Going Live on Wordpress

Today's short blog post (on Blogger) is simply to announce the launch of my Wordpress location! I've finally got things fairly organized and laid out the way I want it. So please update your links & follow:

http://scholarlyscribe.wordpress.com

I'll be dual-posting for at least another two weeks to catch those who don't check back very often. But I'd love for everyone to read and comment at the new location. Let me know what you think. Personally, I like having the pages along the top where you can access my poems, short stories, and each part of my serial novel with ease.

Tune in Saturday for the next installment of The Curse of Fierabras!

Story - The Bone-Jarring Tackle

I think I'm just about done prepping my Wordpress location for this blog. I'm pretty sure I'll be ready to begin directing everyone there sometime this weekend, even though it probably won't be 100% ready. As I mentioned before, I will still post in both places for a few weeks and will include a link to the new location with each post. Make sure you follow that blog once I start those announcements because, eventually, this one will become obsolete.

Thank you all for your support so far. This blog has been more successful than I ever anticipated at this point! Tonight I'm sharing a short story memoir that I finished writing for one of my classes. I'd love to hear what you think of it.

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The Bone-Jarring Tackle

            “Tell Mom that I’m in the field playing a game of football,” I say to my sister as I hurry down the stairs.

            “Okay,” she says without looking up from her book.

            I round the corner while putting on my Cris Carter jersey. He is my favorite player ever, number eighty for the Minnesota Vikings. When I wear this jersey I feel like I can catch any pass that is thrown my way. While my thoughts are wandering I run into my younger brother, Michael, and he falls to the ground.

            “Watch out,” I tell him as I hurry past. I don’t want to be the last one to the field, or else my first game with these guys might be my last one, too.

            “I’m coming, too,” he says as he gets up from the floor. He brushes some lint from his bright orange John Elway jersey.

            “No, you’re not,” I say as I stop in my tracks. There is no way my little brother is tagging along for this game. He is five years younger than me and will get massacred by the high school guys. Besides, they wouldn’t like him tagging along.

            “If you don’t take me, I’ll call Mom,” he says.

            “She wouldn’t let you play, either,” I say.

            “I don’t have to tell her it is to play football,” he says. “She’ll make you take me.”

            “You are such a brat sometimes,” I say. “I wish you had never been adopted.”

            I know that will get him upset. My sister and I have teased him about this for years, even though we know it isn’t true, because he is the only one in the family with blond hair. It has the desired results. His face gets bright red and tears well in his eyes. His voice gets shrill and he screams at me, even though I’m right in front of him. “I’m not adopted. I’m telling Mom when she gets home.”

            He stomps all the way upstairs to his room and slams the door several times. Little flakes from the ceiling popcorn fall to the ground as he stomps across his room. My sister sits in the chair, unfazed.

            “You’d better go before Mom gets home,” Jessica says without looking up from her book. She is reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, which must be interesting because she hasn’t put it down since she got home.

            “Yeah, I’ll be home before dinner,” I say as I walk into the kitchen. I grab a couple of Oreos and head out the door. The brisk autumn air welcomes me as I cross our massive green deck. Leaves of red and orange decorate the branches of the tree in our backyard, stretching above the garage. Bees hover from flower to flower, gathering stores of pollen before the winter comes. The grass in the neighboring yards is fading to a dull brown, but our yard is still a vibrant green.

            I cut through the back yard and enter the field. It stretches east for a mile, covered in grass and flowers and the occasional weed. In the center is a tall fence that the neighborhood kids play baseball around. Many times I’ve walked past them, wishing I could be a part of their game even though I am terrible at baseball. A three-foot wide creek cuts through the center of the field, running east to west. On the south side of the creek is a paved trail that runs parallel to its bending path. At the east end is a covered shelter with a few picnic tables. This is my destination.

            A rabbit is startled from the grass as I jog past. The songs of various birds fill the air as they stop in our trees along their flight south for the winter. In several different places groups of children chase each other in games of tag, their laughter echoing in the air. A mother jogs along the path pushing a red and black stroller. On the other side of the path an elderly couple walks side by side, the fingers of their hands interlocked.

            Most of the guys are already around the picnic area. A football is tossed around among them, spiraling perfectly as it cuts through the air. Conversation and laughter flows freely from the group. They welcome me as I arrive, tossing me the ball. I am not expecting the ball, so it slips through my hands and tumbles away. I mentally curse at myself for being so clumsy. I pick up the football and throw it to the next guy. It falls short and hops into his hands. I can tell my stock is falling already.

            The focus has already moved off of me and onto the last two to arrive. One is tall, the other short like me. They both appear to be athletic, which means they’ll be among the first picked. The taller one is wearing long sleeves and jeans even though it is in the low sixties. The shorter one is wearing a blue soccer jersey and shorts. They are welcomed with a chorus of greetings, and the game can now begin.

