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Writing

Rapid Logging Reflection

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I’ve used the Bullet Journal system of rapid-logging for over six years (starting in December 2016). I mentioned in a recent post how I realized I’d gotten away from doing the reflection part of the system.

While I have sometimes taken the necessary time to incorporate artwork and other frills into my Bullet Journal practice, one of the big draws of the system for many is that it is rapid.

If you don’t want to, you don’t have to spend a bunch of hours and effort making a Pinterest-perfect page or Insta-worthy image on every page. The original point is to have a place to quickly ‘download’ stuff from your brain onto the page so you can take the time to review and respond later.

So I decided to add some symbols to my key – something that takes less than a second to add to the page, but gives me an easy way to get the most out of my journal when I come back to it at the end of the day.

Simple, quick, effective… as I believe the heart of the system intends such devices to be.

 

 

 

When I watched Ryder Carroll’s end of year livestream, the idea of using reflection to capture what you want more of and what you want less of really resonated with me. It was like I’d been putting a puzzle together for six years and I’d forgotten to look at the picture on the box to see what the end result should be.

I wanted a fast way to note these two aspects (“more of this,” “less of this”) and a way to see the results at a glance.

More of This

For the experiences I want to repeat or increase, I thought a plus sign in a circle like the positive end of a battery would be a great way to quickly capture those things which gave me a recharge or renewed sense of purpose. More of these please.

For example, yesterday I helped some coworkers find necessary resources or answers to their questions about how to do their job. Not surprisingly, it felt great to be useful and to help someone out. That’s a plus.

Recently I took a few minutes to sit at the piano and “vent” a little emotion through the keys. Better that than to lose my temper about something stupid, or to hold it all in and wallow in negative emotions. That was a good release, time well spent; that’s a plus.

When I take time to add a little color, I put a light green shade on these to make them stand out even more.

Less of This

For those moments when I know I’ve screwed up or repeated a personal failure or weakness I’m trying to eliminate, a simple “No” circle with a bar through it is a great rapid reminder for later. Like a street sign that says “No entry,” I want these indicators to help me redirect my emotions and actions so that I stop trying to go down the roads of life the wrong way.

For example, I had an outburst of anger the other morning as I was trying to get out the door. My bag caught on my chair and knocked down my “spill-proof” coffee cup. The cup’s lid popped off a bit, spraying hot coffee on me and all over the floor. (It literally sprayed from the floor to my face almost six feet in the air.) I had to drop everything and clean up when I was already running behind.

I didn’t handle it well, but I knew that my reaction was ridiculous, excessive, and unhelpful. When I get stressed out and angry about things, the rest of the family gets stressed out by my temper. That is NOT who I want to be.

A quick note with a “No” symbol left me room to come back in reflection to consider all the ways this was an avoidable failure.

Not only should I control my emotions and actions better, but I could have been a little more slow and deliberate with my stuff so the coffee cup didn’t get knocked down in the first place.

Why didn’t I do that? Because I was running late so I was rushing. Why was I running late? Because I took more time that morning for mindless YouTube-ing and doomscrolling on social media. Why did I do that? Because I didn’t start off the morning with my focused rituals that set the course for my day and get my head in the mindset I want to live out.

So in reflection, I was able to slap a “no” on all those sub-components that contributed to the coffee debacle. Less of all of that, please.

I sometimes color these red to make them pop off the page a little more when I look back over what I’ve been doing.

Can you spot me a 20-minutes?

I’ve been listening to Ryan Holiday and some other proponents of Stoicism lately. There’s a lot that I really like – the internal locus of control, for example. I’ve been challenged and inspired by a number of the values shared… especially by the concept of Memento Mori, a Latin phrase for “Remember your death.”

This image – stark white on deep black – makes me think of the value of our few precious moments.

The reminder is meant to call attention to the limited time we have before we die, and the unavoidable inevitability of that death. This is not meant to make everything seem meaningless or leave you wallowing in nihilism; it’s meant to help reveal just how precious each moment we have actually is.

The Stoic call in remembering your death is to stop wasting time on stuff that doesn’t matter, and to refocus your attention on what you mean to accomplish with the short, brief life we’re given. It should strip away useless, irrelevant activities.

Holiday mentioned once how often we might be guarded with our money, like “Sorry, no, I’m not giving you the ten bucks in my pocket just because you asked.” But then someone asks for or demands ten minutes of our time, for something that holds no value or interest for us, and it’s like, “Oh, well, it’s just ten minutes. No big deal.”

You can make more money, but you can’t make more time. The clock is winding down on your life and you can’t turn the hand back no matter how hard you try. Memento Mori.

I thought it might be really challenging to track my time similar to how I might note how much money I spend. To have a symbol that helps me mentally turn time into a sort of currency, treating minutes like dollars.

I wanted something like the $ symbol for dollars, or ¥ for yen, etc. I thought about a T with an extra crossbar, or something.

I went with M for minutes, and one atop the other as a reminder of Memento Mori.

In my outburst example above, I ended up making a note that I’d spent 60 minutes on useless YouTube or social-media browsing, which was a catalyst that contributed to everything else that happened that morning.

Rapid-Logging Reflection

Reflection is a process that takes SOME time, by design. That’s kind of the point.

However, these symbols are going to help me 1) do it, and 2) get more out of the time I spend doing so. This, without adding some crazy level of complexity to the symbols or techniques I use for my version of Bullet Journaling.

Do you think these would work for you? Or do you have another way you use to identify the stuff in your life that you want to increase or decrease? I’d love to hear your thoughts – let me know in a comment.

Side Note: Memento Mori? But aren’t you a Christian?

Yes, seeing as I’m a Christian who believes in Jesus as the resurrection and the life, and the giver of eternal life, it might seem inconsistent or contradictory to find meaning in “Memento Mori.”

After all, the Apostle Paul wrote about how dying didn’t bother him – in fact, it was gain, an improved state! Dying just meant he would be with Christ. (See Philippians 1:20-26)

I don’t think a number of the modern-day adherents of Stoicism would share Paul’s hope of eternity. I’ve also had atheist and materialist friends express the idea to me that recognizing we only get this one life instills a precious value into every moment.

That said, even as a Christian, I also recognize that I only get this one lifetime to do any good or make any difference in the world. I have a hope of eternity, but after I pass away, there’s no coming back to tie up loose ends, to finish the tasks or personal goals I left undone, to resolve the hurts in relationships, to redeem any of the time I spent pursuing lesser things.

Paul in the above passage recognizes that though he has no fear of death because being with Christ will be better for him, he also could still do a lot of good for the church in Philippi if he lives to be released from prison. He hopes to make the most of the time in order to make the biggest impact and best benefit for the other believers.

One of my add-on memory verses is Ephesians 5:15-17. “Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise men but as wise, making the most of your time, because the days are evil. So then, do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”

Memento Mori. You may have eternity to look forward to, but you only have this life in which to impact eternity for those around you.

Writing

Winning at Writing

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I’ve heard it said that a key factor in writing essays (and probably blog posts) is that you want to answer a question. Sometimes it’s the question the audience is asking, the search query that leads the reader to your work. Sometimes it’s a question or answer interesting enough that the reader says, “I didn’t realize I wanted to know this…  but you’ve hooked me.”

