You Came Home Today

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)

You came Home today
wrapped in soft white satin
I didn't know what to say to you
Words couldn't describe you.

You came Home today
tears flowing from your glossy eyes,
red falling from your soft skin
as I cradle you in my arms

You came Home today
with plenty of stories to tell
of boys, of life, of friends, of strife
I listen, smiling, praying 

You came Home today
a purple paper in your hand
Already they are planning your future?
When will they realize? . . .

You came Home today
ecstatic and truly alive
you've made it so far, my child
and I'm glad to have been here for it 

You came Home today . . .
wrapped in wood and finery
they carried you into eternity
on the wings of fallen angels

You came Home today
Or rather, I came Home
I've come to live beside you now
among the afterlife . . .

I Sleep in Every Class

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)

Bursting with reckless abandon
I am a creature of the night
But come the time of day
When school demands attention . . .

I sleep in every class.

The teachers are all rising
My eyes are slowly drooping
The clock rings seven forty-five
I'm down and out, lost in the sands 

I'm jolted every forty-five
My mind still half-way trapped inside
Drifting through the halls, I wander
Hoping I'll find my bed in time 

Visions break through reality
Fall into half-sentient sight
I can't remember anything
Past, present, or the president

Through blurry sight, red numbers shine
Two thirty-three, two minutes left
Until I rise up for the night
Ready to rule my little world

Alarm bells ring, and teens chatter
Sight going weary . . .
Limbs growing cold . . . 
I collapse on the tiled floor 

Only to find it soft and warm
I find myself within it
Then my mind screams out to me
"It was but all a dream." I sigh.

My clock reads three in the morning
I lie in bed, awake and alive
Perhaps a being of the night
Would have been born without any dreams . . .

To keep him firmly trapped in sleep
Yet make his mind run wild, alive.

Flat-lines and Fireflies

Every idea has run out of steam.

Every single snippet of literary wonder that I willed into existence is now stagnant and dull.

Every last word I have written down has slowly been losing my interest.

And yet, I still call myself a writer.

I guess I can't really call myself a writer, after all. It is said that the best writers are the best readers. If that is true, than I am no writer, by any stretch of the word. Seldom does a book catch my attention and hold me firm in it's grasp.

Then, if I'm not a writer, than I propose that I am story-teller. Ideas constantly flit back and forth like fireflies in the verdant garden of my mind, taunting my imagination and coaxing me into catching them and showing off their glow for all to see. A few have been caught, and they shone brightly for a short while. Then, just as quickly as they were caught, they were released back into the garden, where they would rest and recuperate until they were ready to be captured again.

Right now, the glass jar is empty. But I still cradle it gently in my arms, waiting for the next lone firefly to wander across my sight. As I wander within the dark forest of my mind, my eyes, my ears, my soul, they all keep vigilant watch for the one spark of light amongst the darkness. 

To Write a Compelling Character Background. . .

Just a little something I've been working on. A new character concept, set in the land of Tamriel of Elder Scrolls fame. Any feedback would be appreciated! Thanks!

Sythril Valynor Everex, a pure-blood Altmer, or high elf, was born into a life of comfort and ease in a small village on Summerset Isle in the Fourth Era, Year 22. Growing up secluded from the political turmoil that was generated by the Thalmor, his childhood years were bearable and enjoyable, despite the untimely death of his father. His father and his namesake, Valyn Everex, had fought in the Oblivion Crisis, and he was part of the army that launched the final attack on the Great Gate that opened in the shadow of the city of Bruma. He was later honored as the 7^th Champion of Cyrodiil and the Archmage of the Imperial City Mage’s Guild. Tragically, he was murdered shortly afterwards by Imperial extremists. The murderers were never brought to justice. His father being a strong and wise man, Sythril took after his example, and always honored his promises, even those that would inhibit him. He also exhibited a natural affinity for magic, as his father had, and even though most Altmer tended to, his mother took notice of his special ability. When he reached his adult years, the age of 110, he was conscripted into the Aldmeri Dominion to serve as a mage-servant, and he left his hometown for the first time in his life. Excited and wide-eyed, he pursued this chance with his entire mind.  

He worked endless on his studies and the elder mages observed as he rose to the top of his class. Though he found little time for socializing, he was satisfied in the magical knowledge that he had obtained. Because of his rigorous attention to his studies, the mage council of the Thalmor gave him the honor of serving the head magi, Aeron Everstar, in the army. He would work alongside him in his studies and he would witness the coming war with the Imperial armies. Though he was hesitant to the idea of fighting in a war, he gladly accepted the offer.  

                Working with a head mage couldn’t have been more satisfactory. He received first-hand advice on spells and potion-making, and Aeron taught him the powerful magic of Conjuration. Sythril even managed to teach himself the fineries of archery in what free-time he cultivated. Having down time meant the world to Sythril, and he relished the time spent without worry.