            The captains of the team must have been predetermined because two of the guys step forward and declare themselves as being the captains. No one voices dissent. The two athletic guys, unsurprisingly, are the first two selected for the teams. Four down, eight to go. The next four chosen are the ones who were proficiently throwing the ball around before I came along and dropped it.

            I glance at the guys standing next to me to see my competition. I’m by no means physically fit, but I am in better shape than at least two of them and the third has on glasses. I like my odds at being picked next. Surprise overwhelms me when the kid with the glasses is chosen next. And then one of the out-of-shape guys is picked. This always happens.

            I’m always picked last. It has been that way since the early years of elementary school. I was short and shy. I was clumsy at times. I played the least important positions in team sports, like outfield and center. I am suddenly reminded why I only like watching sports. No one gives me a chance because of first impressions, so I never get a chance to get better.

            These guys don’t know that I usually have the hands of Cris Carter and can catch the ball. They don’t know that I can be a shut-down safety like Robert Griffith. I already can tell they’ll have me run routes and not throw me the ball. They’ll have me be the one to shadow the quarterback and force him to throw the ball early. They will never know any differently, and I’ll never be invited to play another game.

            I accept my inevitable fate. I am the last person left, going to the team with the shorter, fit guy. He tells me his name is J.J., and the other guys ask him why the tall guy is wearing long sleeves on a nice day. He tells us his name is Jon and he moved here from South Carolina. I guess they aren’t used to this kind of weather.

            The other team punts the ball to us to start the game and J.J. hops in front of me to grab the ball. He takes off like a bullet, darting in and out of defenders as he crosses the field. He seems to be too fast to be stopped, but Jon comes up and tackles him. We get the ball at midfield. In the huddle I am told to go long. I am always going long. That means nothing.

            The ball is hiked and I run past everyone. No one pays attention to me. Instead they direct two of the guys to guard J.J., leaving me wide open in the end zone. The ball is thrown to J.J. and the other team intercepts it, running the ball back for a touchdown. That team celebrates the score while we huddle back at the other end of the field. When I mention that I was wide open, the guy throwing the ball said he never saw me. He promises to look next time.

            We get the ball back and our guy goes down quickly. We have a long field ahead of us. We huddle and I’m told to line up behind the quarterback and he’ll hand me the ball to run it. Here is my chance. I’m ready to run like Robert Smith, dodging and spinning past defenders. He hikes the ball and turns to hand it off to me. I reach to grab it, but he pulls the ball back in and bootlegs the opposite direction. I’m left running out for a pass, confused by this change of events. He passes the ball and we get a touchdown because someone was left undefended. I don’t care. I wanted the ball.

            Flashbacks of flag football come to mind. I played on a team for two years. I didn’t get to play quarterback or running back or wide receiver. I didn’t get to be a good position. I was chosen to play the center. My duties consisted of hiking the ball and running a short route for a pass that rarely came. I ran so many button hooks that I could still run that route perfectly.

            In two years I never scored a touchdown for that team. I was rarely thrown to, and was usually caught soon after since I ran a short route in the middle of the field. But one game I had my chance. I got the ball and spun past the first defender with a move that would make any player envious. I turned to the end zone and charged forward. I was unstoppable for a play. I reached the end zone and was ready to celebrate my first touchdown.

            And then I heard the refs whistle. There was a penalty on the play. Our quarterback did an illegal block. The touchdown didn’t count. My chance at doing something great for the team vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

            We kick the ball back to the other team and get a chance to play some defense. If I can’t be Cris Carter or Robert Smith for my team, the least I can do is play defense like Robert Griffith. I’ll be the best safety they’ve ever seen, and word of my defensive talent will spread and the high school team will want me to play. They’ll see that I can play.

            They hike the ball and I drop back, watching the quarterback. I see one of the guys break free from the defender and so I start running that way to cover him. I leap for the ball as it flies by, but I’m too short to reach it. He catches the ball and makes it into the end zone. I sigh and accept the fact that my size is not doing any favors for the team. If I were six inches taller, that pass would have been mine. But I’m not.

            The game runs on and I get a chance to catch a few passes every now and then, and even manage to deflect a pass or two. The game is nearing its end, since dinner will be served for most of them in a matter of minutes. We have time for one last drive. I’m running a cross pattern down the field. The ball is hiked. I take off and cut to the right. The ball is in the air. I leap for it and pull in the pass. Wham! I’m hit mid-jump by Jon. I flip in the air and land on my back. The air is knocked from my lungs. My vision gets blurry. The ball is still in my hands.