It’s also often said that you should know – and write for – your intended audience. Picture the person who comes to your site. What brought them to this post? What need do they have which you might meet? What will hold their attention?

Today, I’m struggling to follow that advice. My question is simple to ask, but difficult to answer, and entirely personal, so it may not be useful to most. My audience isn’t the hapless reader who found their way to this dreary corner of the Internet, either. Rather, the intended audience is me.

The question: Why am I not writing?

By that I mean, why am I not regularly putting in effort on the books I claim I want to write, the stories I’ve promised myself and others that I will publish? Why am I not cranking out the words that pile up into paragraphs that construct chapters that build books?

It’s not because I don’t care about writing, is it? I like writing. I like finding the “just right” word for what I mean, even if it’s often a struggle. I love it when I come up with a clever turn of phrase, even if it’s less frequent than I’d like. I care about the characters inhabiting my head, and I know the way their stories are meant to turn out, more or less, if I can ever download all my thoughts and dangling plot threads onto the blank screen.

The easy answer is I’m lazy.

I might play video games instead. In a video game, you’ve got a story handed to you – possibly even well-written – plus the power to interact with the world, and sometimes to even chart the course of events that save or destroy that world. You’ve got mechanics designed to flash and chirp when you hit milestones. You unlock new powers and abilities, or watch the progress of your experience bar as you conquer your foes and complete your tasks. All the reward centers of the brain are duped into feeling much the same as when you accomplish things in real life, but without that frustrating “work” part that comes with any goal that truly matters.

The easy answer isn’t often the true or full answer, though, is it?

Why am I lazy about writing? I can be disciplined in other areas; I can see the benefits of making lasting change and force myself to do it. Why not writing? Why not a sentence a day, little by little, “bird by bird” as Anne Lamott famously suggests? Small steps add up to big results eventually. Am I too lazy to write a sentence?

Clearly not. I’ve written a bunch of them here.

So why are the sentences about my characters and settings so much harder to put down on paper than my self-pity about struggling to write? Am I just trading one form of procrastination for another? “Oh, I know, I’ll WRITE about writing, and thus, kind of satisfy the goal.”

That’s probably more of what’s behind this than I want to admit. Thankfully, I’ll never post this.

Procrastination is usually birthed from fear or boredom, or so I’ve heard. What am I bored by? Is it that I’ve kind of already told myself the story by outlining the major plot points and character arcs, so it feels like there’s nothing new to discover? Is it that the only thing remaining is the hard work of fleshing out those outline points, and that’s not exciting?

Maybe.

No, it’s fear. At least, it’s fear more than boredom. Fear that there’s no point. Fear that what I’ll write isn’t worth the effort, because I already fear that what I’ve written isn’t up to par. Fear that there are too many flaws or holes in the plot I’ve laid down in my self-published stuff – so many that it’s going to take a ton of work to fix that before I can really move on to the next thing.

Fear that what I’m writing isn’t relatable, or that it’s so banal that it’s got nothing to say. I’m talking “The sky is blue and life is hard sometimes” level of obvious truth… if embedding some kind of truth or moral is even part of the consideration.

No one’s asking for a sermon, and if they were, I’d find them a much better preacher.

Fear that the plot “twists” are more like gentle curves. Fear that the characters are more cardboard than care-worthy. Fear that the vision in my head is far removed from the end result – one of the most basic fears of every creative. “I thought I could make it turn out better than it did.”

Fear that I already know all the answers to those fears, and that none of them are sufficient to kick me into motion.

“Well, you’ll get better by doing it.” Yes, I know, thank you.
“You only improve by putting in reps. One word after the next until it’s done.” Exactly. Simple yet profound.
“Whose standard are you holding yourself up to? You just have to do YOUR best.” That’s a relief.
“You have to love the process, because that’s where the growth happens.” Of course.
“You have to focus entirely on what you can control, which is writing the best you can.” Indeed. I agree completely. That’s the way forward.

And yet, once again, I tune out the whispers of my imaginary tenants — those whose voices were once a vivid clamor, those whose exploits were once the movies playing out in my mind whenever I closed my eyes.

If I asked them, I wonder if they would understand, or feel betrayed. Would they sigh knowingly with me and commiserate, or fold their arms across their chests and glare at me from across the dark room I’ve locked them in? One or two would get in my face about it — not surprisingly, I have no doubt which ones.

But I’m non-confrontational to a fault, even if the person I need to confront is myself.

Maybe especially then.

So I don’t ask them. And I usually don’t ask me either. It’s easier that way.

Maybe that’s the answer to the original question – the path of least resistance. The voices in my head can’t move a muscle, push a pen, or lift a finger to a keyboard… so I “win” by default. If you can call it winning.

Tomorrow there’s a Writer’s Hour at a library on one of the nearby bases. I plan to go. I’m excited about there being some kind of writer’s group, especially one I don’t have to lead or organize. I’m happy to pop in and smile at everyone, laugh with everyone, listen to the stories and the struggles, nod my head with the sage advice and whatever anyone’s willing to share because “I know how THAT feels…”

I know a bunch of us will probably have similar voices locked away inside, waiting for their turn to come to life on paper or a screen. I know I’m not alone in feeling the way I do.

I wonder if it will help. Maybe my characters wonder too. Then again, I doubt they’d read this. They probably already know the answer to the one question they’d ask.

Awesome Children, Scripture commentary, Writing

Jonversations

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“Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” – Colossians 4:6 NIV

My oldest son Jonathan has discovered the power of a good, deep conversation, and with it, his hunger for that kind of connection with the people around him who are willing to go there.

Jonathan putting on his thinking glasses.

The other day, he hit me with a question: “One to ten how much of the natural responsibility you should bear, are you bearing? And one to ten how much of the external responsibility you’ve made a decision to bear, are you bearing?”

I started trying to answer, but also to explain why I struggled to come up with an answer that felt truthful and accurate. I always assume I’m doing terrible, or at best doing only some of what I could do. I always feel like there are responsibilities that I should get to but don’t, or could get to but choose not to, and so on.

He mentioned his growing realization that not everyone is eager to have deep conversations off the cuff and sent me the following:

I asked a coworker that and he was like “I don’t know man, you ask such thought provoking questions and it’s like I’m just about done at work and ready to go home.”

It’s hard to work through some of the challenging or meaningful questions, but it’s also a valuable process I can respect. I’m always excited to hear my children explain something in a way that shows how much they care about a subject. When that veers toward responsibility and self-discipline, and when it incorporates a practical “live it out” aspect of Christian faith, that’s a huge blessing.

So with that in mind, here’s something Jonathan sent me for what he’s been thinking through. I got his permission to share it.

Thoughts on grace and truth, and their relationship to responsibility. 

What is grace?

What is truth?

What is responsibility?

How do grace and truth relate?

How does grace relate to responsibility?

How does truth relate to responsibility?

Why live in grace?

Why live in truth?

Why bear responsibility?

 

What is grace?

Grace is receiving something positive that is not deserved.  

A person manifests grace to herself when she forgives a failure she’s had. A person manifests grace to others when, in a situation allowing harshness, he chooses to be gentle. A person manifests grace to others when she overlooks a wrongdoing or mistake out of love.

