This is for ones who stood their ground?
Yay Bon Jovi.
Tons of stuff have happened to me lately. I’ve put my Robert’s Rebellion Romhack on hold in favor of writing Knight.
Nobody who might or might not be reading this knows what that is! That’s funny.
I was on Fordham’s facebook app for admitted students and stuff. And I was looking down the “Biological Science” wall. And I realized. Those 118 people. They’ll both be my best of friends and my worst of competition as we shoot together for the 4.0. As we shoot for med school.
It’s funny. I never thought I’d ever want to be a doctor, but honestly what changed my mind was when I realized that I was reading a book on how to treat Hep B in my uncle’s clinic.
Now, I just need to know what an immunomodulator does.
Heh. Who would have thought.
So maybe I’m my other persona at the moment - the guy who wavers and wavers and lets go too easily, but at the same time, I’m not!
I’m still writing. I don’t think I’ll stop - it’s been a year and maybe a bit more since I’ve begun to write.
12 months ago from today, I was writing The Immortal Eyes, a story of how Harry Potter gets the Rinnegan and goes on a killing spree in Naruto and OnePiece land.
Today, I’ve read enough of my own work (maybe… 500 thousand words. heh.) by this point to know where my strengths and weaknesses of narratives are to craft a fantasy world that will hopefully be down in the books with the likes of LOTR and ASoIaF. Hey. A man can dream, if nothing else (though I’m sure Sartre would disagree - lol, existentialism class).
Some of the most amazing things can come from a terrible lie. Every word I write in Knight is fiction, a lie, deep and heavy or light and weak.
Here’s a short snippet for you, I guess:
There was a short scream and the sound of a smashed bottle, snapping Ava out of her thoughts.
She placed the newest bottle between her fingers into the shelf with passing gentleness and let her feet guide her to the door slowly. As she moved closer, to the exit, there was an overbearing stench of iron. A wave of nausea ran through her, pushing her against the wall with an awkward, but silent, thump. She took another deep breath despite the smell to calm herself, but only succeeded in giving herself a spiraling headache.
Her watch ticked, bringing a sense of normality and calm back to her thoughts. She steeled herself and put her finger on the doorknob as there was the unmistakable tinkling of the bell attached to the door and a quiet grunt. Someone had probably left - fights weren’t very common in her mother’s bar but they did happen.
The doorknob glinted. Another wave of nausea hit her and she realized that it was entirely silent. She glared at the doorknob, in a type of anger born of confusion. It was never silent in the bar. She checked her watch again. Two hours from closing.
Ava shut her eyes and put her hand on the doorknob, slowly turning it, pulling it inwards. She stared at the barroom and screamed.
Lit in silver relief was Old Caleb was sprawled over his table, clutching a charred and mostly filled glass. The bottle she had left with him lay on the floor, completely smashed. A deep gash ran through his clothing, which was painted red with his lifeblood.
The mage who she had served, who had asked her questions about her talent, lay spread eagle on the ground, clutching a dagger, a long, deep, cut in the back of his neck.
She looked from patron to patron, each of them with heavy crimson lines running through them. Her eyes finally settled on her mother, who leaning over the bar, a caricature of the job she had devoted her life to for years and years.
