Portal: 2

Hope you're all well and that you've had a good week.  Thought I'd continue with the story I started last week.  Any feedback would be very much appreciated. Take care.

Joe. 

Next…..

Okay. Stop.

     A thousand rifles?

     Slight exaggeration there.  I was being metaphoric, not literal.  It felt like there were a thousand rifles pointed at us.  There weren’t a thousand.  Not even a hundred.  Not even ten.

     There were nine.  Nine.  All aiming at us.

     I felt the waves of fear, anxiety.  Fight or flight.  Attack or…

     “Wait Wait WAIT WAIT WAIT waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait wait.  Don’t fire! Don’t fire! Don’t fire!”

At this point time is slowing down rapidly because every micro second becomes crystal clear because I’m thinking of any way that we can get out of this alive, and I’m running out of options.  Nine is more than a firing squad.  Even if we’re lucky and half miss, the other half still hit.  And to think that we’d escape nine bullets is…. Unrealistic/stupid/outrageous what-kind-of-story-do-you-think-this-is?  (PG rated: no sex, mild violence, some swearing)

     Is it really possible to hear the shot that kills you?  A part of me asked.  Another part of me was trying to figure it out logically: it the bullet is travelling faster than the speed of sound, then logically…

     Amazing the things that you think of when you’re facing death.

     That was followed by: what happens if the guns weren’t guns but were actually energy weapons – does the same theory still apply?

     Shutupshutupshutup!

And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw Xira, arms outstretched with a gun in each hand, aiming straight for the nine….

     (where the hell did she get those guns from?)

     “STOP! WAIT! DON’T FIRE! DON’T FIRE! Nobody has to die today!  Ohmigod what’s wrong with everybody?”

     It wasn’t a Mexican standoff.  None of us were Mexicans.  And Mexico was through another Portal.

     I was waiting.  Time was still being stretched out and then I plucked a different emotion out of the air: puzzlement.

     “Ray? Is that you?”

     I frowned.  What? No, it couldn’t be…  “Kadir?”

     “Ray, it is you! Pause “Put your guns down.  Its Ray!  It’s Ray!”

     Xira looked at me warily “You know these people?”

    

     I stepped to one side, trying to see around the group, trying to find…

     And there he was.  In the fading light, with a grin from ear to ear.  Arms outstretched.

     Kadir Marek.

     My brother.

     Which meant…

     I was home.

     2

     “You’re back?” asked Kadir.

     That emotion came through clear and bright: hope.

     “For a while.” I said.

     He seemed to think about that, but I didn’t want to think about leaving just after I had arrived.  Even though I knew that Kuresh could be anywhere and that the longer I stayed here, the farther away she might get.

     “How did you know it was me?”

     “’Nobody has to die today?’” Kadir smiled “Only you say that.  I've never heard anybody else say that.”

     Zahir started a campfire and the eleven of us sat around it.

     Whatever tension and anxiety I had felt when I’d first caught the group was gone and all I could feel was their exhaustion.  They were resting now that I was here and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

     Xira had put her guns away.  I didn’t know where she had got them from and although I was worried that she had them, the fact that she had put them away was enough for now.

     I didn’t like guns as people tended to get shot.

     She said “You brought us to your home?”

     The hostility had gone from her.  Maybe that was because she was around people who were a family to me and probably wouldn’t be happy if she attacked me again.  The cut on my arm wasn’t deep, but she had ruined a good jumper.  I was a little upset about that.

     “I don’t have any control over where I go.” I said.  “The portal follows its own pattern, or so I’m told.” I thought for a moment.  “Us?  You followed me.  And then you attacked me.”

     “I want to get home.  I thought I’d hitch a ride.”

  Xira sat on my left and Kadir on my right.  Michelle sat in front of me, bandaging my arm after cleaning the wound.  She had put a healing ointment on it which stung before binding it tight.  It wouldn't fix my jumper though.

     There was something missing, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.  My head was still buzzing from the fact that I was home and I was hurt by the thought that I would not be able to stay.

     “Just like old times?” I looked at Michelle.

     She gave me a sad smile.  “A long time Ray.”

     “Too long.” I agreed.

     “Are you back now?”  Michelle searched my face for an answer and found it straight away.

