Writing Prompt #4

You wake up to hear a pounding on the door. When you answer it, nothing is there...except for a letter with a black wax seal. The letter is addressed to you.

Go Teen Writers: A Characterization Study on Little Women

Here is a great post on the Teen Writers website about using a physical description to convey who a character is. She uses the story, Little Women, as an example of this and gives you the opportunity to try it yourself. This is a definite must read! Enjoy!

Go Teen Writers: A Characterization Study on Little Women: Jill Williamson is a chocolate loving, daydreaming, creator of kingdoms. She writes weird books for teens in lots of weird genres like, fan...

Review of the Fantastic Four

I haven't written a review for a movie before, but I thought I'd give it a go! My friend and I went to the new "Fantastic Four" movie this evening. Here are my thoughts on it.

This is a review for people who don't want spoilers! Farther down, I will write another that delves deeper and will contain spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you.

This is a great movie for people who love super heroes. Each character has their own motivation and agenda, adding something to the story itself. Mankind wants to push its limits, to explore and learn more about this world...and any other that exists. Due to a...complication...four explorers who were visiting an alternate dimension were hurt and imbued with fantastical powers. Some see them as freaks. Others see them as weapons. However, in the end what matters is what they think of themselves. Each of them must overcome their bitterness and learn to use what they have been given to stop an evil that threatens to destroy their world.

Out of one to ten, I would probably give it a five. It is however, a very enjoyable movie.

Now, for those who want a more in-depth review...

WARNING: THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS. If you don't want any, stop reading now!

The movie opens on Career day, where a young boy tells the other students that he wants to be the first person to be teleported. His name, our hero, was Reed. Ridiculed by his classmates, misunderstood by his parents, he only has one friend, Ben. Together, they create a mechanism that can teleport objects. One day, while making an example of his invention at a science fair, a man approaches him with a proposition. And that's where Reed's adventures really begin.

From the standpoint of plot, this movie is about as realistic as any superhero movie, so I'll try to do this unbiased. Reed, along with his new friends, create a machine that will allow them to travel to another dimension. When they prove it is possible, one of the board members of the school hosting them decides to call in NASA. The team decides to go instead, without permission. The journey goes smooth, but while in the alternate dimension they are hurt and given powers. From there, they are in the center of a game of tug-a-war. Their teacher wants them healed. The military wants to use them as weapons. And Victor, a young man who was left behind in the alternate dimension, wants to destroy the world. Only by working together -- and coming to grips with what they are -- can they defeat him.

I thought that the characters were developed decently enough, though I thought that some of their actions were unrealistic. For example, Reed running away from the military plant and leaving his friends behind didn't seem like something he'd do, especially after making a promise to Ben. And it never explained what he was doing while he left. When he finally returned, the others -- with the exception of Ben -- seemed to forgive his treachery immediately. It just didn't seem smooth to me.

The antagonist, Victor, was the part I really had a problem with. We first see him sitting in front of a computer screen, hair uncut, a reject of society. After being convinced by his teacher to help with the project of teleporting, he returns to the school. Now, there are different looks and comments exchanged that point to there being some sort of history between him and the female lead, but it was never clearly explained. When they arrived at the new dimension, he was fascinated by the "energy" on the new planet -- and his actions led to the accident that ensued. He was left behind in that dimension, blessed with powers himself, for over a year.

Later, when the military sent explorers to the new dimension, he re-emerged. They took him back, thinking he was injured. It is then that he reveals his hatred toward the outside world. The world is evil, and he wants to start again with a new one. The energy that has sustained him in that dimension would surely continue to do so. Although his anger was understandable, I didn't understand his complete hatred toward the world. Was it the energy inside him? Was he insane? All unclear.

In the end, he tries to open a sort of portal between worlds that will destroy earth. The four freaks, monsters, must stop him. Separately, Dr. Doom (as Victor calls himself) defeats them. But when they work together as a team they are able to succeed. In the end, they are a team that will use there powers, not for military or political power, but to make a difference.

Like I said, it was a fun movie to watch, but in the realm of plot and character, it was not very well developed.

Also: DON'T WAIT THROUGH THE CREDITS. Everyone does. You know, to see the teaser at the end. It's Marvel, right? Well, my friend and I did, and there wasn't one. Just so you know.

Enjoy your movie watching! Any thoughts on the new movie. Please comment below!