What is truth?

Truth is that which is in accordance with fact and reality.

A person manifests truth to himself when he does not deny his failures. A person manifests truth to others when she says her opinion, knowing they may disagree. A person manifests truth to others when he refuses to say something he knows to be inaccurate.

What is responsibility?

Responsibility is being accountable for or having an obligation to someone or something.

A person can have a responsibility to himself to take care of his physical needs. A person can have a responsibility to others that she has taken on. A person can be soundly blamed for neglecting a responsibility within his ability.

How do grace and truth relate?

The two are not similar, and are not opposite or opposed. They do not deal with the same realms in a sense.

Grace seems to be concerned with what a person deserves and the emotions they exhibit.

Truth seems to be concerned with what is, what isn’t, and the reality we inhabit.

And yet both are essential. This can be seen in the person and words of Christ. He was full of grace and truth. He who said “your sins are forgiven.” (walk in grace) also said “go and sin no more.” (walk in truth).

Grace without truth can allow one to be naive, not dealing with reality. With no truth and only grace, one has no backbone or accountability. It is easy to then embrace deception and fantasy.

Truth without grace can allow one to be cruel, not for any virtuous reason. With no grace and only truth, one has no heart or compassion. It is easy to then embrace condescension and spite.

Grace is the the flexibility and truth is the immovability.

To be gracious to someone is to show them kindness and support and forgiveness, to give no room for genuine accusations of being unbearably harsh.

To be truthful with someone is being honest when it’s hard or awkward, to give no room for one bend reality to suit their feelings or opinions.

How does grace relate to responsibility?

One cannot bear it all. He must let up sometimes. He must lay down his burden and rest without shame or judgment.

How does truth relate to responsibility?

One must must bear as much as she can. Her contribution is necessary, and without it she is leaving herself and others hanging.

Why live with grace?

I live with grace because I am not perfect. I am unable at present to experience faultlessness, and if I expect that I can, and so should, I will instead experience the disappointment and dissatisfaction of living without the truth that I need grace.

The absence of grace manifests condemnation and depression.

Why live with truth?

I live with truth because there is nothing apart from it. Apart from truth all is falsehood. If I attempt to live in falsehood, my feet fall into nothingness below me and my heart follows.

The absence of truth manifests disorientation and nihilism.

Why bear responsibility?

I bear responsibility because someone must. If I do not accept responsibility, I push it off to the next person, and maybe they will not accept it either. If I accept my own responsibility daily, I stand between my little slice of the world and the absolute hell that it can become when obligation is neglected. If I accept as many neglected responsibilities of others as I can tolerate, I stand between their slice of the world and hell.

The absence of attended responsibility manifests hell and acceptance of it on earth.

 

I loved his thoughts, because they ring true to me about the necessary balance and interplay between two seemingly opposing qualities or forces. So much of life seems that way, where we falter if we go to the extremes, but can walk carefully and purposefully when we keep ourselves centered between the potential conflicting emotions and motivations.

Finding the proper mix of grace and truth can be a struggle in our interactions with others (and maybe ourselves also). Not trying to do so leads to even worse outcomes.

So let me pull a Jon…

What do YOU think about all this? Is it on target, or off the mark in some way? Are there other aspects or characteristics of grace, truth, and responsibility to consider? How much of your natural and external responsibility are you bearing?

Writing

Non-Stop (Sanderson: The Musical)

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A reddit user commented on my Encanto Brandon Sanderson parody, suggesting that the REAL mash-up we needed was Non-Stop from Hamilton, but about Brandon’s insane writing discipline.

Which was like, “Yeah. Obviously.”

So that happened.

If you’re in the overlap on the Venn diagram of Sanderfans and Hamilfans or whatever the groups are called, this is for you.

Please note: References to G. R. R. Martin and R. Jordan are meant with only the deepest love and respect for their legendary impacts on the genre. When I thought about the characters and what they were saying in the original song, it seemed most fitting for Martin to fill the role of Burr and Jordan that of Washington. I think Angelica and Eliza are simply fantasy readers / fans.

 (Here’s a poor GarageBand version of non-stop sanderson.)

Non-Stop

After my stories got published in stores
A-After my stories got published by Tor
I planned other series and pitched some more
I published mine and won awards

Even though I started long before his time
Brandon Sanderson began to climb
How to account for his rise to the top?
Man, the man writes non-stop

Fanbase of the Mistborn series, bear with me
Are you aware that there’s a shared hist’ry?
This is the first novel series I’ll write about this planet
With two or three to follow, I’ve planned it (non-stop)
I intend to move beyond this planet further out
Into a system of novels

Just novels, Sanderson, sit down.
Your varied series are all standalone.
Let’s just publish this.
That’s all you need to write

Oh right, One more thing—

Why do you assume all your books should tie into
All the other books you’ve written? This is new.
Why do you assume that your fans will follow through?
Soon that complex plan may be your doom

Why do you write like there’s no such thing as time?
Write day and night like there’s no such thing as time?
Every day you write, like you’ve sundered space and time
Keep on writing in between time — (non stop!)

World-building’s such an old thought that we can think
About in fantasy, and nowhere is it stronger than in magic themes
Its cost and its economy increasingly showing and
Honestly that’s more important than all the power schemes I’ve seen (non-stop!)
I drafted a law, I’ve practically perfected it
I’ve seen some weakness in the genre, I’ve corrected it
Hard magic systems need more clarity
If not, then the weak plot will leave readers feeling lost in mediocrity

Sanderson, teaching BYU creative writing
I’ll be posting all my classroom lectures on writing
Teaches the craft from drafting to selling it
Now what I’m going to teach should be worth telling it
Goes and proposes his own laws of magic use (What?)
His own laws for well thought-out magic use (What?)
Talks for twelve hours, and it’s all on a playlist
Bright young man, yo, writers should watch this!

Why do you always write with such belief?
Why do you always write with such belief?
Every story moral uplifting,
Free inspiration for your devotees

Why do you write, always so reliable? (hey!)
Why do you write, always so methodical? (hey!)
Every day you write, always reaching the next goal
Do what you do

(knock knock knock)
Hello Brandon?
Mr. Martin
Well, it’s the middle of the day
Can I come in, then?
Is this an author matter?
Yes, and it’s important to me
What do you need?

George, you’re a finer writer than me
Okay
I know they say I’m plain, my words restricted,
You’re incredible in prose
You’re verbose, descriptive,
Our fans need our very best,
You’re the solution
What’s on your chest?
A Song of Ice and Fire’s conclusion
No
Hear me out
No way!
A couple more novels, properly revised and published
Presenting the end for the public
No one will read it
I disagree
The show’s end failed!
George, that’s why we need it
The whole conclusion’s a mess
So there’ve been some tough lessons
Subverted expectations
So go back and address them
You have to start somewhere
No, no way
You’re making a mistake
Good night

Hey
What are you waiting for?
What do you stall for? (What?)
You wrote much more
What was it all for?
Do you support a strong conclusion?
Well yes
Then finish it
But what if all the readers have left?

