into focus. But day in day out I lived what I’d call a normal life. I no longer enjoy that luxury.

My world has turned inside out and upside down. Nothing I do makes sense to me. I feel everything is distorted. I count the days as they pass and not one of them has any worth. There might still be seven days in a week, and it may have been many such weeks but the total doesn’t add up to anything important.

Everything I do would seem to drag me further from sense and reality. I retreat toward a point in the distance, yet all my actions are in fact pointless. All directions seem to lead away from you. All time seems to proceed away from when we were last together. Nothing makes as much sense as the thought of you in my arms.

If I think about the decision we made and the choices, how you had to go back to him, and how I not only let you but pushed you away. That choice made no sense then, and as time passes it makes less sense still. If I spent every day regretting it, and every moment thinking of you I couldn’t take back the words I said. I can’t undo that hurt.

I spend these meaningless days calling out silently, speaking into dark empty corners, pressing my heartfelt despair into places I pray you will never have to visit. But all I can express is the hurt in me. I can only fear the hurt I caused in you, I lie there terrified that you might feel I abused your trust and love. I hate to think you would feel used. I know sometimes at my lowest I feel that way too, but I’m not certain I have any right to feel sorry for myself.

I doubt I have any right to even have my apologies heard. But I send them anyway. With care for a gentle flower I fear I crushed, with all the broken parts of my heart I ask not for forgiveness but for acceptance.

---

416 Words

No tall tales, no dodges or excuses.

I remind myself as I sit here at my keyboard that my task is not to write fiction. I do not have to make four hundred words tell a tale. I am allowed to write out my thoughts and feelings. I can use this time to construct a monologue that opens my mind and lets any reader see that my thoughts are in there somewhere.

I’m not looking to start a political commentary, or review some media sensation. I am trying to build my writing talent, at first by simply exercising the muscles that construct sentences, and describe encounters. But later I’ll be working to tell real stories, I want to write to commit what is foggy and indistinct in my head to a page where it can maintain a more permanent existence. Hoping then that friends and strangers might read and comment on the works I’ve shared. I’m looking for feedback, some advice; I would like to think I can improve, especially with your help.

I already believe I have a seed of talent. But I know of limits within which I work. I’m not particularly well educated, and have only a very simple understanding of grammatical rules. My life experiences have been spent on one side of the page, reading about adventures and mysteries, I have been satisfied with these tales enough in the past. But is there a need for me to go out and maybe gain more firsthand experiences.

The negatives won’t put me off, but if I’m not determined I will fall away from the endeavor set before me. It is a narrow path I tread. To maintain the resolution set me I must write four hundred words every twenty four hours. I want to avoid any dodges, and keep away from making excuses. Instead of making up reasons to skip a day, I should focus on making up more tall tales to tell.

So I won’t let myself off a few words when it turns out I over achieve one day, its four hundred as the minimum each day. And even as I’m saying that I’m considering upping the target by another hundred.

Regardless of the quota I find myself yearning to use my creativity, to unleash the words that will tell all the stories I’ve stored up inside my imagination. These are the words I want to write, four hundred or so of them at a time. If I can make it through the coming weeks and manage the target every day I’ll then look at sharing with you all that I can. Today I’m sharing four hundred and thirty nine words.

Hunger

I woke up about three miles out toward the industrial estate. The bus was lying awkwardly on its side; and I could see no sign of the driver or other passengers. A pain near my right shoulder made my head buzz and I could feel bruises all over my body. Making progress towards the front meant climbing over the seats. Each step put my feet on the windows, which in turn were pressed against the tarmac. I was shaky and unsure of my footing, more so when I encountered the shattered glass of the windscreen which proved slippery under foot.

Finally staggering through the front window, I stood in the fading headlights for a moment and took stock. Looking at my shoulder I found what looked more like a bite mark, and less like the kind of graze you would expect from a crash like this. The sight of my own open flesh turned my stomach and I retched up everything I’d eat at the diner, finally stumbling backwards and I slumped to the floor and sat for a moment by the road side.