                On 4E 171, Sythril and his master received word that the Aldmeri Dominion planned to attack the Imperial armies of Cyrodiil. Sythril immediately became tense and worried about how the coming battles would go. Calm and reserved, his master helped to satiate Sythril’s nerves, and he managed to turn Sythril into a calm force of magical prowess. Master Aeron, he soon learned, was not necessarily a head mage. The head mages led the units that laid siege upon the cities with magical fire and fierce storms. His master, however, worked as a search and destroy unit. Aeron was highly skilled in illusion magic, and could render himself invisible with relative ease. Using his powerful magic, they were to silently proceed into the heart of Cyrodiil and after eliminating some key figures in the Imperial military, meet up with the army that would arrive soon after. However, their plans didn’t’ go off without a small hitch. Sythril and Aeron were moving through the thick Blackwood Jungle under the protection of their invisibility veil, making their way towards the highlands east of the Imperial city. However, they were ambushed by a group of Khajiit renegades, wielding fierce hand axes and swords. Despite the veil, they were able to pinpoint Sythril and his master through the unnerving sense of smell. Fortunately for Sythril and his master, they were oblivious to the destructive force of magic. They continued down their desired path ten minutes later, with the smoke from burning fur rising high into the darkening sky.

                When they reached the city in the year 173, Sythril and Aeron managed to secure a safe haven, and while his master was away on his assassination missions, Sythril perused the town, curious to see why the Thalmor hated these people so much. The normal, high-and-mighty attitude of his brethren didn’t make sense to him. A part of him felt sorry about what would soon befall the city. Part of him wished he could stop the oncoming attacks. But he knew his attempts would quickly be rendered useless.

                In the year 174, the battle for the Imperial city began, and Sythril understood why he had felt the way he did, and why he suspected that the Aldmeri Dominion had a hidden agenda with this war. He watched helplessly as vicious fire rained down across the city, burning down the mortar and stone houses. He heard screams for mercy erupt into the sky as many were burned alive in the cascading buildings. He even watched as the Thalmor relentless murdered other Altmer, who lived in seclusion in the Elven Gardens district of the Imperial city. Disgusted with the blatant cruelty of the Aldmeri Army, he fled the Imperial City, seeking refuge in the Nordic mountain city of Bruma. The rugged mountain city had been one of the few cities to remain untouched by the Thalmor’s initial onslaught. They were not, however, without caution, as Sythril noticed plenty of guards posted along the parapets. Outside the gates, he noticed a roughly hewn statue covered in a permanent layer of permafrost. Parts of the statue littered the ground, and the image of a once great hero stood dejected and ignored. As he brushed away the snow that was covering the name plate, he reeled. The name plate read: Valyn Everex. While he couldn’t recognize the statue as his father, he felt a sudden rush of pride well up inside of him. Shedding a few tears, he proceeded into the city with elation cultivating in the pit of his stomach.

Immediately, he was detained by the gate guards, and taken to see Countess Narina Carvain. In a “private” audience accompanied by eight Bruma guards, he explained his predicament and why he was seeking shelter in Bruma. The countess considered giving him back to the Thalmor, fearing for the safety of her own people. However, she saw reason in his pleas. Even without acknowledging the resemblance between Sythril and his father, the countess saw something within Sythril, and she consequently gifted him with a small house along the city wall. He couldn’t have been more grateful, and the act embedded itself forever in his mind, reminding him of the kindness of the Nords. He strived to do the same, to eliminate the austere stereotype of the Altmer. He became an initiate of the Bruma Mage’s Guild and practiced archery daily at the shooting range of the Fighter’s Guild.

During his twenty-seven short years in Bruma, he became the victim of numerous harassment efforts. Many times, he would return home after a day of study in the mage’s guild to find his home ransacked and torn apart. While he reported this to the countess, she said that there was nothing she could do, for he had no proof as to who had committed the acts. Understanding, but still saddened, he returned home, and picked up the mess, time and time again.

However, even Sythril couldn’t hide from his past for long. He awoke in the middle of the night to find Thalmor agents burning down his front door. Desperate, he clambered through the second-story window and lowered himself down to the ground with a feather fall spell. But the agents were not without intelligence. They quickly appeared around the corner of the alleyway. Panicked, he dashed through the city; narrowly dodging the fire spells the Thalmor agents were haphazardly launching at him. Did she give me away? What about the civilians? I have to get out of here! He managed to confuse the agents slightly by slipping in and out of the alleyways with unnatural speed, even for an elf. He briefly thanked his old master for teaching him the spell that increased his movement for a short while. Soon after, he made his way through the main gate of the city, and he scanned the horizon for options. Down the road to the south, he saw more Thalmor agents making their way towards the city. He immediately glanced towards the city. He felt a twinge of guilt tugging at his gut, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade him from escaping his pursuers. Using a minor message sending spell, he sent his last goodbyes to the countess, and he sprinted as fast as his legs could carry him towards the mountains to the north. His pursuers were equally fast, however, and he barely dodged every spell they sent flying his way. Soon, snow began to blind their vision, and their spells faltered in the blistering cold. But still they pursued, resorting to ice spells, which would be amplified in the cold environment.