Sir, you plotted and outlined and revised
For the rough draft of the novel you started to write
For fans who will buy all your books with pride
I don’t understand how you’re taking all this time

I’ll keep my next draft close to my chest (wait for it, wait for it, wait)
I’ll wait for the muse to show me where to go
I’m taking my time, watching the aftermath of the ending of my HBO show

I am turning to the Cosmere
I have been reading work by someone who always writes
I have found a wealth of novels that will
Keep me still reading for all my nights
He may write in layman’s prose, but heaven knows
Published on time beats “someday might”
My Brandon Sanderson
Collection’s grown in size

Look at where you are
Look at where you started
The fact that you still write is a miracle
Stormlight Archive – that would be enough
And if Reddit could steal a fraction of your time
If you can share what’s on your mind
That would be enough

Sanderson joins forces with a team of friends and family
To write a series of series, standing on their own but interconnected,
Entitled the Cosmere
The plan was to write a number of fantasy novels;
Each book would be complete on its own.
Thus far, the Cosmere spans 22 novels published over 17 years.
With pandemic weighing on his mind
And with several projects still on time
Sanderson wrote another secret four!

How do you write like you live outside of time?
How do you write like you live outside of time?
Every day you write like Investiture supplies
All the strength you need to find
All the words that you provide

How do you write like there’s never any block?
How do you write like you’re always on the clock?
How do you write like you’re never gonna stop?
Like you’re never gonna stop
Like you’re never gonna stop

They deserve the Wheel of Time
To be finished and complete
To have the ending that it needs
I’m asking you to finish it for me (one volume or three?)
I know it’s a lot to ask (one volume or three?)
To leave behind the worlds you wrote…

Sir, do you want me to write one final book or three volumes?
Three
Let’s go

Brandon Sanderson
They want to read
Brandon Sanderson
Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be a reader now
Published

They are wanting more to read
Look around, isn’t this enough?
Fans will never be satisfied (what would be enough?)
We will never be satisfied (So we theorize)
Theorize, fantasize

Fantasy has its eyes on you (Look around)
Why do you assume all your books should tie into
All the other worlds that your writing introduced (non-stop)

Why do you assume all your books should tie into (non-stop)
All the other worlds that your writing introduced (Fantasy has its eyes)
Why do you write like you live outside of time (non-stop)
Why do you write like
Fantasy has its eyes on you!

I am not givin’ away my plot! (Just RAFO)
I am not givin’ away my plot! (Just RAFO)
I am Brandon Sanderson
Sanderson, Just RAFO
And I am not givin’ away my plot!

Writing

We Don’t Talk About Brando (Encanto Rewrite)

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Brandon Sanderson recently surprised his fans with an announcement about what he’s been doing during the pandemic, along with a Kickstarter for a worthy cause…

…which quickly broke all the records and became the most funded Kickstarter of all time.

I watched his “flabbergasted” response to the news, followed by some videos discussing what this may mean for traditional publishing (as well as salty comments from writers and fans of SF/F about the situation).

And then, for some reason, YouTube recommended “We Don’t Talk About Bruno” as the next video to watch… which was exactly the spark of inspiration I needed.

So, for those few fans of both Brandon Sanderson AND Encanto who might be following my blog or who might happen upon this, here’s “We Don’t Talk About Brando”

 

We don’t talk about Brando Sando, no…
We don’t talk about Brando…. BUT!

It was the other day (just like any other day)
They were gonna livestream and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind
(No doubts, no, everything’s fine)

Brando walks in with a mischievous grin   (Update!!)
You watching this? Yeah, so am I   (I’m sorry what’s going on?)

Brandon says, “I must come clean”   (What will he tell us?)
“You all should know where I’ve been”  (I started getting nervous)
Drops four brand new books on screen
What a joyous day, take my mon-ay!

We don’t talk about Brando Sando, no…
We don’t talk about Brando….

hey! How does he complete every book idea that hits him?
Other fantasy authors love to hate or diss him
But their fans are waiting for sequels in their hand—tick tock tick
Four secret books, it’s a gift, mind-blowing,
Gotta take a look at the deals he’s showing,
Gonna kickstart, wanna see the swag he’s planned
You can understand

Seven books a year,
Projects in the stack
When he takes a “little break”
Four novels join the pack
Yeah, his output is a dream
and makes other writers scream (hey!)

We don’t talk about Brando Sando, no…
We don’t talk about Brando…

He told me Cytonic’s done, and now — proofread!
The draft of The Lost Metal – finished like he said!
He said that Evershore and Skyward Four have been put to bed…
I need Stormlight Archives Book Five playing in my head!!!

He told me that the answers I need
Would be coming, just Read And Find Out
He told me that the Cosmere would grow,
There are Shards yet to know, have no doubt
He told me that my fan the-o-ry would be mostly revealed
But mixed with another
I’ll go kickstart him now – Hey fans, we want no spoilers out of you
I’ll go kickstart him now!

Um… Brando…
Yeah, about that Brando…
I really need to kickstart Brando…
Gimme the swag boxes and books, Brando…
Everybody, go kickstart here!

We don’t talk about Brando Sando, no…
We don’t talk about Brando…

 

If you only recently got that song out of your head, I’m sorry for putting it back.

The original announcement is worth a watch, if for no other reason than to admire Brandon’s insane writing discipline.

BlogBattle, Writing

Scattered Wealth

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I’m a little (or a lot) late to the BlogBattle party, but I wanted to continue with what I started last month in The Precious Maiden. Here’s another episode of Grant & Teagan, a series about treasure-hunting adventurers aiming for the over-the-top feeling of a radio serial set in the ’30s,  with October’s theme of “scattered.”

There are many quality writers who participate regularly (and turn in their work on time). Check out their stories too!

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain — Herculean Hero, Finder of the Fantastic, and Accomplished Acquirer of Astounding Artifacts!
Accompanied as always by his hapless assistant, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

 

Taken by treacherous treasure-seekers, and possibly pursued by putrid pirates of the past, Grant and Teagan will learn that not every long-sought prize has monetary value, and not every apparent enemy is a truly a threat. But is this lesson too late in coming? Find out, in this week’s episode: “The Scattered Wealth of the Sunken Wights”

—

Once again, Grant strained against his bonds and shouted curses at their captors, but all his rage went unheeded. One of the Kaiser’s men laughed and spat in the grass, then shooed away the persistent black goat who seemed to think the ruins were his territory. The German soldier went back to scouring the moss-covered stones for any hidden secrets or remnants of the promised treasure.

The goat hopped into the trees but quickly reappeared, meandering around the site chewing on thick leaves and watching Grant from a distance.

Teagan ignored Grant’s thrashing and closed her eyes to concentrate. How had this happened?

No Krauts had been among the treasure seekers and grave robbers who pursued the pair to Saint Kitts days ago. A little mischief at the docks had prevented the competition from setting sail, even if any would have followed Grant’s admittedly ill-advised venture into the wrath of a hurricane.

So how did the Germans arrive just hours after Grant and Teagan found this site? Hauptmann Graebel, one of the Germany’s most effective — and brutal — collectors of antiquities and curiosities, had followed the clues to Saint Croix and the ruins of Vallarte’s final resting place.

The realization hit like a slap across the face. “They have a U-boat,” Teagan whispered. “You don’t have to worry about a storm when you’re deep under the waves.”