Writing Prompt #3

You wake up in a small, concrete room that is filling up with water. Your only tools are a screwdriver, a cell phone with no batteries, and an assault rifle. How do you proceed?

Keeping things interesting

Some stories, in order to hold a reader's attention, will be made up of intense event followed by battle scene followed by action. Bam! Bam! Bam! In this society, it is hard to get someone to stop and listen for any length of time. Writers in general often struggle to hold their reader's attention for any length of time. Some solve that problem by having constant suspense. However, that is not always realistic, and some storylines simply won't allow for it. So how do we keep the reader engaged during every scene?

Character. Engaging characters will engage the reader, even when they are not in the middle of a fight. Their reactions, actions, thoughts, emotions, and expressions will draw us in. We want to see their unique outlook. Sound too simple? It's not. It really works. A dull scene with great characters will carry while a great scene with dull characters cannot. This is why it is so important to have 3D characters that come to life in the reader's mind.

Changing emotion. Every scene, intense or not, should contain a change in emotion. If not, it is wasted and should be cut or improved. It is the changes in emotion that really keeps the reader reading. Emotion is the core of story-telling. Maybe the protagonist starts out happy, but by the end of the scene she is troubled and questioning. Anything goes so long as the reader can feel it. I believe that is the essence of good story-telling. Feeling. The more you keep the reader guessing and on their toes, the better. Evoke on them the character's turmoil.

Clear plot. If a chapter feels pointless then it probably is. And that comes from a lack of clear plot. If your plot is clear and the reader knows where you are going, they will follow you through the calmer seas as well as through the storms. Everything should fit into a purpose that the reader can see, whether now or later. Otherwise, you're just wasting space, and the reader is wasting their time.

Hidden information. If done right, an air of mystery is very effective in keeping a reader reading. Whether it is simply an exchange about the past between characters or foreshadowing to some horror in the future, it will intrigue. Keep the reader guessing with unforeseen plot twists and hints of what is to come.

A great example of a story that does this is Wool by Hugh Howey. I am reading it right now, and I would definitely recommend it.

Can you think of anything else? Comment below!

Writing Prompt #2

You're all alone on a Saturday night. You walk up to your bedroom and find a hooded man browsing over your journal. He looks up and says, "We've been waiting for you."

Go Teen Writers: Editing in Layers: Drawing out Emotion and Tension...

Great post about editing by Stephanie Morrill. Check it out!



Go Teen Writers: Editing in Layers: Drawing out Emotion and Tension...: by Stephanie Morrill Stephanie writes young adult contemporary novels and is the creator of GoTeenWriters.com. Her novels include The Re...

How to self-edit

This, in my opinion, is one of the hardest things for a writer to learn. And yet, self-editing is one of the most crucial part of an author's career since so much time is spent editing. More time is spent working on the second and third draft than on the first draft. The first draft is just getting something on paper whereas editing is crafting and creating. It can be fun...and a pain. But editing sure does take the pressure off your first draft, if you know what I mean.

 I just got done self-editing a novel, and I have learned some things about what to look for.

Content issues. This is by far -- for me -- the hardest part of editing. Looking for flawed characters, troubled plot lines, and things that just don't make sense. Content editing really varies from story to story, and it helps to have an outsider's opinion. My suggestion is after you finish your first draft, put it down for about a month and then read it again. See if the characters are fully developed. Look for holes in the plot. Try to find places where the setting and description could be improved.

Reduce your word count. Your second draft must have a smaller word count than your first draft. The first draft will always come out fluffy, just because that is your exploratory draft. Go in and cut anything and everything that is unnecessary. Make sure that your dialogue tags are not too excessive. Look for words that just clog up the sentence flow. Reading "On Writing" by Stephen King, this was impressed on my mind. This was the equation he used:

First draft - 10% = Second draft

Cutting ten percent will not take away from your story -- if you cut the right things. It will improve it and make it all the more powerful.

Look for continuous themes. Whether we implant it there or not, almost every story ends up with an underlying theme. Sometimes it takes us a long time to notice it, but it is there nonetheless. For example, the novel I just finished was meant to show the devastation that bitterness can cause and the beauty of forgiveness. However, it ended up being much more than that. It now also shows the importance of true sacrifice and the meaning of family. Reading over your first draft, you may notice your own themes. Pursue them and try to strengthen them in the second draft.

REMEMBER: The stories that are most powerful are the ones that have something to say, a lesson to teach.

