The post Logs of Sergeant Whittaker first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post Logs of Sergeant Whittaker appeared first on The Writing Forge.

In the passing dream of opportunities missed.

As the soft bell strike

Of lives unlived

And worlds unexplored,

A pain sets in

Of loves lost and never found

Of loves found but never known.

Aches and sores seep in

that were never there.

And the mind release,

And the spirit release,

Sighs of stories never told.

The post For an Instant first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post For an Instant appeared first on The Writing Forge.

Blood seeps from auburn clouds.

A reaping in the mist.

Shrieks and cries haunt the air,

Of children in the distance.

And I alive,

shiver at the heat

and run the other way.

Hollow eyes watch the wind,

Mind runs wild.

The end is nigh.

The end is nigh.

I sigh,

And take a breath,

Before my death,

And hesitate to embrace

the flames and fanged things.

The screech is heard.

It’s agony.

Of something horrid that had waste.

A monster’s charge.

The monsters large

Come mounting after me.

As carnal pleasure,

Sings for flesh.

Their horns and thorns and covered spine,

Ring and splice and slice

inside my abdomen.

And guts fall out,

And pus falls out,

And I watch in suffering.

Demons.

Demons by my eyes,

Demons in my head.

Rotate around me,

As I fight the walls

Of my prison cell.

The post Psyche first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post Psyche appeared first on The Writing Forge.

The better question: what is a fantasy?

It is more than just an escape from the mundane, I’ll tell you that now.

It is a tunnel of longing and desire. Not just a way to see a whole new world. More even than that.

Fantasy is . . .

A tree of possibility, with branches of emotions. It is the opening of a free sky, where the eagles can go, free from chains and cages. And in the freedom, answers are found. In the land of the dragons. In the dark, answers are hidden. But first, one must shine a light on it.

A place. Where possibility meets reality. Virtue meets evil. A story of stories. A story, a testimonial, of a man’s life. Of the life of men.

Many do not survive the cold. They lose themselves to the darkness. Sometimes to death. For these men, they know not of hope, they know not the end of the darkness which is promised.

All of life can be separated into this understanding:

A separation of knowledge and ignorance. For in the latter, one is tested. And in the former is their reward. What else can a story be beside trial? But some, dare I say many, are lost to the realm of possibility. There is so much that the path becomes clouded. And they believe in the shadows. In the lies.

It is the job of the fantasy author to capture the man where he is—in the realm of the infinite shadow. Catch him there and lead him back to the path of understanding. For all the shadows are but a silhouette of reality. And writing fantasy is a game of shadows. A work of saving lives.

That’s why we write fantasy.

And why we challenge you to write it, too.

Godspeed . . .

The post Write Fantasy first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post Write Fantasy appeared first on The Writing Forge.

There was once a young boy given a gift by God. 

A tremendous gift so sure and so pure that with it came a strong spirit meant for greatness. But only he knew that. 

One early spring morning, he took in a deep breath of the clear and misty air and stared out into the forest by his house. A wind like a fire came over him, igniting his mind and imagination. He wanted to capture the beauty of the nature he witnessed. So he set to work. He sat at a desk and penciled an outline. He scribbled. Then drew. And his heart thumped with every line, thundered with every shade.

And when he finished, he smiled. Trees and rivers and birds. It was by no means perfect. But it was innocent and done well for a child of his age. 

Then and there, he fell in love with the craft. 

No more than a year later, his cousin gave him a set of brushes and a palette of paints for his birthday. His first set. One of the few grand smiles he’d ever have shined on his face and in his spirit that day. A day he would remember. 

The first painting was even more enthralling than his first drawing. The blood rushed to his head, his soul filled with joy. Happy, he thanked God for such a gift. His strokes were not yet perfect. But he knew that. And he vowed to do better.

Each time he painted thereafter was the same. His heart sang with freedom. He moved the brush, and his spirit chirped. 

On a day when the boy and his father went to church, the local priest asked, “So, what are you going to be when you grow up, young man?” 