Grant paused his futile attempt and considered the declaration. “Hmm. Should’ve guessed that not having them on our trail was too good to be true.” He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and pulled against the ropes with his whole body’s weight and strength.

Judging by the changing colors in the patches of sky visible between the thick branches of the trees, the sun had almost set.

It didn’t slow the work; Graebel had torches enough to light the whole site.

“You’re wasting effort, Grant,” Teagan muttered, sitting slumped against the tree to which she was tied, her long red hair draping her face in shadows.

Her partner turned, the shame and anger plain on both his face and tongue. “Oh? And what are you doing to help us escape? Other than figuring things out after the fact.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she replied, “because I can’t do anything. We’re going to have to trust what Vallarte’s daughter promised.”

Grant scoffed – a weak, defeated laugh of a man with no options except for the word of a long-dead spirit. “She said they’re coming…” Grant stated. “That they’ll know someone is digging up whatever’s left of Vallarte’s gold, and that they’ll spare no one they find here.”

“Burning greed,” Teagan said, recalling the ghost’s words. “She said it like it held special meaning.” The verse echoed in Teagan’s mind with the spirit’s haunting tone.

Burning with greed and vile misdeeds, your death guaranteed, your judgment decreed: no rest or relief for the bloodthirsty thief.

Even with Allhallowtide and All Soul’s Day fast approaching, Teagan shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to sit in a Mass and pray for the souls of those who had passed on. Quite another to encounter a soul in person.

The spirit of Guadalupe Maria Eledora Vallarte had lingered in this place for nearly three hundred years, since the death of her father and family at the hands of his mutinous crew. She had appeared to Grant and Teagan as well, ready to pronounce the same curse she had supposedly placed upon all those who dared claim her father’s gold.

And when the Kaiser’s thugs barged in, machine guns at the ready, she spent several minutes following Graebel, uttering similar words of doom and destruction… until he produced holy water and burned her repeatedly with mere droplets sprinkled her way.

The ethereal screams seemed to linger in the air, like an invisible finger of ice stroking Teagan’s spine. If the Germans felt fear at the sights and sounds, they hid it well. Or perhaps they feared Graebel more than anything the spirit could do.

Grant sighed, dripping sweat, and sagged against the tree. He met Teagan’s gaze, and she saw the weary acceptance in his eyes. “She said a great many things, Teag. How many of them have helped us get free so far?”

Teagan tried to come up with a witty response, but no words worth saying came to mind. All they’d sought here had come to nothing. No treasure, and more questions than answers. The ghost claimed sailors from many ships had plundered the treasure over the years, and all of them had fallen prey to her curse. Charred vessels lay submerged around Saint Croix, supposedly crewed by the unliving sailors who had fallen victim to their own greed.

But how would that help her and Grant?

She turned her attention to the goat who, for the fifth time since their capture, nosed about in their scattered supplies. The Germans didn’t seem to care that the creature had made a mess of Teagan’s belongings, though at one point Teagan heard some discussion about fresh roasted meat.

Why only my gear?

The goat suddenly looked her in the eyes, and Teagan thought she saw a flash of something red in the animal’s teeth before it disappeared into the lengthening shadows among the trees.

Teagan peered into the growing darkness, but the goat was gone on whatever errand had occupied its mind.

Some soldiers celebrated as they emerged from the largest building, showing off coins that glinted gold in the torch light. Graebel gave them an encouraging nod with a hint of a smile, but his eyes held no mirth behind his spectacles. It seemed he sought more than Spanish doubloons.

Teagan grimaced as the man turned toward her and Grant. Now he grinned under his hawkish nose, his bared teeth predatory. The men wore no uniforms, but Graebel made his khaki shorts and thick shirt look like full ceremonial attire, nonetheless. He approached with a crisp gait despite the uneven ground. “You know more of this place than you have let on,” he said, his English almost devoid of any accent. “What have you learned in your brief time here?”

“Learned to remember you lot have submarines,” Teagan muttered.

“Hmph. Yes. I applaud your… ‘creativity’ in Saint Kitts, delaying your peers. Setting out into the gale was foolish, but fortune favors the bold. Had you not, we would have uncovered every secret of this wretched island before you set one foot on the sand.”

Teagan held back her surprise at what Graebel revealed. The Germans had a contact at Saint Kitts who passed on information, just like so many previous times and places on their travels where their paths had crossed. How widespread were the Kaiser’s efforts? They seemed to span the globe.

Grant looked over at the soldiers celebrating their find. “Gee,” he said, “I guess we missed a spot.” He wouldn’t reveal anything intentionally, but his bluster and bravado had landed them in plenty of trouble before.

Graebel sneered at his soldiers. “The men are easily entertained by thoughts of treasure troves. I seek something greater… something far more useful for the rise of the Third Reich than mere precious metal. Something that can free our armies from such frivolities and weakness.”

He eyed Grant, then sized up Teagan.

She raised her chin in defiance, holding his gaze despite the nauseating feeling stirring in her stomach. This one truly believed in his cause.

Graebel smiled and leaned in close. “What do you know,” he asked in a slow, too-calm tone, “of the curse of Guadalupe Vallarte?”

Teagan felt her eyes widen before she could force a nonchalant expression. “It seems like she was murdered here as a prisoner of pirates. That seems like a pretty terrible way to go.”

“Not that,” Graebel hissed. “Not her death.”

He drew closer, and she felt the heat of his breath on her cheek as he whispered, “What do you know of the strange undeath which she afflicts upon others? I have read a most interesting account of her victims—skeletal sailors now locked into single-minded purpose.”

The holy water, Teagan realized. He came prepared for a spirit. He came to find her, not gold.

Teagan cocked her head at the sight of the goat, standing in the shadows, staring at them. It wasn’t chewing, just watching with otherworldly concentration. Watching her, specifically.

Graebel stared at her with the same unsettling intensity. “You’ve seen many things over the years, have you not, Miss O’Daire? Much that might prove useful to the cause of Germany.”

One of the soldiers burst into the ruins from his post guarding the entrance, panting from sprinting and shouting a warning. “Ein fackelzug!” he cried, pointing toward the sea. Graebel hastened toward the man, who continued calling out, “Ein fackelzug im Meer!”

Teagan replayed the words in her mind. A torchlight procession in the ocean? Corpse-lights, perhaps?

She smiled and shot a glare at Graebel’s back. “Something tells me you’ll be learning more than you wanted to know about that curse.”

Gunfire erupted in the night. Grant turned toward the sound. “That’s coming from the north ridge. Do you see the strange glow in the trees?”

A second burst of machinegun fire resounded to the south, followed by screams and shouting in German. The guns in that direction went silent as suddenly as they had pierced the quiet. Between the trees at the edge of the ruins to the north, a flaming skeleton lumbered toward one of the soldiers, unfazed by the bullets shattering its bones. When it finally crumbled, another stepped over its smoldering remains and clamped an unyielding and searing hand around the throat of the German.

“They’re coming,” Teagan repeated. “Literally burning with greed.”

If Grant doubted before, he showed only resolve now. “And we don’t want to be here when they do.” He shifted around, searching for any means of escape.