There are many more aspects of self-editing, but these are the ones that come to mind at the moment. Can you think of any more? Comment below!

And by the way, Inkitt has opened a new Mystery/Thriller contest. Some of those stories are really great; you should check it out. I entered my story, The Forbidden Cellar. I have edited it once again and believe that I have a more powerful piece of writing. If you get a chance, please check it out and tell me what you think! It is found at this link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/16921

Thanks! :)

Writing Prompt #1

Write a story involving a ninja with an attitude, a break-dancer with a fear of heights, and a talking parrot...

A Writing Exercise for Creating Setting

One of the hardest parts of writing for me has always been creating setting. It is also a very vital part of writing. Many people don't see it as such a key element...that is until they read a story with poor setting. Good setting creates not only a place but also a feeling, a mood. It interlocks everything together. Although you don't want to overdo setting, you want to intersperse it throughout the story. This is an exercise that I have found very useful in writing setting.

1. Visualize the place. If you want to drop the reader into your setting, you have to be able to drop yourself into it. Take just a few minutes, shut out distractions, close your eyes, and just imagine.

2. Write down the details. Take it one sense at a time. Think about all the things you see in the setting and write them down as fast as you can. Don't use full sentences. Don't worry about grammar or spelling. Just write. Give yourself two minutes, and when the time is up, stop. Then go to the next sense (taste, smell, etc.) and do the same thing. When you are finished, you should have a very good idea of what the place is like.

3. Choose a mood. In one word, write down the mood you want to convey (creepy, suspenseful, calming, etc.). Then look over all the descriptions you wrote and underline the ones that support it. For example, if you are going for creepy, mention the blood-red mushrooms in your description. If suspenseful, describe the sudden silence. If calming, talk about the smell of fresh lavender. Then, just combine those details into a concise and powerful description of the place.

If this tool is used right, it will help to transport your reader into the writing. And that really is the main goal in writing, isn't it?

Have any advice on writing setting? Comment below!

 



My Inkitt Stories

Hey all!

Just wanted to let you guys know, I have some writing that you can read for free on the Inkitt site (don't know if that interests anyone or not, but here goes). If you are a writer or reader, I would definitely recommend this site. It is a great place to interact with others and read great stories. They've got just about every genre there. One of my favorite things to do on there is review other people's work. It's a lot of fun.

Anyway, I've entered in a few of the contests. Two of them are closed and the other is still going.

My first story, Cyborg, I entered to the Beyond Time Science Fiction contest and took second place. It is found at this link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/15856

My second story, the Forbidden Cellar, I entered into the End Game Horror contest. It's more of a thriller, but I thought that it would qualify. Anyway, they're judging that right now, so I don't know if I placed yet. It is found at this link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/16921

My last story is actually just a beginning chapter of what might end up being a novel. For now, I'm calling it Beneath the Crimson Mountain. I entered it in the Hither and Thither Fantasy contest, which is still running. It currently has no reviews, and I would love some constructive criticism (and votes, if it is deemed worthy). It is found at this link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/19400

Thank you so much! And if anyone has a story that they would like me to take a look at I would be happy to. Just comment below. I really like reviewing stuff. :)

Promoting Your Writing

Nowadays most writers can't just be writers. Now that the self-publishing industry is growing, authors are having to promote their own work, dividing their time between that and their passion. I think that it is extremely important to be able to promote your writing, and with the internet it is pretty easy. You just have to be willing to take the time to do so.

There are many social media sites that make promotion easy. Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, etc. It is an easy way to gain followers and connect with fans. During a class at a Willamette Writer's meeting, someone told me a very interesting method for promoting yourself on social media. Some writers just promote and promote and promote and drive their followers crazy. When you only post things about yourself, it has that affect on people. She told me that you should divide your posts in thirds. One third of your posts should be promoting your work (naturally), one third should be used to promote someone else's work, and one third should be a post on something interesting that relates to your writing. (For example, if you are writing a story about saving the whales you might post statistics on how many whales are dying per year.) That way you're not turning people off to your work.

Another means of promotion is face to face. Going to writing classes or conferences -- or just anything involving other readers and writers -- is a good idea. I have gone to the Wordcrafters conference for the last two years and have found that face to face promotion is very affective. People remember you if you are willing to talk to them. And not just about your writing. Sometimes making contacts and meeting people is enough. Developing those relationships will help you make more important connections later on. Many writers are ready and willing to share advice and try to help you.