The boy squared his fists at his hips like a hero of romance and shouted: “I am going to be a great artist!” 

“Will you, now?” The priest laughed, staring into the boy’s determined eyes. “Your child has a strong will. Better put it to good use.”

And that was when the boy’s father examined his son from the side of his glance. 

A week later, the boy’s father took his son to the customs office where he worked. He showed him what he did and attempted to demonstrate the value of such a profession. 

“Father,” said the boy. “I don’t want to do this.”

And the father clenched his heart and squinted. “You don’t see the value in my profession?”

“I never said that, father. I just want to become an artist.”

And his father frowned. “No, you will become an officer of the law! And that is final.”

“But I have a different dream! A different passion! I’m not meant to do what you do!”

“Then you will do anything else! No son of mine is going to become a loser! An artist is nothing and if you become one, you will die alone. Do you want to be homeless? Do you want to be a bum? Artists don’t make any money!”

“You’re wrong!” The boy teared up, clenched his fists, and raced out of the building. He denied his father’s words in his head. No, no, no – he is wrong! I will be a great artist! I will!

One night, when the boy should have been doing his chores, his father marched into his room. He found his son doing the unthinkable… painting. He smacked a bruise into the boy’s cheek, and yelled at him until the boy became nearly deaf. A stream of blood fell from his cheek. And he wept. 

In school, whenever the boy got his hands on a piece of paper, he would scribble and doodle and practice his craft. But the teachers would take his art, tear it up, and yell at him.

“Oh, so you think you will be a great artist, huh? You will not! Focus on your studies! Don’t have your head in the clouds!” they’d say. But the boy persisted and kept practicing. So, the teachers would demean him. “Your drawings are ugly! You have no chance to be an artist! Listen to your father!” 

The teachers would discipline him. And when his father heard about this, he would beat his son though his mother would try to protect him. 

God will help me, the boy said to himself. God will guide me. He loves me! And indeed, the more the boy prayed, the better he became. The boy had trusted in God so much that he even considered becoming a priest. But he was convinced that God had other plans for him. 

When the time came for the boy to go to high school, he begged and pleaded with his father to let him attend a classic high school, where he could learn more of the arts. But his father ignored his son’s request and sent him to a technical school of his own choosing.

Since words nor reasons nor cries had worked, the boy did poorly in his studies on purpose, in hopes that his father would let him devote himself to his dream. 

But when the young boy returned home for the summer, no one greeted him at the door. He called for his mother, and his mother stepped out of a room, waving him to enter. When he did, he found his father lying sick in bed.

“Your father is dying,” said his mother. “Go and make amends with him.”

The young boy moved next to his father. His father spoke between coughs. “You have failed another class …? You are no son of mine … you’re a failure.”

And his father passed away. The dagger of those words pressed into the young boy’s heart. A deep wave of sadness overcame him.

Not long after, the young boy did worse in school than he had ever done before. So, his mother let him quit.

The young boy grew into a young man and moved to the city where he could prove to the doubters that they were wrong. He was determined to be a great artist. He studied the art of the greats, the classics. He learned fine lines and delicate strokes. He got better with time and endured tedious efforts and patient pain to perfect his art. 

The young man grew enough courage to apply to a school where he could further develop his craft and become one of the greats. A rush of inspiration passed through him. He spent weeks perfecting every line, enduring much to make them straight and precise. On the day before he submitted his application, he knelt in the pews of a church. Before God.

He prayed, “I trust you, God. I know you won’t let me down. Help me, I beg you.”

Weeks came and went and a letter arrived at his door.

He picked up the letter with a twist in his gut and hope in his heart. He opened it, bracing himself. He scanned the words… 

…rigid…no life…consider architecture, not art… 

He blinked in shock and grieved in silence.

But the young man had a strong spirit.

He did his best to take the criticisms and try again. He entertained a less rigid style, worked to imbue his art with life, and tried many different methods to make his works good enough.

He prayed to God again, still trusting, and submitted his application a second time.