The ropes holding Teagan vibrated unexpectedly, and she twisted around to see the black goat, still staring at her with its horizontal pupils as it gnawed on her bonds. “You needed a body,” Teagan realized. “Something physical to protect your incorporeal form from holy water and whatever other resources Graebel brought.”

The Germans ran toward the sounds of firefights, this time from the east, near the coastline.

Grant noted their distraction and started working the ropes back and forth on the bark of the tree. “Maybe if I can build up some friction, I can—”

He froze mid-sentence as Teagan stepped away from her tree, frayed rope dangling from her wrists. “How did you – the goat!”

The animal chewed and tugged at Grant’s restraints, quickly freeing him. Grant stared at it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll take what I can get, I guess.”

He dashed over to what remained of their gear, rummaging in Teagan’s pack. “I have a plan,” he declared. “We can leave some nasty surprises for Graebel and make sure there’s nothing left for him to find here. How much dynamite did you have hidden away in your pack?” After a few more seconds of fruitless searching, he added, “And where did you put it?”

Teagan almost answered, then remembered what she had seen in the goat’s mouth. She looked down at the creature in confusion. “Did you take all my dynamite? The red sticks?”

The goat lifted its head in response. “Well, yes,” the wavering voice of Guadalupe Vallarte said, sounding both present and distant at once. “I placed it around the camp and among the buildings where these wicked men are taking shelter. When the burning skeletons come to fight the interlopers, their flames will light the wicks.”

An explosion rocked the site to the south, belching fire and dirt into the night sky. The goat watched, its odd eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. “I like the red sticks.”

German soldiers ran to and fro, mowing down slow-moving skeletons at first, until they depleted their ammunition. Teagan surveyed the chaos and spotted Graebel. He put down a skeleton with two shots from his Luger pistol, shattering the undead creature’s femurs. Then he too scanned the mad spectacle in frustration, until his eyes found Teagan’s.

Head cocked, he stared with obvious confusion at the sight of his captives, now freed, in the company of a goat.

Another blast tore through the camp between them, seemingly engulfing the German officer.

“Lupe,” Teagan said, addressing the goat. The ghost. The ghost goat? Focus. “Do you know a safe way out of here?”

Vallarte’s voice filled the air around the goat. “I can lead you through the conflagration to your vessel. I know now that you are not like these, or the ones who came before.”

Grant stood laughing at the devastation as another stick of dynamite tore a building apart. “I know it’s a little early, but Happy Hallowe’en, Krauts!”

He patted Teagan on the back. “You definitely brought the treats,” he said with a chuckle. “And you—” Grant said, eyeing the goat. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

Poetry, Writing

Eyes Open

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In loving memory of George Williamson, 1945-2021

After my father passed away in September, I had a couple of days where it felt like I had to just chin up and keep going through life and certain responsibilities. We got the call on a Saturday morning, and it wasn’t until Tuesday night that I could finally sit down at the piano to pour out my heart a bit without feeling like I had something else to prepare for or occupy my mind.

I played for a little bit, thinking of the song I had written for my father (which I was fortunate enough to share with him in July).

As I played, I considered what it must be like to respond to that invitation to “take My hand” — what it must be like after years of declining health for my Dad to suddenly find himself in a body not merely restored or healed, but upgraded into eternal glory.

I thought of the hallucinations that terrified him at times… the weakness and shaking in his limbs from Parkinson’s disease… the withered legs of the man who used to sprint down the street racing against my brother and me…

For the faithful, to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord… and what a tremendous joy that must be.

I didn’t get to share this one with my Dad, obviously. I only got to imagine what it was like for him to open his eyes to wonders and splendor beyond our comprehension.

Maybe one day, he’ll tell me his side of the story. I can’t wait to hear how much better it was than what I pictured.

Maybe it won’t matter, because we’ll have better things to do.

Until then, Dad.

Eyes Open

You take His hand
And your grip is strong and firm again like His
Rise to your feet
And your legs feel like they’d outrun space and time
Open your eyes
To the wonders of the sights more real
Than any of this world you left behind

Awoken
To Heaven
Eyes open
True living

There’s no more pain
In a body uncorrupted by decay
No darkness remains
All the fearful visions scattered in the day
Trembling now
Only when you’re filled with wonder
At the majesty and glory on display

Awoken
To Heaven
Eyes open
True living
Arisen
In splendor
Eyes open
Forever

I can hardly imagine all the suffering you went through
I can’t understand what all the pain was like for you
But I take comfort in the thought of what it must mean
To be made complete and new
And that one day I’ll join you

Awoken…

To look upon the face
Of the One in whose image you were made

Take My Hand is the song I wrote for my father before he passed, and a “prequel” to this song.

Poetry, Writing

Take My Hand

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In loving memory of George Williamson, 1945-2021

Back in July, I received an unexpected call from my Mom. Actually, I kind of expected a call from her — we had sent her copies of her memoir that I edited and published on Amazon KDP, and when I saw her number, I assumed she’d gotten the package.

“David,” she said, “Dad’s ‘transitioning.'”

I didn’t know what that meant. (It turns out, that meant that his gradually declining health due to Parkinson’s was likely taking a sharp turn for the worse.)

I didn’t know how long he had left. (No one did. When I spoke with his primary nurse, she said it could be a week, or it could be months.)

I didn’t know what to expect or if I could even get to him in time. He had already been confined to a sick bed, needing oxygen and almost complete assistance with anything physical.  He had been suffering hallucinations. He wasn’t able to keep food down, and his skin color was changing in a bad way.

I got my ticket and worked out time off from the company, but all of the unanswered questions and unknowns occupied my mind. As I usually do in those times, I sat at the piano and started playing my feelings, expressing the jumble of confusion and concern that I couldn’t put into words.

Memories came together and stood out — interactions with my Dad that shaped the rest of my life.

I wrote this song just before flying home, and was able to share it with my Dad in person. My Mom used it as part of my Dad’s celebration of life after he passed in September.

For those who have lost someone, I hope it’s a comfort.  In Christ we grieve, but with profound hope. (1 Thess 4:13)

Rest in peace, Dad.

Take My Hand

I remember walking down the railroad tracks
The Bible says train up a child, oh how you loved to joke ‘bout that
And I’d always try to balance on the rail
But I’d stumble or I’d slip or find some other way to fail
Then I’d hear you say

Take my hand, son
You can hold on
I’ll keep you up when you can’t do it on your own
Set your eyes on the horizon
Step by step, Let’s see just how far you can go
Until it’s time to head on home

I remember when I struck out on my own
My new job would take me far from everyone I’ve loved or known
In a panic I remember calling you
Cause I didn’t want to go, I didn’t know what I should do
Then I heard you say,

Take God’s hand, son
Then just hold on
He’ll keep you up when you can’t do it on your own
Set your eyes on the horizon
In His steps You’ll see just how far you can go
Until you make a place your home

And we both’ve had our share of falls and stumbles on the way,
But the love and grace of Jesus never falters, never fades
Until the day the shadows of the valley of death dissipate
And you see His face
And you hear your Savior say

Take My hand, son
You can hold on
I’ll raise you up Into a new life of your own
Set your eyes on the horizon
Where golden streets Lead to a glory-blazing throne
My son, it’s time, come on let’s go
Well done, and welcome to your home

Note: After my father passed in September, I wrote a follow-up to this song, imagining the other side of that first experience of Heaven.