In a stroke of luck, Sythril found a chance for escape. He saw a pack of white wolves descend from the left side of the mountain pass. Ready to give up, Sythril began muttering his last wishes. However, the wolves launched themselves headlong towards his pursuers, ignoring Sythril completely. At first, Sythril thought, why aren’t they going for me? But his question was answered for him. He looked at his own clothing, which had been covered from head to toe in heavy snow. The Thalmor agents, who had been using fire spells moments earlier, were still uncovered by snow, and their black robes were much easier to distinguish against the white background. Hampered and slowed, the agents cursed wildly at Sythril, vowing that the Thalmor would catch him, no matter what the cost.

Seizing the opportunity, Sythril pushed himself through the pass, and he descended into the Nordic land of Skyrim. Nevertheless, his luck wouldn’t last for long. Tired and cold, he didn’t notice the Imperial guards waiting patiently along the pass. In the blink of an eye, his hands were bound, and his clothes were stripped and replaced with worn rags. They loaded him into a carriage along with three other people, a Nord in blue and silver armor being an unknown insignia, a well-dressed Nordic man with his mouth gagged, and an anxious, fidgety Nord who kept repeatedly proclaiming that he wasn’t a criminal. And so, Sythril, at the age of 179, began his life in Skyrim… 

And Finally, The End. (Or is it?)

So I went to Google, hoping to find some really thought-provoking images questioning the end of mankind and all things in general.

Instead, I found a plethora of photos depicting everything from Smallville, The Simpsons, various anime pictures, the Green Lantern, and Adolf Hitler.

What all these photos have to do with the phrase " is this the end?" I have no clue. Seriously, none whatsoever.

Anyway, my rambling musings aside, I've found this reading experiment to be enjoyable, and have opened me up (at least slightly) to the world of reading. I try to read anywhere I can, and almost always have some amalgamation of paper resembling a book with me. Now, when it comes to actually reading...

I'll level with you. It is extremely hard. Mind-bogglingly hard. I don't get lost in books like some other people. Even if I really enjoy the story and the writing style, I find myself taking weeks upon weeks to finish a book that other people knocked out in two days time.

And you know what? I don't see any problem with that. Just how everybody has their own style of writing, everybody has their own style of reading. Some can devour a book a day, while others have to digest and chew on the pages like there are slowly eating a piece of prize steak at a five star restaurant. I don't, however, chew on my pages. That's just gross. And rude. Am I blabbing too much? *sigh* Me and my ramblings...

Inspiration Starters

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Those words couldn't ring more true.

So, I've decided to peruse the "fantasy" images of Google and other websites to see if I could find any inspiration.


They also say that you can't wait for inspiration, you have to search far and wide for it.


If you get any ideas from these pictures, feel free to let me know. I'll write whatever ideas I get...

 A fading sunset, a withering tree, a depressed and seemingly passive female protagonist in a worn, satin wedding dress, which flows around her and envelops her like the current from a soft and kindly river.

She's waiting for someone. She doesn't know whom. She's locked herself away, in hopes that someone will come for her.

They never come. When she is suddenly released, she doesn't know what to feel, how to think, how to act. It's as if she has been born again...

Cursed with innate magical abilities, chastised by her mother and father, betrayed by her own brother, and sentenced to a life of exile.

She wishes nothing more than to bring her family to justice, and drag them down with her. She is ruthless, demanding, and merciless to anyone who tries to prevent her from achieving her goals.

But her plans for revenge take a drastic turn. She learns of a deadly curse that has fallen across the region, and to make matters worse, she learns that her family is supposedly behind it. She also discovers that she isn't the only one in her family with magical abilities, and that she may be in more danger than she had initially thought...



(Many more to come...)

Simultaneous Contradictions

Quite the inspirational picture...

It's too late to change my mind now. I'm already too far ahead in my Nano novel to change stories now.

But I'm starting to doubt myself once again.

Not because I don't like the story I'm writing now, but because I don't feel like my heart is in it. In all honesty, I haven't reached the one story that makes me go, "That is the one."

Or, if I have, I haven't acknowledged it yet.

Whatever the case, I'm torn. Torn between my roots in fantasy and heroic quests and magical swords and whatever else may tickle my fancy, and my urge to create a compelling and unique psychological novel that can reach the level of Donnie Darko (hopefully without the cult-like side effects).

I write my fantasy ideas, but I worry about cliches typical to fantasy-based novels. I write my psychological idea, but I worry about whether it's too confusing or not getting the point across. Eventually, I find myself wondering (I do that quite often) if I'm even fit to be a true writer at all.

I have ideas for both, and both chill me to the bone when I think about them, and where I want to to take the stories as they develop. But in order to develop ideas, you have to write them. A contradiction, one might say. And a mighty fine big one, at that.

"Break away from everybody. Break away from everything. If you can't stand the way this place is, take yourself to higher places." - My motto for this month (brownie points if you understand the reference).