     I didn’t say anything.

     “It’s a strange day.” She said “One brother goes and another comes back.”

     That was it.  Anteya.

     “Where’s Anteya?” I looked at Kadir.

     Michelle answered.

     “Early this morning Aashen came to the village, to take… supplies.  We fought and they took Anteya and others and said that they would kill him if we followed.”

     Kadir said “I made the choice to follow.”  I heard and felt the defensiveness and defiance “Either they kill Anteya or don’t I can’t just leave them.”.

     “Who’s Anteya?” Xira asked.

     “Second Eldest.” I said automatically.

     “And you?” she asked me.

     “Eldest.”

     Kadir continued, not hearing or ignoring Xira “We followed all day.  But the light was fading, and we knew that to follow at night would not be wise.  After all, we did not have a Seer to guide us.” He paused, and the words stung. “So we were going to rest for the night.  And then we heard voices.”

     Us, I realised.

     The fire crackled and spat.  I knew that Michelle had potions that could make it burn brighter and hotter.  Maybe she was saving them.

     Kadir looked at me. “You’re here now.”  “What would be best?”

     I couldn’t tell if he was putting me in charge or not.

     “If I was in charge,” I said slowly “I would rest.” I said.  “Start fresh tomorrow.”

     In my mind’s eye I could see a bright green path.  I knew that Aashen had been this way recently, and although I knew that I could follow him, I couldn’t really see in the dark and could easily lead everyone into an ambush.

     That would not be helpful.

     As people stared into the fire, darkness fell and despite the heat from the fire I could feel the temperature drop.  Kadir, Michelle and the others fell asleep, hypnotised by the fire.

     “Reyas,” Xira spoke softly.  “Who’s Aashen?”

     “In this world,” I said quietly, as I didn’t want to wake the other “Angels and demons are real.  There is Good and Evil.”

     “And Aashen is….?”

     “Was,” I said “an Angel. A really good one.  But now he’s pretty much a demon.”

     “Why did he take your brother?”

     “Traditionally, the Eldest Protector of the village is born with Powers of Protection.  Aashen wants those powers.”

     “But your brother is Second Eldest.  Did he get those powers after you left?”

     “No.”

     “Then I don’t understand.  What would Aashen gain from taking your brother?”

     “He’s a hostage.” I said “They work in their own ways.”

     “Who works in their own ways?”

“The Powers.”

“And so Aashen took your brother…”

     “So that I would come back.”

     “But Aashen is a demon?”

     “Yes.”

     Xira thought about it.

     “Won’t he kill you?”

     “Yes.” I said “Aren’t you glad you came along?”

Copyright Joe Singh (2011)

Trying something different.

The writer, Jane Espenson has writing sprints: she writes solidly for an hour.

I wanted to try the same, but experiment with something different, something fresh.  It couldn't be something that I was working on already, because well, that's secret.

So I sat down, finished the other Important Thing that I was working on, and thought what the hell.  Lets have some fun and see where we go.

So enjoy the ride: (warning, tiny swear word - you have been warned).  I didn't have a plan, I just wrote.

                                                                                  Portal

Before…

She wasn’t here.  I had searched the whole of the place and she wasn’t here.  Xira was, though, and I knew that if the portal didn’t open soon, I would die here.

       Here.  In an undersea research facility.  Thousands of fathoms (whatever the hell they were) below sea level.

       I had missed her.  She must have been here, because this was where they sent me.  But I had missed her.

       The facility's scanners, unfortunately, had not missed me.  A security team was looking for me and when you're thousands of fathoms under the sea, there’s only a certain number of places where you can hide.  And I was running out of them.

       “Marek.”  

       The voice came from the facility's communications network.  Patched in to either my location or the whole of the facility to find me.

       Oh come on, where is it? Where is it?

       “Marek, tell me how you open it.”

       Come on, come on…

       “I’ll go easy on you…”

      

       Then I felt it, the familiar welcome vibrations in my feet, the signal that the portal was about to open up beneath my feet so that I could leave.

       Then I was thrown to the –

Now.

Cra-ack!!!

       I hit the ground, prone position, and managed to break my fall so I didn’t damage my good looks, my extremities, or worse, my legs.