            I lay in the grass, too stunned to think for a moment. Then reality sets in and I realize that I caught the ball. Against all odds, I made a great play. The aching in my chest is a constant reminder of the hard tackle. It hurts with each breath I take. I can hear commotion from the other guys and I know this is my chance to make an impression. Their attention is fixed on me and how I react will probably impact how they perceive me in the future.

            People start to crowd around me. I brush aside the inconvenient pain and get to my feet, laughing. The thrill of catching the pass fuels my adrenaline. I can tell this isn’t what they were expecting. Anyone else would be lying on the ground still, in too much pain to get up. Or at the very least gasping for air. I am doing neither of those things.

            “That was fun,” I proclaim as I toss the ball to our quarterback. “Let’s do it again.” A few people voice their concern but I brush that aside. The catch and my reaction have done something. It has won some respect. They won’t avoid giving me the ball any longer. I have been accepted as an equal, at least for one day.

We get back to playing, but the game doesn’t last much longer. The sun is getting low in the sky and the sound of crickets starts to echo through the field. I get a few more passes thrown my way and the other team makes sure I am covered. I manage to leap and deflect a pass, too. I never score a touchdown in the game, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve proven myself worthy of belonging on the team.

            After the game ends I head over to J.J.’s house, along with Jon and J.J. We sit outside on his front porch talking about football. We laugh about the catch and the tackle. It was a moment we wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Jon tells me he never expected anyone to pop back up like that laughing. At that moment he knew I was a cool guy. J.J. nods in agreement.

            “Do you play video games?” Jon asks me.

            “Of course,” I say. “I grew up playing Mario and Zelda when I was little.”

            “My favorite game is Dragon Warrior IV,” he says. “Have you ever played that game?”

            “I love that game!” I say in response.

            The three of us continue to talk for a while as the sun gets lower in the sky. We find that we have a lot of the same interests. Jon mentions that he doesn’t have many friends since he moved here in January from South Carolina. He has become good friends with J.J. because they are neighbors, but beyond that it is a challenge. He says it is hard to leave behind friends he knew for his entire life and move across the country. I understand the feeling because I moved back to Altoona two years ago. I had lived here for most of elementary school but missed out on Junior High, where many friendships are initially formed. We’re both trying to find a way to fit in and be accepted.

            I head home as the streetlights are coming on for the night. Dinner is cold, but I don’t mind because I had fun. My brother told my mom that I wouldn’t let him come, but she told him that he couldn’t go play football with us because he’d get hurt. He didn’t like that, but I secretly enjoyed hearing that. It turned out to be a great day, and I had gained two new friends.

            Almost thirteen years later I am still friends with Jon. We’ve hung out a lot, played many video games together, watched lots of football, built a poker table, and many other things. We spent almost two years as roommates. Sometimes it is hard making new friends. Other times it is as easy as playing a game of football with someone you don’t know.