The City of Gears

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)

Alive, but dying
Free, but shackled
United, but torn
unreal reality

The black ash billowed towards the sky
The gears and pistons pounding
They wander the city roads, mindless
unaware of all around them

The heart, three large and strong
the lynch pin of our world
should it fail, and cease to beat
we all shall fall, we all shall die

We fight to keep it turning
and thus, we have survived
We've lost ourselves, we've lost our minds
We've even lost the heavens

But as it turns, nobody knows
we go about our lives
unaware of what we've lost
unaware of all the costs

We see the heart, we call it good
it turns to keep us breathing
its' patterns blind us, keep us hidden
from the truth behind the facade

The gears, they turn, three large, three strong
dictating our lives right in front of our eyes

Sleep Eludes Me

Finally found a picture, and it doesn't even

 make sense...

 

Yes, I know what you are thinking right now. Self-proclaimed Psychic, Ph.D.

"Ty! Why are you up so late?!"

Well, let's rundown a list, shall we?

1. Blood Drive tomorrow? No
2. Test tomorrow? Not a major one
3. Stressful day? Not really
4. Feeling sick? Was Tuesday, am not now

Yeah, I that's all the reasons I could think off.

But no, in all seriousness, I've been up really, really, really late writing my story. I am taking part in the annual event known globally as NaNoWriMo (for those of you who are less geeky, that stands for National Novel Writing Month). It is simply a program that challenges you to write 50,000 words over the course of a month. Now, most people would look at that and think, "OMGeezus! That is impossible!" And to some respects, it is. In fact, from personal experience, I will say that it is pretty dang hard. But no, not impossible.

For the last two times I've attempted this, I've failed. Miserably. A veritable, boiling soup pot of terrible.

But not this time. I may not reach 50,000. But I will sure try. So goes the Girl Scout motto my sisters so frequently used to quote, "On my honor, I will try." Compared to the Boy Scouts, whose motto stands, "On my Honor, I will. . . "

But that debate is another topic in its entirety. Ask me about it, and you'll get about a two minute rant. It's loads of fun. Trust me. *winky face*

PDA (Practice Diction Analysis. . . What did you think I was talking about?)

The harsh and blunt language, along with a hint of rebellion, helps to convey the dismal attitude that the narrator of Catcher in the Rye holds against society, and by extension, the entire world. Not a particularly personable or talkative soul, the narrator simply states up front that he doesn't, "feel like going into it." Furthermore, the narrator's crude and denotative language emphasizes the narrator's persona as a teenager, and serves to immerse the reader in the character of the narrator. Overall, the narrator's distinct voice, which creates an equally unique tone that is rude yet realistic, sets the novel apart from other novels of its time.

The Rage

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)

slowly washing over me
filling me with hatred
for what, I can not say
For I don't truly know

My mind, torn asunder
ripped between personas
voices lapsing into silence,
as the darkness settles in. . .

It urges me forward, quietly
directing my life from shadows
without, I am shattered, lost
but with it, my soul is trapped. . .

Midnight Rain

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)


Shuffling out of bed to stare
into the gaping maw of night
Provoked, it sends a flash
across the window pane
and roars in great defiance of all

then. . .

a change of direction, of fate. . .

Soothing to the ear, it calms
and settles softly
across the canvas of the earth
lulling its humble subjects into sleep
What a noble saint, the storms!

The power to tear apart lives
and power to bring lives together
All packed tightly among the droplets

but. . .

The stirring winds, malevolent in nature,
end up pulling the strings

This Week in Reading #9

Like a Splinter in your Mind by Matt Lawrence
Fear and Trembling by Soren Kierkegaard

This Week: 145 pages
Last Week: 175 pages
Total: 1,641 pages

Favorite Maps of Style (In no particular order):

1. Less Than Three

2. Look Up... (Now!)

3. InsideOut

The Melee Within. . .

Despite what an earlier post declared, I am once again at odds with myself. . . Oh, it's nothing life-threatening. Just still trying to figure out which one of my ideas will be "the one". Ask any writer, and they'll say when they knew that their big idea was the idea that would put them on the literary map.

Just waiting for that one idea to slap me in the face, and yell, "WAKE UP!"

Style Mapping

Voice is what imbues a novel with the feeling that it communicates. And no two novels ever share the exact same voice. For example, The Gunslinger, by Stephen King, communicates a feeling of wanderlust and adventure through a rather uncharacteristic character. With highly elevated language that is strangely easy to understand, the blunt, direct voice helps draw the reader in to the epic story of the gunslinger. Similarly, Geist, by Philippa Ballantine, uses sophisticated language to convey her professional voice. However, her forays into language have rendered her writing slightly more difficult to understand, but not too difficult that even a well-read individual can’t make sense of a paragraph. Ballantine also uses direct language that isn’t necessarily poetic, but instead has its own tone of pleasantry. Lastly, Kissed by an Angel, by Elizabeth Chandler, differs from the previous two novels. While she shares the usage of sophisticated word choice, her voice lends a rather poetic tone to itself, and the writing seems to flow from the pages like the strewn pebbles in a stream.

Philosophy and the Questions not Asked. . .

I've come to term with the facts. I can try to hide it all I want, but in the end, I will fail. No matter how hard I try to deny that I am different from my father in every way possible. . .