       Check.

The first thing that I do when I land anywhere is check to see if I’ve got my clothes.

Of course I have.  Why wouldn't they?  Warm clothes: a heavy dark green jumper, thick, dark green shirt, dark grey trousers and CAT boots.

It doesn’t matter where I land, I’ll always have the warm clothes on first.  Because you can’t get it wrong.  Its no good landing in a snowstorm wearing a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and your flip flops.

       Because then whilst you might look cool, your survival chances are ZERO.

They let me keep my clothes.  Again that could either be a good thing or a bad one.  Your clothes say a lot about you.  The locals can either think you’re an alien or (worse) the enemy.  Either way, the stranger is always treated with suspicion and hostility.

The stuff people volunteer for.  Its better than death, they said.  Not strictly having been dead, I couldn't really argue the point.  This was my fourth portal and there was still no sign of Kuresh, and thankfully no sign of the Dark, either.

       Look.

I had landed in a forest and the temperature was dropping fast.  So I was glad that I was reasonably dressed.

       I got to my feet, thankful that I had been just bruised and nothing had been broken.  

       They said that they would keep the jumps short to increase the chances of finding Kuresh.  They would lock on to recent portal energy sources so that I might find other people.   Preferably her. 

       Darkness was falling.  This was crap.  The forest was deep and the trees were so tall that they rubbed noses with the sky.  Bottom line: I couldn’t see shit and I needed to track footprints otherwise I’d end up going in the wrong direction, and then where would I be?  Screwed.

       “Bastard.  Now get me home.”

       “Xira???”

       She stared at me.

       “Get.  Me.  Home.”  Pause  “Now.”

       I automatically started backing away as she started to advance.  Bad tactics, don’t give ground.  Even when you’re not quite sure where you are.

       “I know that you can do it Reyas.”

       I shook my head.  “I don’t have any control over…”

       She launched.  I moved, but not fast enough, I was spinning and falling and then pain seared through my arm.

       And then we were bathed in light, and it seemed to me that a thousand rifles were pointed at us.

       Xira automatically put a hand up to shield her eyes.

       “Who’s there?” she asked, but not loudly.  She was talking to me, not them.

       “Great,” I said “You’ve just alerted the locals.”

 (Copyright 2011 - All rights reserved)

a bit of free writing

Random

I'm sitting here on a Sunday evening and the house is reasonably quiet, and I'm thinking that by about now, the blog post for this week should have been written and I should just be putting the finishing touches to editing it before finally being semi-happy with it (because me the writer is never fully content with what I've written) and hitting the "Post" button with what is probably a sense of relief.  There.  Done.

Or not, actually.

I'm sitting on the floor writing away with my AlphaSmart NEO (bit of a plug there, eh Renaissance Learning????) and my thoughts and my focus, are, quite frankly, a mess.

But let's step back a little, because this is no ordinary Sunday.  Its the 11th September 2011.  The tenth anniversary of the day the world changed.

There aren't many events in a person's life which have worldwide impact.  Those days where a person can say to you "Where were you when....?" And you know exactly what they mean and you know exactly where you were.

Where I was 10 years ago isn't important.  But I feel the same overwhelming sense of sadness now that I did then.  Perhaps worse now, because the full extent of what happened is now known.  Now we know the full story.  Then we were watching it unfold before our eyes.  It was real.  It was really real.


Today I was watching some of the ceremony on TV and listening to it on the radio and I was feeling quite annoyed that the broadcasters felt the need to dip in and out of the events.  I found it insulting that the relatives almost missed out (here in the UK) on the chance for having their voices heard.  And we are therefore denied the chance to share in their memories.

At the same time, I'm clearing out a section of my room where paperwork has piled up on top of itself.  This is another painful memory because it speaks of a failure to complete a set course which had become an ambition.  And still is.

I hadn't cleared it out because it would mean confronting a past failure and I was trying to move forward, not look back.  But I recognise that part of moving forward means dealing with difficult emotions from the past.  Only then can we let difficult memories go and move forward with our lives.

Perhaps its easier to be compassionate when helping others, but easier to be self-critical when looking at our own behaviours.  I have long since learnt that for me this is a defence mechanism.  I'll be harsher with myself before others get the chance to criticise.  This is something that I'm working on changing.