When the letter came, the words read…

…have found your drawings unsatisfactory… 

After all the pain, all the effort… his heart split open. His face twitched. His jaw trembled. And tears swelled. He fell to the ground and wept.

Terrible, terrible! He muttered to himself. I am terrible! I am no artist! 

He was not terrible. But he allowed himself to believe what others had told him. Within him, an anger festered. Father did this to me! He made me doubt myself! 

And the thoughts continued, galloping in his mind, so fast and decisive, so certain. He prayed, “God, I prayed to You! I begged You! Time and time again, kneeling before Your altar! I trusted You to help me! And yet You let this happen! You are a trickster god that let me believe I had a gift! You laughed at me while I sank into the abyss! I do not want to believe that! But either You are a cruel God that does not love me, or You do not exist at all! And it would be easier for me to believe that You do not exist.”

He looked at the Cross, which he once so trusted, and he bent it in his mind. And so, the young man’s faith left him, and he began to believe only in himself. 

He went to his friends for comfort, but they, too, were all broken by the world. Some penniless, some in debt, others struggling to find a job. Their words casted blame on others, and because of the festering wrath within his heart, he agreed with them. He wanted to help his friends and his people. To fight against the same system that forced them so low. But he was poor and had become homeless.

The young man, who had given up on his dreams, therein decided to join the military. Maybe this was the best path? Maybe it was a way to punish himself? Maybe a way to find purpose. Strength. Ultimately, he ran from the pain of childhood, of discouragement, of failure, and the worst of all – a broken dream and a broken heart.  

The young man stared off into space with burning hatred in his heart.

“Sir,” said the recruitment officer. “Please. Sign your name.”

The young man looked at the papers. Took in a deep breath. And signed his name:

…Adolf Hitler…

Hitler’s Original Artwork…

The post The Young Artist first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post The Young Artist appeared first on The Writing Forge.

She was very much alive. Living. Breathing. Bright.

The night of the wedding was when I met her. The same night she passed.

I knew only the bride. A cousin of mine. The room for the celebration was filled with friends and family that I hardly knew, most of whom I’d never met. An occasion where I accurately guessed that the majority of my time would be spent in quiet. I could do little but watch and put on a fake smile.

I was glad for the bride. Who wouldn’t be? But it was difficult to feel genuine here. With not one friend to talk to and everyone preoccupied in their own conversations. So, I sat at my table, expecting small talk, but mostly silence.

I should mention that I’m an introvert. I don’t start conversations.

But she sat next to me. The “dead” girl. See, she was rather outgoing, unlike myself. Her eyes glanced about. At me. At my food. I looked up, wondering why she was looking at my food, but then stared right back down at my chicken.

Her eyes persisted. And mine were distracted. So, too, my appetite. I coughed.

“Why are you eating your chicken like that?” she asked.

I stared down at my meal. The sides were cut first, and I was left with a thick piece of meat from the middle. “What do you mean?”

“I mean why are you cutting around it?” The way she said it wasn’t mean or judgy, more curious and fun. I glanced at the other plates on the table and saw that I might have been doing it wrong.

“Is there a right way?” I replied, lifting a brow ever so slightly.

“When you put it that way,” she smiled. “No, I don’t think there is.”

I jerked my head back. I, quite honestly, was not expecting such a response. “Well, I do it with everything I eat. My steak. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I save the middle because it’s the best part. And the outer parts are just… gross.”

“I agree.”

I nodded. “So, then, how do you eat chicken?”

“See, I like to flay mine. Remove the skin entirely.”

I squinted. “Really? I didn’t think anyone was crazier than me.”

“Alora. Nice to meet you!” She held out her hand, and I shook it.

Alora, I whispered to myself. It wasn’t until now that I got a good view of her. She was gorgeous.

Black hair curved and touched her shoulders. Straight and wound in a bun at her back. Her dress modest but brilliant, rose red and inset. The style fit. And she. A beauty to behold. Short in stature, elegant and thin. Her pale face without blemish. Even as she slumped her shoulders, she seemed to still the room with affectionate brown eyes. Confident yet serenading.