I will always love philosophy, just like he does.

Most people see philosophy as confusing, and as such, don't want anything to do with it. They don't hate it, but they don't like it either. They are, more or less, neutral. Some people, though, view philosophy as unnecessary and the trivial questions that philosophers ask serve no real purpose in advancing society or the economy.

Those kind of people are as deceived as the people that are plugged into the Matrix itself, blind to the fact that "the world has been pulled over their eyes."

If we don't ask questions, even about the most trivial matters, we really don't know anything at all. Remember the age-old phrase, "No question is a stupid question." And if we don't question the very things that our world is based on, such as belief of free will, reality vs. dreams, degrees of perception, etc., how will we come to grow intellectually and spiritually?

For me, philosophy is more than just a plethora of questions being asked for no other reason than to be asked. Philosophy is a way of growing in your understanding of the very things that we take for granted in this world of ours, the very things that we never even take the time to acknowledge. Like the technology that made this very blog possible. All those zeros and ones, working hard to translate keystrokes to letters and numbers on a screen. . .

Seems like a matrix to me. . .

Quarterly: This Week in Reading #8

Spectyr by Philippa Ballantine
Homeland by R.A. Salvatore

This Week: 175 pages
Last Week: 164 pages
Total: 1,496 pages

To be completely honest, I have been reading a lot more often since I started this experiment. I'll often find myself reading while in the car, waiting for my parents to finish up various errands (in between jamming to Rise Against and Sixx A.M.). However, this experiment has also helped me realize something--you can't make somebody read if that is just not what they want to do. After all, you read the most when you actually want to read in the first place. Would you be able to focus on reading if you had ten other things you were more worried about at the time? Would you be able to focus on reading if your favorite television show was on? This project was about making time to read, but to be honest, it's taught me something different--don't make time to read, let time make you read. If you feel the urge to sit down, and ensconce yourself under your covers for hours on end, devouring an entire book series, then do it. Don't try to force it. You'll only choke yourself on your own boundaries you set for yourself.

Man, I need to tone down the philosophy in this blog. Might turn away what few viewers I have. But yeah, overall, I plan to keep on reading the Dark Elf Trilogy (Homeland, Exile, and Sojurn) and eventually finish the Geist series (when book three, Wrayth, finally comes out). 

Oh! One last note. . . Check out this awesome picture I found! WIN!

Epiphany! (and a few new books)

A little bit of inspiration struck me a couple of days ago. I've always loved fantasy writing, in all of it's forms (science fiction included). But, yet, I have spent the least of my time writing what I like.

Call me stupid, I don't care. Call me a blind bat in the cave of literature.

But I am going to finally write what I like. Set aside the psychological stories for now, hide away the deep, provocative social commentary, and present a story that is their for one reason, and one reason only: to tell a story.

On a side note, I found a few new books that should help me along with this new idea. Their respective pictures are placed around this post. You see that book Magyk up there? My mom suggested it, actually. A very simple, yet lovable, fantasy tale about a young boy who becomes a wizard. Seems reminiscent of Harry Potter? It is anything but, from what I've been told. I'll have to read to find out.

Oh, and the other book, to the right over there? A book I actually tried reading a while back, but got bogged down by the sheer amount of detail that went into writing it. From what I read up, the author spent over ten years writing and developing his world. I may be a fantasy author, but I'm not that dedicated--yet.

Too Many English Classes?...

Me on a daily basis (when trying to write)

Novels with Mr. Clough
Etymology with Mr. Hill
Composition/W131 with Mrs. Christopherson
and Journalism with Mr. Kuhn

You know, in some way, I think I dug myself into is hole.

No doubt about it. I did. It's all my fault.

Well, not a fault, necessarily. I mean, I just like English--more so than most people. . .

I always have. It's my passion. Ever since elementary school, I delighted in the creative writing projects that were rarely handed out. The chance to express yourself outside of the constraints of a perceived box--a liking that seems to be dying out lately.

I wrote a poem about this once. The loss of creativity among teenagers my age. And you know what?

I'm done fighting it. I can't help the fact that they have adhered themselves to boxes and limits. Best to just move on and create what I want to create rather than trying to make someone into something they are not.

Besides, that's just wasting my time. Time that should be spent writing, rather than being spent on trifles. . .

Last Week in Reading #7

A little behind, but better late than never. . .

Geist by Philippa Ballantine (FINISHED)
Homeland by R.A. Salvatore

This Week: 164 pages
Last Week: 150 pages
Total: 1,321 pages

Favorite Sentences and/or Passages (in no particular order):

1: "Zaknafein Do'Urden, I am called, yet a drow I am not, by choice or by deed. Let them discover this being that I am, then. Let them rain their wrath on these old shoulders already burdened by the hopelessness of Menzoberranzan." - Homeland

2: Ignoring the consequences, the weapons master rose to his feet and yelled, "Menzoberranzan, what the hell are you?" - Homeland

3: The Deacon could not abide the travesty any longer. "You know the words, child." Sorcha strode over and snatched up her Gauntlets. "But you should not meddle in the Order's affairs." - Geist

Not much to say about any of these quotes. Just starting into the Dark Elf Trilogy, the first book of which is Homeland. An amazing series that I had read a bit of way back in middle school. Figured I would delve back into the series again, and give it a good re-read. Should still count, right?