Speaking of change, the next couple of weeks promise to be weeks of upheaval as I attempt to take further steps on moving forward in life and career. 

In respect of writing, I'm aware that the screen writer Jane Espenson has "writing sprints".  I was thinking about doing one for today, but didn't feel that it was appropriate.  I intend to do one for next week.

Until then, have a good week and take care of yourselves.

Joe.

.....got to get this story started!

     "Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves." - Proverb

     "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." - Lao Tzu

Every story starts somewhere. Quite where is always a matter for debate.

Take the story of my life, for example, (which a great story, to be sure - lots of sex and violence, humour, tears, passion, drama and regret - and that was just last night). Did it begin at my birth? Do you start the story when my parents met up? (Ewwwww)

Do we start the story when things begin to get interesting? Because the few years before that were quite boring really. Because then the story would go something like this:

- I've got something to confess.

- What are you confessing? Is is a crime?

- Does it have do be all drama with you people?

- Sorry. So, then, its not a crime?

- No.

- Then why confess? Why are you making such a big deal out of it?

- Well, its a big deal to me.

- Okay then, lets hear it.

- Are you sitting comfortably?

- Erm, hang on, wait a minute, hmmm, yes, now I am.

- My parents aren't my parents.

- Okay, who are they then?

- They're my CareTakers.

- Oh?

- Yes, I was dropped off as an alien baby. My mission is sent to observe and report on your tiny little planet. Every birthday I wait for my real parents to come and take me back.

A declaration like the above would surely make the reader see any backstory in a new light.  And surely, you might think that what happens next would be exciting, dramatic, fun, and the sex, yes, would be....

out of this world!  Sorry, couldn't help that one.

Accounting for the fact that this might be true (because I'm not saying one way or another - apart from the fact that I have incontrovertible proof) that would be the start of the story.

Stories are great things to begin, difficult in the middle and bloody hard at the end. Unless your narrrative position starts at the end, goes back to the beginning and the reader already knows most of what's going to happen.

When my stories start, I rarely know how they've going to end. I could take the one that began some near 40 years ago and 50,000 light years away on a planet far, far, away. Oh crap did I really write that?

One of my favourite authors, Matthew Reilly (people either love him or hate him - I'm in the former camp) says that he starts the story knowing how its going to end, and works his way backwards, ie why did that happen?

I would like to think that all writers do, But I can only do that to establish the backstory, which is really important, otherwise the story just hangs, or falls. (When I figure out how - I'll put a few examples up - but I would rather keep them separate to the blogs).

In all the stories that I've written, I've never seen the end coming. Well, that's not true. I've written two crime stories with murders in them and I've known who did it, but how the reader finds out whodidit? Well, that was up to the narrator.  Which was not me.  I was just the guy doing the typing thingy.

I've never been one for the bigger picture. I see writing as an organic process. (I said organic!) The writer is as much on the journey with the reader and the story moves pretty much like a flowing river. Until we hit a boulder, and then we might need to think about how we get past it.

At this stage of my writing career I feel like an alien young adult, (him leaving his home, making his way into the big wide world), writing the story in the way that works best for me, in the organic process (free from artificial additives).  I'm not entirely sure whether this is a failing or not. I have learnt from the danger of orally telling somebody the story that I'm writing, because then the energy and the passion for wrtiting it leaves my body. If I've already told a person what's going to happen, why bother writing it?

Its fatal and I never do it anymore.

I think that I've made parallels with writing and life before. I could tell you that I've been trying to get my day job career started, but I realised that it started about 20 years ago, and has been on a journey of its own. Whilst where I am isn't quite where I thought that I should be, it is where I am. And I'm OK with this.

Knowing where I am gives me the opportunity to look forward and make plans as to where I want to go. In writing as in life, I can't really tell you what the Bigger Picture is. I can aspire to where I want to be, but sometimes I, like my stories, don't have as much control as either me-as-a- writer, or me-as-a-person, would wish.

Like all journies, I do try to make them amusing and exciting and interesting. As much for myself as for others.

As Michael Marshall Smith wrote: Life is what you make it.

Have a great week everybody.   And please take care.

Joe.