The Curse of Fierabras - Part Four

Part IV - Jerek

           The desperation thrust misses its mark and Dante stumbles past the guard, tripping over his feet. He skids across the dirt floor of the arena. Dirt clings to the open wounds in his side and his thigh, intensifying the sensation of pain. Dante braces himself for the killing blow that will put an end to his agonizing pain. It never comes.
           A stone pillar comes crashing down on top of the guard behind Dante, crushing him. Fragments of the pillar scatter in every direction. The last remaining guard pauses his advance, uncertain about his odds for success. Jerek steps forward with a sword in one hand and a broken dagger in the other.
           “Stay down,” Jerek says as he advances toward the center of the arena. He crouches down low like a cat, ready to pounce. The soldier thrusts with his spear and Jerek pivots to the right. Jerek counters with a quick dagger thrust and the guard shuffles back a few steps to avoid the attack. Jerek presses forward, feinting with the dagger and striking with the sword. The guard continues to give ground, trying to place some distance between them, but Jerek remains in close.
           The figures get smaller as Dante watches the battle unfold between them. Jerek fluidly moves from one attack into the next, keeping the guard off balance. Dante wonders how many men lost their lives to capture Jerek. Nobody could stand a chance in single combat against this swordsman. Jerek backs the guard into a pillar and the guard makes a desperation attack, much like Dante had done moments ago. It was the window of opportunity that Jerek must have been waiting for. The broken dagger pierces into the guard’s shoulder while the sword slices across his midsection. The guard falls to his knees, the spear dropping from his hands.
           A mixture of boos and cheers fill the arena. Small scuffles break out among the crowd. Dante gets to his feet, his muscles aching and sweat dripping down his face. Jerek crosses back over, slipping the sword into an abandoned scabbard. Two dozen of the king’s soldiers come into the arena and encircle the two victorious men. They take Jerek’s sword bind him in chains. Rage flashes in his eyes but he submits to the imprisonment. They chain Dante and then lead the two men back into their cell.
           Neither man says a word as they are placed into the cell and their chains removed. An hour later a loaf of hard bread and a bucket of tepid water are placed in their cell. Both men tear into the food and Dante finally breaks the silence.
           “I’ve never seen anyone fight like you.”
           “Thanks,” Jerek says between mouthfuls of bread.
           “I want to thank you,” Dante looks down at his reflection in the bucket. “If you hadn’t toppled that pillar I would be dead now.”
           “You ever been in a fight, lad?” Dante looks up at Jerek, caught off guard by his question.
           “I’ve sparred in the practice ring back home, but nothing like this.”
           Jerek nods and bends down to take a long drink from the bucket. He looks back up at Dante, droplets of water running down his chin. “What’s your story?”
           “I shouldn’t be here,” Dante says.
           “None of us should. These are bad times we’re living in.”
           Dante nods as he swallows another bite of bread. “About a week ago the Emperor’s army passed through our town. They stayed for two days, eating our food and drinking our ale. All the young men followed them around and staged mock battles, hoping to get drafted into the army. I kept to myself and tended my wares. When they prepared to leave, they told several of the men that they were part of the Emperor’s army now. When they told me that, I refused their offer.”
           Jerek raises an eyebrow at this, pausing mid-bite. “And they didn’t care for that, right?”
           “I was rewarded by being backhanded and then chained up. They brought me here, accusing me of being a member of the Reformation and inciting riotous behavior.”
           “And now you are going to die, here in this arena, because you didn’t want to wear the royal uniform. Why didn’t you accept? They’d at least be giving you better meals than this.”
           “I don’t know, exactly,” says Dante. He had been wondering that same thing ever since they led him to the capital. Why did he refuse? Few people had anything negative to say about the Emperor, and those who did were usually gone by the next day. “I don’t think the Emperor is as good as we’re led to believe. Towns are being found deserted, crops are scarce everywhere, people go missing and no one seems to notice. But he never tries to fix these problems.”
           “So you think they are hiding something?”
           “Yeah, I suppose I do. I’ve heard stories about what things used to be like, back before the Emperor.” The problem is that no one believes those stories. The Emperor has been reigning for as long as most people can remember. The few who do remember usually keep quiet about that. Those who don’t usually go missing, or end up hanging from a tree alongside a road. “What do you think, Jerek?”
    “Things were better before he came along, that’s for sure,” Dante stoops down to take a drink from the bucket. “That’s why I helped start the Restoration.” Dante coughs mid-swallow, unable to believe what he just heard.

Go To: Part Three - The First Battle

The First Three Months

Reflecting back upon the day I began this blog, it amazes me to think of how things have surpassed my expectations. I figured this would be a small blog where a few family and friends would read occasionally because they feel the need to be kind and read a post or two. That was the status of my previous attempt at a blog almost two years ago. I think that one made it a month before it died off, much like my attempt at creating a website.

That tends to happen a lot. The grand visions fizzle out when the initial excitement wears off.

The excitement for this one hasn't fizzled yet. Instead it is exceeding what I aspired to accomplish when I created Scholarly Scribe. So, in celebration of reaching this first minor milestone, I will answer a few questions that were put forward by some of the readers of my Guys' Night post on Friday.

The following questions were asked by Youngman Brown:

1. What was your original reason for starting a blog?

My original reason for starting a blog was actually highlighted in my first post, Why I Write. I created this as a place to share my thoughts on writing and being a writer. I wanted to be able to share some literary opinions and make book recommendations for other readers (which I still haven't done!). And, most importantly, I wanted a place to share my writing with the world.

Like I mentioned in that post, I don't care whether or not I become a rich or famous writer. I write because I want to share my poems and stories with others. If I were to measure the success of that over the past three months, I would have to say I've succeeded. I've had almost 800 page views in three months. That is much better than I anticipated, and a lot of that is courtesy of Yeah Write. But people are reading some of these posts, which means I've met that goal.

2. Have you always been interested in writing/sharing your life, or was it something encouraged by others?

I have been interested in writing itself since about my Sophomore year of high school. That would date around 1999 or so. My earliest poems and stories come from that time frame, and some of them are still among my favorites. For years I have dreamed of getting things published so others could read what I've written. I have made websites and a blog over the past few years where I would tease with a portion of a story, or with some of my poems that I didn't expect to submit.

I was worried about First Electronic Rights for future submissions. So I posted subpar material or general blogs with my thoughts on a certain topic. But I never really shared the ones that I loved. That ended when I started this blog. I've shared a few of my favorites so far, and have even more to come (and others that I've yet to write!)

3. And would you say that now, three months later, that your motivation for blogging has stayed the same or has it changed?