One of those Songs

You know those songs that set off that little part of your brain that makes you actually think about what you are listening to? The songs that open your eyes to a world you've previously been blind to? Well, I believe I've found one of those songs. 

My dad pulled up this song to show to me yesterday:

Not only did this song give me inspiration for my story I've been gradually progressing on, it visualized the constant battle of teens wanting and needing attention, and ultimately, showed me how well I truly have life. I may complain about unfair punishments, or cruel and harsh dicta, but in the end, I have parents that listen, even if it doesn't feel like it most of the time. 

And I'm glad to be blessed with that.  

Looking Back

Can a person under the age of 18 really be nostalgic about something? Can a person under 18 truly look back into his/her past and say, "Man, those were the days."? Most parents would disagree, stating that young children are unable to truly appreciate their past. However, I offer a counter-argument; What constitutes the ability to look back and revel in the wonderful reveries of the past? Do you have to be a certain age? Do you have to have graying hair? Do you have to be able to remember life before the War on Terror?

The fact remains, ANYONE has the right and the responsibility to remember their past and appreciate the little things in life.

Enough philosophy for today. You may not have guessed it, but this was inspired by two of my favorite games from the PS2 era, Ico and Shadow of the Colossus

For those of you have not heard of these games, let me give you the basics.

In Ico, you play as a young boy, Ico, who is being sacrificed due to the fact that he was born with crude horns. However, he breaks out of his small cell, and is tasked with escaping the huge imposing castle that is captors imprisoned him within.

Early in the game, Ico runs into a beautiful princess, whom he had dreamed about the night before. He breaks her out of her suspended cage, and together, they attempt to escape the castle.

However, complications arise, when dark spirits begin to appear and try to capture the princess. Ico must defend the princess against these manifestations, and along the way, he discovers a dark secret behind the castle and the princess's true identity.

In Shadow of the Colossus, made by the same team that made Ico, you play as Wander, a young boy who has ventured long and far to reach a region known as the Forbidden Land. When he arrives, he feels an unearthly voice speaking to him. The voice introduces itself as the demi-god Dormin, and inquires as to what Wander's purpose is in this land.

Wander announces that he wishes to raise the soul of a young woman back from the dead. The voice chortles, and taunts Wander, saying, "Death is final. Is that not the law of mortals?" However, he presents Wander with a mission: Slay the sixteen colossi that are scattered around the land, and he will bring the young woman back from the dead.

But Gods are fickle beings, as mythology commonly states. Is there a wicked twist waiting for Wander at the end of his journey?

For me, these games represent a call back to the reality of gaming, and ultimately, a call to true imagination. Released, respectively, in 2001 and 2005, neither of the games have mind-blowing graphics. The game-play in some areas is awkward and annoying, and neither of the games have the length of some mega-series of today.

However, where these games prevail over all other games I've ever played is in the storytelling and the imagination that the gamer can incorporate into the storyline.

Imagination, on the gamer's part, anyway, is seldom used in gaming anymore. All the character development and back-story is done for you, and you can jump right into the action, no thought required. But don't we live for the chance to make something our own? In both above titles, the gamer is not given every minute detail that occurred before we met the character. Instead, we are dropped in medias res, and we are almost forced to invent a background for the character. We are forced to lay the cement in which the rest of the plot will be built.

That is exactly what most games today lack: the imagination on the part of the gamer. I understand most people would rather play a game and not have to think, but when you get the chance to make anything your own, it immediately creates a bond that cannot be shattered by core game-play mechanics. It makes you attached to the game on a personal level, which makes the game ten times better than it already was.

Once a gamer, always a gamer. Games will always hold a special place for me, a place where you can escape and enjoy a story well told.

Maybe I play games a little too much. . . but why would I give up that one part of me that makes me who I am? Am I bad person because I play games more than advised? Am I any worse of a person? No. I still have friends, I still achieve good grades in school. I don't know about you, but I think I'm pretty well off.

And now I'm getting philosophical again. My apologies. If you actually read this far, thank you for biding your time with me. See you next time...

This Week in Reading #6

Geist by Philippa Ballantine

This Week: 150 Pages
Last Week: 155 Pages
Total: 1,157 Pages

Favorite Sentences and/or Passages (in no particular order):

1: It was good weather for a riot. - Geist

2: This Chambers, whoever he was, had better have a thick skin, because right now she needed someone to take [her anger] out on. - Geist

3: No one since Pareth, the Presbyter of the Young during Sorcha's childhood, had dared give her a nickname, but from Gent, it was somehow acceptable. - Geist

The first sentence would, by far, have to be my favorite sentence of this entire book. I honestly believe it could be filed in among some of the greatest opening lines of novels, like "Call me Ishmael." or "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." The other two hold significance in defining the character of Sorcha Farris. So far, even within the first opening scene, she is depicted as a very strong woman, mentally and physically, who could hold her own in the world, no matter what the situation.