The spirit she brought, more elegant still. A bright demure. A joyful surprise. A delightful cheer hidden behind not much of a smile.

And I. I was moved by her. More so than others. Drawn to talk with her. Like a monk drawn to solitude.

“Johnathan,” I introduced myself. “So, tell me. In what other ways are you crazier than me?”

“I like to read books upside down.”

“Okay, that’s bizarre. I’m pretty sure I read books like a normal person.”

“Is there a right way to read a book?” she pressed.

“I guess not,” I smirked.

“Well, you should try it upside down sometime.”

“Wouldn’t the blood rush to your head and you’d get dizzy?”

“That’s what’s so fun about it!”

I was blatantly grinning at this point. “All right, what about this? Do you eat your brownies with hot sauce?”

“No, but now I know what I’m doing tomorrow.”

“Really? Most people shrink back from that.”

“If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m weird…”

The conversation carried. We talked about everything. From sports to Segways. Nothing was off the table. And the way she spoke, with such tact, was more than I expected from any small talk. But, then again, this wasn’t small talk. It was something deeper. Surprisingly, we had more in common than I could ever have anticipated. Same political views. Same religion. Same obsession with jazz and 80’s movies. She really was weird.

In came Chuck.

He was older than I by a little. He was supposed to be sitting at another table.

“Dancing soon,” said Chuck, leaning his arm on Alora’s chair. “You better be ready.” He sounded French. Did I mention that I hate the French?

“Yes!!!” She turned to him. “I love dancing!” She looked back at me.

“Me, too,” I said, delighted that we had yet another interest in common, yet slightly annoyed with Chuck for interrupting our conversation.

Chuck imposingly took a seat. “And who’s this?”

I was introduced. And I reluctantly shook his hand. A skeptical look on my face.

“So, Chuck, are you Alora’s brother?” My heart throbbed with hope.

“No, just someone she knows. We met in Paris.” He said it so French that I wanted to hit him.

“Well, I’ve never heard of a Frenchman named Chuck before.”

“My mother’s from Germany. Interesting story on that, might I say…”

And he told the story of how his mother traveled to America when she was young and that she was so deeply inspired by Chuck Norris that she vowed to name her firstborn boy after him. The story was actually really interesting, and I might have wanted to be friends with him if I didn’t think he was trying to steal my opportunity to court Alora.

At some point near the end of his story, he glanced over to someone waving at him from another table. “Excuse me, but I am being called.” He turned to Alora. “Remember, Alora. Dancing.”

Although the way he said his last comment was a little strange, Chuck finally moved on to another table. And I could resume my chat.

“So…” I said. But she seemed to grow cold. And I had to scratch my head. She excused herself to go to the bathroom.

A minute later, the music started, and everyone rose to the dancefloor.

After a bit of waiting, I followed the crowd.

I started dancing but realized that I was alone. So, I stopped. And stared at the crowd that twirled in circles. I looked around for Alora. But I couldn’t find her. Neither was Chuck anywhere to be seen. My feelings toward Frenchmen were solidified. Well, that is, Frenchmen named Chuck.

I gazed into a crowd of strangers. The feeling of discomfort returned to me.

But then she returned, too. From behind a glass door near a patio connected to the dancefloor. My mood immediately improved. Especially since Chuck was still nowhere to be seen.

She said nothing and held out her hand. I took it. And we danced. Swung in circles like the strangers did. I didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. And I smiled. And she smiled. And we danced until we were out of breath.

We crashed on some chairs, smiling, laughing. Not saying much. And I stared at her. And she at me. And I asked, “Say, do you have a boyfriend?” My heart stopped. Blood flushed to my cheeks.

“I don’t,” she said, but then went cold. Quiet. For a long time. I should’ve been relieved. But her whole behavior changed. Her attitude had gone from happy to sad in a matter of moments. And that’s when her expression stiffened. And she stared out as if into nothing.

I could hear the pain in her voice.