BlogBattle, Writing

The Precious Maiden

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It has been too long since I participated in BlogBattle, initiated by the wonderful Rachael Ritchey. When I used to write entries regularly, I loved the idea of writing something like an old radio serial, with intrepid 1930s adventurers and their feats of derring-do as they explored old ruins and sought answers to strange mysteries. It has been a minute — many minutes, really — since the last entry, so I wanted to get back to it.
It always gets me going down historical rabbit trails I find exciting. (Did they have denim shirts in the 30s? What storms happened in the Caribbean that year? Who ruled Spain at the time? What was that island called back then? And so on).


With that in mind, “Precious” as the inspiration, and apologies for going slightly over the word count, here is the latest episode of Grant and Teagan:

From the Adventures of Grant McSwain – Sailor of the Seven Seas, Finder of Forgotten Fortunes, and Savior of Salacious Sweethearts … accompanied as always by his hapless companion, Teagan O’Daire, the Ginger of Galway.

Last week, we left our intrepid heroes stranded on the high seas as they turned their vessel toward the full strength of a tropical storm off the coast of Saint Kitts. Will they find the lost treasure of Vallarte’s final voyage? Or will they join his ship in the murky ocean depths? Find out, in “Grant McSwain and the Perilous Prize of La Doncella Preciosa!”

Rain smacked the creaking wooden ship with the stinging fury of a hailstorm and swept a yellowed sheet of canvas across the slick deck. “Don’t lose that,” Grant cried, arm outstretched toward the tattered map flapping across the wave-washed planks. “It’s priceless!”

Holding the sloop’s wheel firm, Grant’s muscles strained underneath his wet linen shirt – once white, but stained to beige by the dirt and grime of multiple adventures around the globe. The gusts whipped his clothes, loose but rain-soaked, and he clenched his square jaw as he fought the strength of the storm.

Teagan dove through the rain as the vessel lurched again, tossed in the gale. She hit with a huff and slid across the polished wood, a sopping mess of red hair and limbs, fingers grasping for the centuries-old canvas. Her drenched khaki shorts and denim over-shirt seemed like weights on her body, and her waterlogged hiking boots felt filled with cement.

The winds shifted, buffeting the sails, and the mast groaned in protest. One of the lines securing the foresail snapped with the strain and flew like a snake on the wind, cracking like a whip. Most of the sails held, pushing the ship toward the shoreline at the horizon. As if ye could see the bloody island through all this gale.

Teagan’s fingertips felt rough fabric and pressed down against the deck, pinning the map in place. Priceless, no, but precious—in more ways than one. Vallarte’s ship, La Doncella Preciosa, the Precious Maiden, was presumed lost to the ocean’s depths. What would the last known location of the vessel’s treasure trove be worth on the antiquities market?

Someone could certainly estimate the map’s value. Many had, judging by the resistance and pursuit they faced thus far.

Before Vallarte set out on his final voyage in 1577, the famed conquistador and so-called explorer had infiltrated the royal treasury and stolen Las Esmeraldas de las Princesas –the massive twin emeralds he’d brought a few years earlier as tribute for King Phillip II to honor Princess Isabella and Princess Catherine. That was the real treasure Grant hoped to find.

No wonder so many had hounded them across the Americas and into the path of this hurricane. No Krauts this time, thankfully… but something worse, the finest treasure hunters hired by the fiercest and wealthiest collectors. The race was on—fame and fortune, as always, the reward for those willing to blaze the trail.

Grant scrabbled across the deck as the small ship shuddered, his black hair soaked and disheveled in the storm. He reached out, and Teagan lifted her free hand for assistance … but instead, he snatched up the map. “That was close,” he said, heading back to the stern.

Teagan grunted and rose to her feet, gripping the rail and glaring at Grant through a mop of red. She ran her fingers through her hair to throw it back over her shoulders, but the wind immediately whipped it in all directions at once.

“The storm is getting us there!” Grant shouted, grinning as he squinted into the distance. “This will work, as long as we stay ahead of them.”

Teagan grabbed thick rope to lash the foresail to the rigging. “This won’t work,” she shot back, “if we end up sharing the fate of the Doncella.” Whether at the bottom of the ocean, or smashed along the coast of Saint Croix, the vessel of the wealthy Vallarte did not survive its final voyage.

“We won’t,” Grant called out over the storm’s fury, his grimace belying his confidence. Then he brightened, and he grabbed the line to assist her. “Think of it this way: we’re doing both our countries a favor! Supporting the Monroe Doctrine by keeping European powers from meddling in the Americas and claiming the prize, and supporting Britain by …”

Grant shrugged. “It’ll come to me.”

Teagan scoffed at the assumption of her allegiance to the crown, then caught Grant’s reference and stared dumbfounded at him. Was he making a lucky connection trying to sound intelligent, or was he actually aware of American foreign policy?

Grant must have noticed her gaze. “I do read sometimes,” he protested.

“Spicy pulps and penny dreadfuls don’t count,” she said with a smirk as she checked the other lashings. The vessel had to reach Saint Croix intact for them to have a chance at finding the treasure, and it would be nice to have a means of escape before their competitors arrived.

Most of their pursuers were stranded on Saint Kitts waiting for the storm to pass, or for new ships to arrive. While treasure hunters might maintain a certain level of decorum in a civilized community, some of their rivals would be all too pleased to find Grant and Teagan out on the high seas or stranded on Saint Croix.

Grant clamped his hands on the wheel, steering the sloop through the storm and waves. “The way I see it,” he declared in a self-assured tone, “it’s only been twenty years or so since America paid good gold for these islands. They’ll want to ensure the European powers stay out of their affairs. Maybe we’ll finally get J. Edgar and his goons on our side for a change.”

“Better to avoid them completely,” Teagan answered, but Grant said nothing in reply, his eyes fixed on the turbulent horizon.

Another hour of constant struggle to stay afloat brought them through the worst of the storm’s wrath, and after two more hours of dreary downpour, they spotted a dark shadow of land in the distance, barely noticeable in the limited moonlight. Teagan checked the compass once again — right on course for the northeast coast of Saint Croix. Thankfully, Grant proved reliable in many ways other than the intellectual pursuits.

Once near the shallows, they raised the sails and Teagan grabbed a sounding pole to guide Grant in as close to the shore as they dared. With the sloop at anchor, a short swim brought them to land under a cloudy night sky.

The skies turned soft tones of purple, followed by vibrant patches of gold, while the pair searched up and down the coast of Saint Croix. Shivering and aching, Teagan slogged on through the sand, taking only small comfort in the misery on Grant’s face as they trekked into the morning.

Then, with the first direct sunlight on the coast, they spotted a telltale ridge behind the foliage. A single black goat stood on the slope, chewing on the plants and staring at these new visitors. “That could be the southern embankment,” Teagan offered, picturing the map’s details in her mind rather than fishing it out of her pack yet again. She studied the landscape and pointed her finger. “There’s the northern ridge that forms the enclosure, running parallel to the water.”