Drowning

(Original song lyrics by Ty Thomas)
(Pending changes by the band)

I'm drawn away

from this tumultuous hurricane,

stinging winds stripping away 

what's left of us.

Up above, my eyes are opened
Truth reveals a frightening fate

Lost in the clouds,

I'm drowning in the darkness

What am I doing here?

Eyes blinded by our past,

Slowly fading out to black

What are we waiting for?

Faces painted on our lies.

Masks to cover up our crimes.

We're trying to hide from it,

Lying, so we can't see it.

Are we so blind?

Lost in the clouds,

I'm drowning in the darkness

What am I doing here?

Eyes blinded by the past,

Slowly fading out to black

What are we waiting for?

(Instrumental Break)

We're losing this game, but nobody sees it

We're breaking apart, but nobody knows it

How long before we all fall away?

Lost in the clouds,

I'm drowning in the darkness

What am I doing here?

Eyes blinded by the past,

Slowly fading out to black

What are we waiting for?

$7.99 Well Spent

Just this past weekend, I celebrated my three-year anniversary with my girlfriend. We went out to the mall, and wandered around the various shops. Over the course of a couple hours, we found ourselves divulging in free samples in a cooking store, going crazy over all the different types of chocolates, fawning over cute little teddy bears in Build-A-Bear, and riding the double-decked carousel that dominated the food court. I'm not much of a 'mall-goer', but I must say it was a wonderful time, regardless. Complete with messy burgers from Red Robin and a trip by Barnes and Noble to snoop for new reads, it couldn't have been any better.

Speaking of new books to read, I happened across this little paper-back book, nestled into a corner on the fantasy shelves...

The first thought that crossed my mind when I saw it was a simple one, "Pretty small book, might be easy to read."

I know, terrible first thought. Moving on.

As I pulled it out from the shelf, and lay eye on the cover, the art immediately grabbed my attention. The lion brought back memories of C.S. Lewis, and the fiery, red-headed, fierce-looking, magic-wielding heroine implored me to read the summary on the back.

I checked the price tag. $7.99 was not a bad price at all. And I bought it there and then, without even cracking open the book itself. Most would call that a stupid move, but I decided to trust my gut instinct

After reading the first bits of the pages, the story seemed simple: Sorcha Farris is one of the most powerful Actives within an organization known as The Order. Her husband, Kolya Farris, is also one of the most powerful Sensitives within The Order. In this world, Actives and Sensitives, both with different magical powers, work together to fight creatures known as geists, undead spirits that possess humans and in general, wreak havoc on the living.

The Actives possess magical gauntlets that have different runes inscribed along each of the fingers that call upon different types of magic. However, they are unable to see the geist. This is where the role of the Sensitives comes in. The Sensitives have the ability to see the geist, and by a magical telepathic bond, they report that information to their Active bond-mates, who then use their magic to eradicate the geist.

After a geist attack gone wrong, Sorcha's husband, Kolya, is badly injured. Despite the incident, Sorcha is needed elsewhere, so she is paired with a novice Sensitive named Merrick Chambers. They are hired to help the village of Ulrich, that has been the victim of numerous geist attacks. Along for the ride is Raed Rossin, a pretender to the throne--and bearer of a dangerous curse-- who Sorcha is sworn to protect.

And that's the gist of the novel so far. I'm looking forward to reading more of it.

Oh, and for those of you wondering if "geist" is a real word, I looked it up, and it is actually German for "mind, spirit, or ghost". How awesome is that?

This Week in Reading #5

The Overachievers by Alexandra Robbins

This week: 155 pages
Last week: 180 pages
Total: 1,007 pages

Favorite Sentences and/or Passages of the Month! (in no particular order):

1: "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed." The Gunslinger


2: "The stars were as indifferent to this as they were to wars, crucifixions, resurrections." The Gunslinger  

3: "May we meet again on the path, before we all meet in the clearing. . ." The Gunslinger 


4: "When one quests for the Dark Tower, Time is a matter of no concern at all." The Gunslinger

Out of all these quotes, the winner would have to be #4. It's like a metaphor, where the Dark Tower can represent any large barrier that one needs to overcome to reach their end-goal. And when working to overcome this goal, you should move slowly and carefully. After all, slow and steady wins the race. Or so said the turtle, anyway. . .

facade

(An original poem by Ty Thomas)

an endless barrage of smiling portraits
concealing a cold reality.
a plaster slab painted bright,
that lies atop the ineffable truth.

but why bother caring?
this way is so much easier.
ignoring the cynics, rebuking the critics
all for a glimmer of happiness.

we live for this rare hope, that rare chance
that everything is as it seems
we hide behind painted masks,
hiding away our fears.

yet fame still makes the headlines,
faces seen too many times.
pushed to succeed, pushed to prove,
pushed too far, but nobody knows. . .

for fear never sees the light of day,
and in silence, it slowly takes over. . .

until only this hollow facade remains. . .