I would say that it has evolved. Originally my intent was to do nothing but post short stories and poems and occasionally throw in something blogish, like my post From Skeptical to Faithful. Today I still have some original writings, such as my Serial Novel that I started a few weeks ago, but I also have a fair mix of regular blog posts about my life or my thoughts on certain topics. I'm sure over the next nine months it will continue to evolve as I find my style and my voice as a blogger.

But I don't think I'll ever lose my desire to share my writing with everyone. I love getting feedback on poems and stories. The good and the bad. Those comments help me to continuously grow as a writer and hone my skills.

The next set of questions come from Shiftless Mommie:

1. What were your biggest concerns when you first got started?

I was concerned about several things when I first started this blog. The first concern was that I would lost interest, yet again, in an attempt to share my thoughts and writing with others. As I mentioned above, I have had several failed attempts at starting blogs and websites with a similar purpose in mind. Thankfully it only takes one exception to break the cycle, and I think that is going to happen with Scholarly Scribe.

My second concern was that no one would take notice. My blog is still small enough and new enough that I get a sense of excitement when I see any new comment, or notice that any single post is getting a fair number of views. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment that aligns with the goals that I had for this blog. As long as I continue to get some views and some comments, I believe I'll continue to have a reason to post.

My third concern was that my greatest fears would become realized. My self-confidence would take a beating. The comments I would get would all be negative and along the lines of telling me to stick to a real job and that I couldn't make it as a writer. Finding acceptance and a sense of belonging never really came easy to me growing up. For the most part I have left that sense of insecurity in the past, but it is always ready to sprout up at the (not so) perfect moment and crush my hopes.

2. What is drawing you to WordPress?

Comparitively there aren't many major differences between Blogger and Wordpress. At least that is what I have been led to believe from the bit of research I have done into the matter. Blogger is newbie-friendly and has some great features. Wordpress, from what I have read and seen so far, takes most things a little bit further in what you can do. I like the designs offered on Wordpress, and they have a free account that gives the same sort of address choice that Blogger allows.

In the end it is just those minor things that Blogger doesn't do that draws me to try it out. I think the biggest appeal is the ability to create Pages, which will make it easy for readers to access each part of my Serial Novel. I'm 98% certain I'm going to enjoy the change to Wordpress and stay there for a long time. Now I just need to get enough skill to create a passable-looking banner for the top of my blog. I've never been able to do things in Paint, much less any of the more advanced photo/image creation/modification programs.


Many thanks to the two bloggers who presented some questions. Any others that happen to pop up over the next few days will be addressed in a future blog post. Feedback is always welcome, as are any other questions you may have thought of!

The Curse of Fierabras - Part Three

Part III - The First Battle

            The blade of the saber slices through the air. Dante crouches down, shifting his momentum and leaping back to avoid the fatal blow. The soldier’s force carries his weight forward and his sword cuts into the ground. Dante runs from the man as he struggles to remove his weapon from the arena floor. With his eyesight finally adjusted, Dante is able to look around and see what he is facing.

            A dozen pillars are scattered throughout the arena, most of them broken and worn down with time. Several large pieces of pillar lie among scattered rubble and debris from the prior battles. The floor of the arena is coated with a thin layer of reddish dirt intermixed with coarse sand. A few broken weapons have been left abandoned around the arena, many coated with a layer of dust. A few spears and an axe are lodged in the wall encircling the arena.

            Half a dozen men, including the one Dante evaded, are their opponents. Each one is wearing the same gold armor on their upper torso and is wearing a pair of gold greaves on their legs. Their feet are sandaled. Each appears to carry two weapons with them: a sword being paired with shield, spear, or mace. The four prisoners are outnumbered and outmatched, just like he was told they would be. The other three aren’t faring much better, either.

            Dante turns back to check on the location of his opponent. There is a large gash in the ground where the sword became lodged, but neither man nor saber is anywhere to be seen. Dante steps around a stone pillar, determined to locate this missing soldier. A large piece of stone falls to the ground in front of him, sliding into the pillar. Dante looks over and sees the soldier reaching down to grab another stone to hurl.

            Dante notices a splintered shaft of wood on the ground a few feet away from the soldier. The man is taking aim with another stone. Dante charges forward, sidestepping the projectile as it flies through the air. The soldier picks up his sword and plants his feet, bracing himself to meet the attack. Dante slides along the ground, his fingers grasping the fragment of a wooden handle. Dust stirs in the air. The soldier swings his sword in a powerful cut, but the shaft of wood has better reach and pierces the soldier’s exposed shoulder.

            The sword drops to the ground and the soldier staggers back a step. His left arm dangles uselessly at his side. Dante gets to his feet and grabs the dropped sword. He swings wildly, cutting through the air. The wounded soldier easily dodges a few attacks. Dante rushes forward with a feint, but the soldier trips him up.