Grant surveyed the area with a tired sag in his shoulders. “Everything’s overgrown.”

“True,” Teagan admitted as she stepped forward, toward the treeline. “Then again, assuming some of Vallarte’s crew survived the shipwreck, how much of a three-hundred year-old makeshift shelter could we really expect to find?”

Grant took another look at the sloop, a small white speck to the south. He took a deep breath, stretched, and shrugged. “If anyone does catch up to us, maybe it’ll throw them off, make them think we’re searching down that way—ait for me!”

He crashed through the thick brush Teagan had slipped through, startling a few birds into flight and interrupting their morning songs.

Teagan followed what seemed like an overgrown path, ducking under tree limbs or holding leafy branches aside, working her way into the enclosed area the map had promised. She reached out her hands to sweep some foliage out of her way and froze. “Worked stone?”

Peeking out from vines and centuries of growth, some smoothed rocks caught the morning light. Relatively sharp lines formed unnatural ridges and walls ahead, hidden within a hollow by the thick branches of the surrounding trees. Teagan studied the stones, running her fingers along them, moving from one ridge to another.

“There are proper buildings here, Grant, with mortar and masonry.” She spun about, trying to grasp the size of the site. “Several of them—far more than any castaways could manage in secret.”

The feeling of being watched tightened on her heart like an icy grip, but she knew it was just the shock of finding an ancient community where there should only be the ruins of one or two makeshift structures. She still found herself tensing at every sound, peering into every shadow.

Grant looked over the area, his face grim. “You think someone else found this place years ago, took the treasure, built themselves something substantial?”

Teagan examined another overgrown building, its rock walls covered in moss and lengths of vine. “Possibly… or perhaps this site was never what we were led to believe.”

A chill struck Teagan’s bones even as she wandered in the warm sunlight, but she shrugged it off as the lingering effects of the night in soaked clothes coupled with the unexpected mystery before her.

Grant stepped into the nearest building, ducking his head to enter the small door. He moved with surprising grace for his size, and waved a long thin reed in front of him to look for traps.

Teagan took a ginger step into a half-collapsed structure, looking for clues while searching her mind for an explanation. Could my source have betrayed us? Or could he have been deceived? He wouldn’t have sold us a map to a site already explored by a previous client, for fear of damage to his reputation.

Nothing stood out in the first three buildings Teagan checked, and if Grant found anything noteworthy, he didn’t call for her.

The fourth structure Teagan approached looked squat and sturdy compared to the others, with rusted metal bars in the two narrow windows. The door had rotted away, but the thick walls and slight elevation on which the building stood seemed to protect the interior from centuries of storms.

More than the others, at least, but not entirely. Teagan noted the rust stains and pitted metal bars that fashioned holding cells. A few skeletons lay slumped against the walls, their wrists still held by leather cuffs affixed to what was left of their chains. Two of the remains included tattered and faded fabric in the style and shape of fifteenth century women’s clothing. The others seemed like young boys of varied heights.

“Grant?” Teagan called, then turned and yelled out for him.

Stones rattled and scraped inside the structure… or were those bones?

Father … have you finally come with the ransom?

A shadowy haze coalesced inside one of the cells, like a storm cloud taking shape, with green forks of lightning crackling through the smoky form. Teagan shook at the feminine voice echoing in her mind as well as the strange sight, and backed toward the open doorway. Her left hand shot to the medallion of Saint Nicholas around her neck.

The growing apparition seemed to regard Teagan with eyes alight like emeralds held in the depths of its darkness. Or … it hissed, does another interloper seek the prize?

Teagan bumped into Grant and gasped. He stood in the doorway, hunched down to peer into the ancient prison ruins. The goat from the slope stood beside him now, still chewing. “I was going to tell you I found something interesting,” he muttered, “but of course you’d have the more exciting discovery.”

“I’d be happy to trade places,” Teagan whispered.

The ghostly image turned its glowing verdant eyes upon the pair, and waves of judgment and wrath coursed through Teagan’s mind. A haunting voice rang out, sonorous like a bell, and the figure raised a finger to point at Grant. “I am la doncella preciosa that Vallarte sought… his daughter. Take what remains of his treasure, scoundrels … and join his mutinous crew in eternal unrest.”

Tune in next time for the epic continuation: “Grant McSwain versus the Cantankerous Crew of Corpse-light Corsairs!”

Also, you can read the other BlogBattler entries here.

Poetry, Writing

House of Mirrors

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Everywhere I turn I see eyes looking back at me
Everything I learned wasn’t enough to keep me free
Now I’m getting what I’ve earned in betting on duplicity
Spreading wide the curtains on what I don’t want to see

Step into the house of mirrors
Unsteady in this atmosphere
I’m standing up to all my fears
They said that I’m not welcome here

But I built every corner of this place
I felt every contorted face
I made every distorted shape
Never dealt with this unsorted rage

Now it spills out each time I engage
With the ways that I’m flawed
My reflections all looking odd
My reactions never what they ought to be

I keep doing this, I can’t stop hurting me
And this pain is affecting my family
Repetition, re-action, the same old scene,
Mental playlist is shuffled and on repeat
Bloody tracks leading right back to my own feet
I’m attacking the past and the memories
But the mirrors are all cackling at me

I stumble through the endless maze
Troubled by each restless gaze
Crumbling inside, quivering,
My pain doubled in the eyes
Of each shimmering face

The voices will not go away
The whispers all hiss, never fade
The slideshow is set on replay
With every regret on display
This is where I stay
This is my every day
There are no words to say,
Only hurts that still remain,

Wounds I caused, I can’t explain
What I’ve done to cause you pain
Every image glaring at me with the same
Expression, staring with disdain

Everywhere I turn I see eyes looking back at me
Everything I learned wasn’t enough to keep me free
Now I’m getting what I’ve earned in betting on duplicity
Spreading wide the curtains on what I don’t want to see

I feel cold metal in my hand
And wrap my fingers around
A bat, a crowbar
Anything to beat this down
And in my head I start to swinging
At each reflection that I’m seeing

Break the glass, it’s an emergency
I shattered all of my history
Scattered all I had that meant something
And yet the past is catching up with me
Madder at myself than I should be
Or so they say in therapy
But I think that they ain’t hearin’ me

The hate isn’t a mystery
Because it’s always here in me
Wanna see?
What face am I supposed to be?
Calling all these “me-rears”
‘Cause they’re looking back at me

What version of myself
Should I take down off the shelf
Dust it off, put it on like a mask
Trust is lost, and I can’t get it back

What it costs is too much, I can’t ask it
I been caustic like rust, nothing lasting
Long enough, I’m corrosive like acid
Going off like explosives, bombastic
And I ran right through all of my chances
All these visions of me look askance
In this prison of mirrors and answers
To the questions around which I dance

In every piece of glass I see eyes looking back at me
With every swing I shatter who I thought that I could be
Now I’m getting to the matter of the hurt I buried deep
And I’m flicking on the lighter pouring out the gasoline

I stepped into the house of mirrors
So sick and tired of seeing unclear
I set a fire to all my fears
And threw out all my souvenirs

My heel falls upon the broken shards
And what remains of who we are
I feel all we will remember
Is lost to lie in dust and embers