The Butterfly Effect

It is often said that the things you come to appreciate and value the most are the things that you stumble upon accidentally, the things that you would have never noticed had it not been for one chance encounter, one simple glance, one moment that you strayed off the worn and beaten path. After a while, you begin to wonder how your life would have been different if you never met that person, or walked down that sidewalk, or picked up that phone. I begin to ask myself the inevitable series of questions that comes after that sudden realization. What if I had never gone to that birthday party? What if I had never said yes? What if I had never gone back?Eventually, you come to cherish these moments, these people, with all your heart. You never want them to leave you, you never want to imagine a life without them, and you can never bring yourself to forget them. The best opportunities only come once in a lifetime, and once you have them, you should never let them go, no matter what sacrifices must be made.

I used to be a very shy and quiet kid. You would seldom find me without a book in my hands, and it was rather difficult to get me to interact with other kids. I never did well in group projects, and I broke down when I got stuck with someone I didn’t know. Over the years, I developed a shell around myself that closed me off from the rest of the world, a shell that only I could truly understand, a shell that only my true best friends could ever break. One of these best friends decided to invite me to a birthday part that she was throwing at a local Laser-X. I agreed to go, and unknowingly signed away what could have been my life.

The birthday part was truly a wonderful experience, even though I lost most of the rounds of laser tag. But the defining moment of the entire party was the challenge at the Dance-Dance Revolution game. I had watched two girl face each other, both doing pretty well. Better than anything I could do, I thought. As their song ended, the taller of the two stepped down. The other girl asked if anybody wanted to face her.

Here’s my chance! I spoke up, “I’ll play against you.”

She nodded and smiled at me, brushing her curly brunette hair out of her face, “Okay, you want to pick the song?”

When the song was over, we both eagerly awaited for the scores to appear on the screen. When they did, I was in shock. A girl had beaten me. Oh man, this is terrible I thought. I sucked up what little pride I had left, and I offered her a high five, as I said, “Good game.”

She looked at me, quizzically at first. Then she saw my hand. “Yeah, good game.” She high fived me back, without halting to glare at me with spiteful eyes, like so many other girls had done to me before.

The shell splintered ever so slightly.

Secretly, I had hoped that I would see her again, even though all the odds told me that I wouldn’t. I didn’t even know her name. But Fate bet against those odds, and we met each other again at our freshmen orientation.

After many boring speeches given by school officials and class representatives alike, the orientation wound to a close. I found myself impatiently wandering around the parking lot, looking for my mom’s bright red van. Disappointed and bored, I ventured back into the school to wait for her inside.

That’s when I saw the girl again. She had just stepped out of the auditorium, and was making her way towards the door, her brother in tow. Instantly, I recognized her brother. From the look in his eyes, he recognized me as well. I approached them, and nervously acknowledge the girl, “Hi, I remember you from that birthday party.”

“Yeah, I played against you in DDR.” She sounded nervous as well, but still a smile spread across her face. We talked for a little while longer, and I managed to learn her name, as well as her email address. As they left, I repeated her name over and over again in my head. Kelli. . .

The shell had begun to crack.

During the first few weeks of school, we would sometimes run into each other in the pale white hallways of the freshman academy. We would talk for a little while, and then go about our day.  It seemed that we were destined to be friends, and little more than that. . .

But Fate was relentless, and it offered up another choice, another chance.

Kelli and her brother invited me over to their house a couple of days later, and for the first time in my life, I truly felt in love. Even though all we did was play video games and watch television, I felt like myself around someone. For that moment, the shell had been cracked open.

Before I knew it, I found myself sheepishly asking her if she would be my girlfriend. I was so nervous, I was shaking as I asked her. But when she said yes, my whole world was turned upside-down, and I knew from that point on, that nothing would ever be the same again.

The shell had shattered, the pieces scattering far and wide.

As I’m looking back at everything that has transpired over the past three years, all the memories flood my mind, and pure joy washes over me. Even as I struggle to put my thoughts onto paper, the memories stand out like red paint on the canvas of life. Our first date at the Johnny Appleseed festival, and how we tried to hide the fact that we were holding hands. Our first accidental kiss as we left school for the weekend, that left us both excited and scared. Our first real kiss on her back porch, that left us both blushing and giddy. The many after-school Fridays that we have shared watching movies, playing video games, and talking. The numerous nights we lost ourselves in conversation until two in the morning. The few moments that it seemed our flame would go out, and the moments where we talked out our problems and rekindled the dying fire. So many pivotal moments, where one simple change, one chance happening could have changed everything, for better or worse.

I have always been a believer in Fate, and even now I believe that things happen to us that we have no power to change. But when Fate gives you the moment of chance, you have to choose to take hold of your fate. Simply relying on chance alone holds no guarantee that you will find what you seek. Harry Browne once said, “You are where you are today because you have chosen to be there.” At the end, that is what it comes down to. You have the power to choose to accept or decline the perfect opportunities that Fate drops right in front of you. For your sake, I hope you choose correctly.