“You have to understand, I – I have certain internal complications that make it impossible for me to have a romantic relationship.”

Shock took me.

And I sat there. Not doing much.

In came Chuck again, sitting on the other side of her. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there and watched the dancing. And he clapped along. But I didn’t care to be irritated by him. I still tried to process her words.

“What kind of internal complications?” I asked.

She swallowed, “Let’s not talk about it now. Come on, let’s dance!”

And she held out her hand for both of us to go with her. But I did not take it.

After sitting and staring blankly, I got up and walked to the bar. The drink of choice: cider.

The bride stepped behind me. “Hey!” she said, joy on her face. “I haven’t seen you yet.”

I turned to give her a hug. “Congratulations!” I smiled the best I could.

“Thank you, thank you! Yes, very happy to finally be done with it. I love Mark, but we both agree. It’s horrible planning weddings,” she rolled her eyes. “So, have you been enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I’ve been talking with Alora.”

“Oh, her?” Her smile dimmed. “She truly is a lovely girl, but…” She sighed.

“I think she told me,” I said. “What’s she sick with if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Cancer. She refuses to get treatment because they haven’t given her a high chance –”

“–I’m sorry for bringing it up. You shouldn’t be speaking about this on your wedding day. I’m sorry Megan. Please. Let’s talk about something happier. How’s Mark doing…?”

When the bride left to talk with the other guests, I stared into my cup. The hot and bubbling cider that filled it. My heart, too, felt filled. Warm though my mind protested. And the haze lessened. And I realized the truth about the dying gem named Alora. What she said wasn’t fraud. It wasn’t mean nor disrespectful. It wasn’t rejection. It was simply Love. Kindness. Respect. The Truth.

She was dying when all she wanted to do was truly live. And I realized that behind her aura was a truer beauty than what she had displayed.

And Chuck must have been protecting her. Darn. Now I felt bad for disliking Chuck.

I turned back to the dance floor and marched toward her. I tapped Chuck on the shoulder, and he turned. “May I cut in?” I said.

He smiled. “Happily.”

And I took her. And we danced. But then her smile faded. And she began to cry. And she cried more. And I held her. “Don’t cry,” I said. “Don’t cry.” Tears soaked the white of my suit.

“Listen to me,” I said, holding her head closer to my chest. “One day. One day when you open your eyes, everything in the world will be right. It might not be now. But it will be one day. And someone will take your hand to dance, and you won’t hold back. It will all be all right. One day.”

She wiped her eyes, and a gentle smile whispered a thank you.

And she hugged me, and I embraced her. Tightly…

She died a few months later. I remember when Megan called to tell me. I never forgot how she sounded. How her voice fumbled with sobs and hysterical echoes. True and painful sounds. And all I could do was comfort her. 

As for me, I can say much about Alora, although I only truly knew her for that one day at the wedding.

Beauty of beauties. Her name was Alora. And when she died, I did not mourn. Because she didn’t die just once. She died a thousand times every day. In a thousand different ways. Every time she saw two lovers hold hands. Or embrace one other. Or dance. Every time she saw, every time we spoke, she died.

And now. Now her life is dancing.

The post Dancing with a Dead Girl first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post Dancing with a Dead Girl appeared first on The Writing Forge.

How I wish to witness your illuminating beauty.

How I wish to gallop across the bright and night skies with you by my side

Oh elusive moon, do you shine because I make you shine?

Why lie? I will never see your dark side if I make you shine.

Do you want to ride with me along this incandescent sky?

In my trials, I may just be chasing my own tail,

But in style, I pretend that I’m fine.

Sometimes I see you, sometimes I don’t, sometimes the clouds are too thick and no one can see you but I.

I sigh,

Will we ever meet in this melancholy sky?

Perhaps we will, Perhaps we won’t.

But still I hope, for what hope is good for,

That maybe one day we will come together and even life will be eclipsed by our love.

The post Elusive Moon first appeared on The Writing Forge.

The post Elusive Moon appeared first on The Writing Forge.