            Dante slides along the ground, his lungs filling with dust. He rolls over in time to see the soldier pull the splintered stick from his shoulder, blood oozing from the wound. Dante scrambles backward, sword still clutched in his hand. The sun gleams on the golden armor as his opponent readies the makeshift weapon for a fatal blow. He pulls the weapon back for a powerful thrust. Dante brings his arms up over his face and braces himself for the upcoming pain. Instead of being skewered, the soldier falls to the ground, his neck twisted.

            Dante looks up to see Slate standing over him, arm extended to help him up. He is covered in cuts and scrapes. His one good eye is slowly swelling shut. His breathing is ragged. The corpses of two soldiers are behind him. Hoggle is pinned to the wall of the arena by a spear through his chest. Jerek is nowhere to be seen. The remaining three guards are advancing quickly on Dante and Slate. Dante grips the saber in his hand and Slate picks up a massive stone.

            Slate times his throw perfectly, but the three soldiers scatter before it hits them. The stone shatters into a dozen smaller pieces, flying in various directions. Most bounce harmlessly off the greaves, but a few cut through skin and one lodges itself in the foot of a soldier. Dante swings his sword at the nearest soldier. It is easily deflected off a large brass shield and the soldier thrusts with a counter-strike. Dante steps aside to avoid the blow but the sword catches his side, leaving a narrow gash in its wake.

            The soldier presses the attack on Dante, slashing and striking relentlessly. Dante backpedals, struggling to keep up with each attack. His breathing becomes heavy and sweat pours down his face. The soldier sees the sign of slowing and presses with renewed vigor. Dante parries a thrust, ducks under a slash. The soldier sweeps at Dante’s feet with his shield. Dante jumps to avoid the blow. The soldier anticipates this and stabs Dante’s thigh.

            The crowd frantically cheers for the soldiers. Dante is exhausted and wounded. Slate takes the mace from one soldier and crushes his skull with it, but the other soldier takes advantage and runs Slate through the chest with his sword. Jerek is still nowhere to be seen. The other soldier picks up a discarded spear and starts toward Dante. Pain shoots through his left leg from the wound, but Dante tries to ignore it while fending off the swordsman. His reactions are getting slower and the attacks are getting closer to striking a lethal blow. Dante closes his eyes and makes a desperate thrust, praying for a miracle.


Go To: Part Two - Cellmates                                                                                Go To: Part Four - Jerek

Guys' Night

Before I begin my post for today, I'm going to make three announcements:

1. Tonight I've been busy with babysitting and homework, so I'm pushing back my third installment of my Serial Novel until Sunday night.

2. April 17 marks the three-month anniversary of this blog. It has far surpassed my expectations, so I will be making a special post on Tuesday night where I will answer some questions about me. They can be about who I am, the blog, my writing...anything, really. The only condition is that I need you to post some questions in the comments of this post and I will answer them all on Tuesday. Don't feel like asking a question? Leave a writing prompt instead and I will hit that sometime in the next week or two (time permitting).

3. I am considering making a transition from Blogger to WordPress in the near future. At some point, once I have things in a format I like over there, I will provide a link to the future site and post on both for 2-3 weeks before I make the move for good. Any tips about WordPress are welcome!

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Almost a week ago my fiancee and I decided to bring a child into our home. Her cousin has been rehabilitating from a surgery and there is no telling how soon she'll be able to take care of her three children. Prior to Saturday the extent of our help in all of this was praying for them and visiting a few times during the week. We agreed to watch her six-month old boy, Michael, for a night. It is almost a week later and he is still here.

He is such a happy, smiling boy. It is impossible not to fall in love with him almost immediately. He is a lot of fun to have around in spite of our busy (and unusual) schedules. We've found ways to juggle things adequately enough to continue our activities like normal. But I have to confess that it is tough going from no baby to having one around without much notice or time to mentally (and emotionally) prepare for the task.

A few weeks ago my fiancee signed up to attend a women's function at our church with one of her friends. That meant she would be away all evening, leaving me alone with Michael at home. It has been years since I've watched a baby for any amount of time. Being alone with him for hours tonight was, on some level, a scary thought. But I mustered enough courage to encourage her to go anyway.

So we've enjoyed guys' night tonight. We played on the floor and in his walker. We had Avatar: The Last Airbender playing in the background, which is a fitting cartoon for the guys' night. We've danced and sang and tickled. We've pet the cats (one of them finally warmed up to him enough tonight to let him pet her. She did good, even when he grabbed a handful of fur) and had raspberries blown on his tummy. He had a bath and got ready for bed. He got his nightly dose of Albuterol with the respiration machine. Many nights he screams and fights that. Not tonight.