From the time on my watch that last meal had been four hours earlier, which left me wondering why the bus hadn’t been found yet. My head swam as I called out into the night for help, but no one answered.

Looking back at the wreck something set me on edge, from this angle I could see a dark liquid a little ahead of the crash. I just knew it would be blood, and a lot of it. I got closer and could smell the copper tang in the cold night air, there were flecks of flesh and the gristly stub of a bone nearby, but more worrying to me I could follow a trail of the blood with my eyes off into the darkness where the remains had been dragged away.

The drag marks headed toward the industrial park, so I turned and started to run for the outskirts of town. Clutching at my wound which started to bleed as soon as I picked up speed, I realized I was going to have trouble making it back safely. I began to feel the cold, and even when the fear subsided and I felt numb inside I still couldn’t stop imagining how one of the people on the bus had died like that.

Even now as I get closer to the first few buildings I feel oddly distant still. There is something deep within me pushing back my civil manners, gnawing away at my identity, and changing my appetites. I feel clammy all over, my back aches; my legs are stiffening making movement slow and clumsy. I can’t keep up the pressure on the bite wound, but it isn’t bleeding anymore so I don’t feel there’s much point trying. I feel a hunger drawing me towards the town’s folk. This appetite is so commanding that I extend my arms forward away from my body, better to embrace the first person I can reach. My stomach grumbles and I let out a groan of sympathy to match it, as I shamble on. I am so terribly hungry for flesh.

---
532 Words

Maybe this should be 500 words a day?

Evidence

Well before I leave I thought I'd post again and actually make a stab at doing my 400 words - the following then is today's allotted prose. A short story... 491 words total

---

The collection of Polaroid’s weren’t much to go on. A picture of the house from the drive, a shot of a broken window, a photo of the room taken from high up in a corner, a close up of the body with the knife still embedded deep in the poor guy’s chest. Neither the envelope nor the letter would help, and lay there on the desk in front of him. The message was clear, “This is another one, and you don’t even know who he was.”

What he was looking at wasn’t much but it was evidence, something that could prove the crime happened; maybe it would even be enough to help put a stop to these brutal killings. This was the third so far, or at least the third the police knew about. The other two had followed the same pattern, a home invasion where the sole occupant is over come and stabbed to death. And the police hear nothing till a brown envelope arrives through the post. These envelopes each contain enough to locate the crime but never give away anything about the killer.

Of course the most obvious thing to check for would be fingerprints on the envelope, letter and photos. But no help was going to be found there. Careful handling, preparation and clean up had limited any chance a tell tale print would give the police a leg up. The typing on the letter also kept the killers identity further hidden, and it went without saying there was no signature to kindly give away his name.

Mug shot artists would work up an image from the close up, that could be broadcast for the evening news to identify the victim. One of the forensics would have to scan the photos in a lab computer and pour over them for fine details. The shot of the drive gave a partial on a car, so a search would be possible through the databases for any local residences that could be linked with a blue Audi.

The knife was another lead, one of these replica movie props. Those things tend to be limited edition, and so it could help point toward either the victim or the murderer. All in all though, as far as evidence goes they didn’t provide much to go on.

Another cursory examination of the evidence showed the same care had been taken with this package as the other two. With care he scooped up the photos and letter, folded them into the envelope and then sealed it closed.

Leaving the murder scene, exiting the house and slipping into the Audi on the drive he pulled away and drove until he reached the main post office in town. All the evidence went into the big post box. Maybe this envelope would be enough; maybe they could find him soon. If not he’d have to keep sending the envelopes until they stopped him committing these brutal killings.

First Day - Not a great start

Ok the aim is that I write 400 words every day. Now these might not be great words and they might not bring any great truths to the world, but if I can get into the habit that will be a good start.

Today is going to be a bad start and the following few days might not show much improvement. I'm only able to write from the office as there's no internet from home at present. Should BT reconnect me I'll hopefully be writing more in the evenings. But while the only access to this blog is from my work PC I'll be a little less inclined to write 400 word posts.