The last means I know of is simply getting your writing out there. A writer needs readers. And in order to get those, you must (obviously) give them something to read, whether you submit to magazines or use sites like Wattpad and Inkitt. Inkitt is a particular favorite of mine. It is a great place to get feedback on your writing. And a good place to give feedback of your own. I have found that reviewing other people's work is a great way to promote yourself...and to help out other writers. When you are willing to give of some of your time others are more willing to give you some of theirs.

Any other ways to promote yourself? Please comment below!

Why do we write?

When I tell someone that I'm a writer, most people frown at me and say, "Wuh?". Others criticize the amount of time that I spend on my laptop (which is probably legitimate). It always leads me to the question: Why do I do what I do? Why do I write? Why do WE write?

Ever since creation, people have been writing, telling their stories in one way or another. Even when certain writers are outlawed or band from publishing their work, there are still writers. Here are just a few of my thoughts on the subject.

We write to understand. Writers, or at least good writers, question, ponder, don't accept the easy answer. They explore the subject and look at both sides of the story. By writing they discover the truth, or what they believe to be the truth. When we write, it reveals things to us that we've never fully understood before. And the experience, if you've ever had it, is exhilarating. We are discovery junkies, like the early explorers. Writers have to question and challenge in order to add conflict and doubt to their story. I believe, personally, that writing can give you a better understanding of yourself, of others, and of the world around you.

We write to fight. It amazes me that throughout history people will write in order to take part in the battle going on around them. They publish themselves to get their opinion out, propaganda or not. Take for example Uncle Tom's Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. Her writing affected the nation in many ways. So many people fight with a pen rather than a sword because they have leaned the power that words have. Sometimes words are more effective than a sword could ever be.

We write because we have to. I don't know about you, but if I didn't write I would have...problems. As a child, I always had an extremely active imagination. Lying in bed at night, I would make up stories in my head. A lot of time was spent daydreaming and roleplaying with neighbor kids. But that was never enough. I never found a satisfaction for my imagination until I finally started writing. It is a way to free ourselves, to empty ourselves. I think that (in a lot of cases) a writer becomes more observant of the world around them. Think about it. They must have very active minds all the time, searching for inspiration, watching people, listening to them talk, absorbing all that to use for writing. I'm not saying that writers are better. What I'm trying to say is that writing just has so many benefits. I think that it helps us in many ways. If used right, it teaches, it challenges, it trains.

And that's why I love it.

Any more thoughts? Please comment below!

I also wanted to say that I have submitted my writing to Inkitt for a Science Fiction story contest. You can read my story, Cyborg, for free at this link: http://www.inkitt.com/stories/15856   I would greatly appreciate a review or a vote.

Thanks so much!

 

I believe that the pen does too.



Writing Compelling Dialogue

   Dialogue can either make or break a story. So much character and plot is (or can be) conveyed in dialogue. It is a critical point in your writing. And it is one that I struggled with for a long time. One of the main things I have learned as I wrote is that characters shouldn't stay silent. They need to interact. Put a group of people in a room and see how long it is before someone says something. It's just not natural for people to not interact unless there's some sort of tension between them. Dialogue opens a wonderful door for you -- as the writer -- to reveal who your character really is. Here are several tips that I have found useful in writing dialogue.

   Tags. Your use of tags is extremely important. I've been reading a book lately with some good dialogue but horrible tags. A few mild examples, "he said loudly", "she replied laughingly", or "they said quietly". I don't know about you, but this drives me absolutely crazy! It is weak writing. These could be replaced with "he shouted", "she laughed", and "they whispered". There are places for adverbs, but they are few and far between.

   Another thing that I have learned about tags is that they should be used -- mostly, of course -- for specifying who is talking, not HOW they are talking. The dialogue itself should convey what the character is feeling and how they are saying it. For example:

"I want you to leave now," he demanded.

"Leave! NOW!" he said.

The verb "demanded" is not necessary if I convey the same thing through the way a character says something.

   Character styles. Every character should speak in such a way that it reveals something about them. What I mean by that is that each character should have a pattern of speech. Some characters might be soft-spoken and non-confrontational while another might have bullets loaded into every word. Some characters might be very particular about grammar while another might say "yer" instead of "your". It's completely up to you. Stephen King demonstrated this in his book "Misery" with the character, Annie Wilkes. She used words like "cockadoodie" and "Mr. Smart Guy" and "oogy". Dialogue is a great tool for developing character. Don't neglect it!