Tonight he fell asleep during it. He was so tired that he stayed asleep when I set him down in the car seat long enough to make his bottle. He has been sleeping sound for almost two hours no. This was, by far, the easiest night for getting him to sleep.

Maybe we just played too hard and had too much fun for him to stay awake and fight his sleep. We enjoyed getting to bond tonight. I love this baby and now I can't wait for us to have some of our own filling up our house.

Maybe we should have guys' night more often. I think he'd like that. What do you think?

Entering this post in Yeah Write #53 this week. Stop by and check out all the awesome blogs. I'm sure you'll find at least one you like.

The Curse of Fierabras - Part Two

Part II - Cellmates

    Dante wakes when a bucket of cold water is splashed on his face. One of the guards spits at him and they walk out the door, locking him in. The room is dark and has a musty smell. Rough, dirty clumps of straw are scattered about on the stone floor. A single torch burns out in the corridor on the other side of the door, granting a small amount of light for him to see. His chains are gone and he rubs his wrists. Dante winces in pain as his hands pass over cuts from the metal bonds. His legs have cuts and scrapes everywhere from being dragged to this cell.
           Dante struggles to his feet, reeling back as a wave of light-headedness sweeps over him. A pair of rough, calloused hands grabs his shoulders and helps to steady him. He turns around and finds himself face to face with a giant. The tall man stares at him with his one remaining eye, frowning. Behind him are two others cowering against the wall.
           “You picked a bad day to come here,” says the giant. “It is our day to perform.”
           A frail old man begins to chuckle nervously. His long, white beard sways as the man laughs. He has two teeth left in his mouth, both yellow and rotten. He has a wild look in his eyes and he skitters forward to get a better look at Dante.
           “Hoggle thinks you’re not going to last,” the old man says.
           A short, heavy-set man looks at Dante with a hard glint in his eye. “He’ll outlast you, old man,” he says.
           “Hoggle will live,” the old man snaps. “New boy doesn’t know what is coming. He will be the first to die.”
           Dante is confused and irate at the exchange between these two. “What do you mean by perform?” he asks the giant man.
           “That coliseum above us isn’t just for appearances,” he answers. “Each week they pick a cell to fight up there, and bring the others up to watch. Today is our day to fight.”
           “Fight against whom?” Dante asks as he swats a fly.
           “Depends,” the short man answers. “Some days it is the Emperor’s Royal Guard. Sometimes mercenaries paid to fight. Sometimes wild beasts.”
           “No matter who it is, the odds are against us,” the tall man says.
           Dante turns and takes a step toward the door, looking at the ground. “In what way?”
           “Our opponents have weapons,” the short man says, “while we get a dull knife or a knotted stick if we’re lucky.”

            “Jerek is right,” the giant man says. “Few survive their first battle in the coliseum.”

            Dante sighs and turns around. “There has to be a way to get out of this.”

            “Hoggle thinks you are fool if you think of escape,” says Hoggle.

            “There is no escape,” Jerek says. “There is one chance of being released, but no one has ever managed it” The giant turns his head and glares at Jerek. “I’m telling him the truth, Slate, and you know it.”

            “No sense getting the kid’s hopes up,” Slate says.

            “What is it?” Dante asks.

            Slate looks back at Dante and shakes his head. “Anyone who wins five battles gets an audience with the Emperor. He is the only one who can release us, but he won’t.”

            “He seems like a good man,” Dante says, taking a step forward with a glint of hope in his eye.

            All three men laugh hysterically. The laughter dies down when Hoggle coughs violently, spraying a light mist of blood. Dante wants to ask them what is so funny, but the sound of footsteps approaching turns their attention to the door. Two dozen armed guards crowd the hallway outside the door as the captain turns the key. All four men are shackled without attempting to resist. Dante begins to understand why escape seems impossible.

            They are led through musty corridors, past dozens of cells holding prisoners. Everyone has the same look of despondency. They all expect to die soon, and have resigned themselves to that fate. Dante tells himself he won’t let himself fall into that same state. No one will escape if they don’t try.

            The cheers of thousands of people reach his ears as they reach the surface. Sunlight floods into the eyes of the men as they march forward. Dante brings his hands up to shield his eyes as they try to adjust. The guards fall in behind them, forming a defensive barrier to prevent escape. The chains are removed from the four men and they are shoved through a doorway.

            The cheers become a chorus of jeers when they see the prisoners step outside. The door they came through slams shut and is locked behind them. Dante tries to see the surroundings, but his vision is still blurred from the sunlight. His three companions take off in different directions, seeking weapons or shelter, while Dante is still trying to adjust. A gate across the arena opens up and the crowd cheers. Dante struggles to make out the forms coming out of the gate, his impaired vision still creating problems for him.

            Dante runs to his left, rubbing his eyes frantically to get them to adjust. He sprints past a large stone pillar in the ground. A spear flies past, inches from his face, and secures itself in the wall. Dante turns to see a large, muscular man dressed in gold armor standing five feet away from him. The man swings a giant sabre at Dante as the crowd cheers him on.

Go To: Part One - Into the Capital                                                       Go To: Part Three - The First Battle

The Princess and the Poet

Today I celebrate the birth of my better half, Nicole. Words can't do justice to how much I love her and how blessed my life has become since she became a part of it. In celebration of this great day I thought I would share the story of my proposal to her last year.

It started by me asking her parents to eat lunch with me once I purchased the ring. We ate at a sushi place in West Des Moines and I asked their permission to marry their daughter. They gave me permission, and that night I came home and we were both doing homework. The whole time I was mulling over how to propose. I knew one thing was certain:

She didn't want any sort of public proposal. She had mentioned that before in passing.

I kept coming up with all these grand, elaborate ideas like proposing after going skydiving. But the more I thought about it the more I realized I didn't want to wait any longer. I wanted to ask her that night.

And then it hit me: I should propose in a story.

And so I wrote a short story and, when she was done with her homework I asked her if she would let me read her a story and tell me what she thought about it.

And here is how it goes:

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            Once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess who was the envy of the kingdom. She had long brown hair and a smile that could melt any man’s heart. Her brown eyes sparkled brighter than any star in the sky. Her skin was smooth and fair in complexion and as soft as silk. When she sang it left men enchanted by her angelic voice. She had a great many suitors during the prime years of her youth, but she never met a prince in the four corners of the earth that could win her heart.

            One day a young poet was in the courtyard when he heard the young princess singing. It filled him with such rapture that words flowed freely from his quill onto the parchment, filling it with such perfect lines of poetry that he became convinced that he must meet the source of such a sweet melody. Every day he came back to the same courtyard, hoping to hear that sweet voice. Nearly a week passed until he once again heard the wonderful singing, and although his urge to write inspired poetry was great, he instead followed the sound of the voice until he came across its source.

            When he first laid eyes on the young princess he instantly believed that she was an angel sent from heaven, so great was her beauty to match her voice. He admired her from behind a bush, and watched as several men tried in vain to get her attention. She ignored them all and continued singing, and the poet had an idea and began to write a new poem. When the singing ceased, and the men all dispersed, he walked over toward the window where she had stood and began to recite his poem.

            The young princess had never heard words filled with such fire and emotion, so she came to the window to see what manner of prince was making these claims. When she saw the poor poet, she took an instant liking to him because he was nothing like all the boring princes she had rejected. For over a year the two continued to meet in secret, since it was forbidden for the young princess to take an interest in anyone but a prince. Yet her heart sang every time she was with the poet, and the poet’s soul was filled with such sweet verse that neither one wanted things to come to an end.

            One warm spring day the poet professed his undying love to the young princess, saying he wanted her to run away with him and live down by the sea in his hut. While she loved the poet, she could not bear to leave her family and her castle behind. She ached to do as he asked, but before she could give up her life she decided to test the poet to determine his commitment.

            The next day, when the poet came and proclaimed his love for the princess and once more asked her to run away with him, she presented her challenge to him. He had thirty days to prove to her his love and, if he could do this, she would run away with him. If he could not do this, she would have no choice but to accept he did not love her and they would never speak to each other again.

            Over the next twenty-nine days the poor poet tried everything he could think of. He wrote her songs and poems about his love for her, but that could not move the princess to be convinced of his commitment. He brought her jewels and flowers, but she was still not convinced. He begged and pleaded for her to change her mind, or to give him a hint, but she stood firm by her decision. On the final day of the test, the princess woke up feeling sick with despair, knowing that this might be the day she would have to say good bye to the poet forever. While her heart ached to consider the idea, she knew she could never leave her life behind. She put on her best dress and went to her window, and there was the poor poet waiting for her.

            He looked up into her eyes and smiled, certain he had finally figured out what he needed to do. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small box and opened it up, dropping to one knee as he spoke to her, saying:

            “You are a wonderful woman and I am so happy to be with you. I am so happy you are a part of my life and I want you to be part of my life forever. I love you so much. Would you do me the absolute honor of marrying me?”

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At this point I was on one knee with the ring in my hand as I said that last paragraph. She cried and said yes. And then we tried taking a good picture of the ring for about half an hour. It was dark and the flash wasn't cooperating. Then we watched her favorite movie: Twilight.

Ten months later we're still happily engaged and celebrating her birthday today. I love her so much and can't wait to find out where our lives will take us as we journey together. Forever.

 Happy Birthday Nicole. I love you. :)