   Make it realistic. Dialogue, like most things in your writing, should feel authentic and realistic, not strained and awkward. One of the greatest things that you can do in learning how to write dialogue is listen to people. Talk to people. Observe their speech patterns and your own. What distinguishes how they talk? How you do? There are lots of things to be learned in every day life, especially when it comes to character. We have millions of living examples all around us. We just need to lend our attention to them.

These are just a few things that I have observed about dialogue. Do you have anything to add? Comment and start a discussion!

To Outline, or Not to Outline?

I don't know about you, but I have always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of person. When I first started writing, I just wrote. No plan in my mind. Just writing. I was that way for quite a while. In a short period of time, I wrote three first drafts of novels like that. The problem was, out of those three, only one seemed salvageable. The characters were wooden. The plot was deeply flawed. The writing itself wasn't that great -- or at least I didn't think it was.

I was determined to find the problem, if it was even a problem to begin with. Why was my production only sub-par? Well, NOW I know that it was simply my inexperience that caused the problem. But at the time I thought that the issue was that I never outlined. I'd heard about other authors outlining and doing character development before they even started writing.

Well, that's the problem! I need to outline first and develop my characters, then the first draft will end up being better!

Made sense to me. So, I started trying to outline before I even began writing. The moment inspiration struck, I dove into the character development. It was super fun! The characters were awesome! The plot was thrilling and flawless! (This is what was going through my mind. It probably wasn't true.) Then I finally came to the actual writing. I got about forty pages in and quit. It was dull. Boring. I already knew everything that was going to happen. Outlining took away the thrill of the discovery draft. I tried outlining another book before writing it and the same thing happened! All my inspiration was spent on getting ready to write, not the writing itself!

Stephen King makes the same point in his book, "On Writing". Outlining (and this only applies to some people) takes the joy out of the writing itself.

I had been going through a long dry spell where I just couldn't write, didn't know what to write, didn't want to start something else that I didn't think I would finish. But I finally came to this conclusion. And to test it, I started writing again without outlining. In a week, I wrote seventy pages! For me, outlining is a killer. The reason I really started in the first place was because I knew that other famous authors did it. So why not?

This may not apply to some of you. I know that outlining does work for others. But in my case, it stifles the creativity and discovery of the first draft.

Have anything to add? Comment or start a discussion!

Why you need an editor

No matter who you are, whether you've had experience with self-editing or not, I believe that you need an editor. I have found them to be the most helpful resources that you can have as a writer. The reasons may be obvious, but sometimes they aren't.

  1. Outside perspective.
"That doesn't make sense to me."
"What do you mean? I explained it back on page 51!"
"But it didn't make sense back there either!"
   So often, we as writers take pride in our work, and that's the way it's supposed to be. Don't get me wrong. But because of that we often overlook the flaws in our work. Everything is in our head, so what happens in the book makes sense to us. However readers only have the information that you give them through the writing, and a lot of times we leave things out. The reader knows it when something is missing in the writing. If it doesn't make sense to them -- even if it does to you -- it likely means that you need to put more of the information in your head into your manuscript. This happens to me all the time. And that's part of why I think we need editors. They see things that we can't as the writer.

   2. Idea generating.
Since our readers have that outside perspective, they often find ways to improve the writing that we won't think of on our own. This doesn't mean that we have to do everything they tell us, but we should at LEAST consider what they have to say. I have found that sometimes even little things that my editors say can produce great ideas on how to improve the story. One sentence can become a scene. One blurb can add a chapter. That's the joy of being a writer, isn't it. We especially need these pushes when we are drained out of ideas concerning a particular story. This happens to me often, and the inspiration usually strikes when I'm having someone else read my story.

   3. Identifying interests.
As a writer, you have a choice to make. Write what you want to write...or write what you think the reader wants you to write. While I believe that we should write for ourselves, we should also keep the others in mind. When we let someone else read our work, we have an opportunity to see what snags our readers and what turns them off. This gives us a chance to improve in order to draw more readers. Whenever someone reads a bit of my manuscript, I always fire a barrage of questions at them. "What did you think about so-and-so?" "Do you think their character was consistent?" "What part of this story did you like best?" "What part did you lose interest in?" There's something to be said for engineering your writing to best suit your readers.

These are just my opinions. If you have anything that you'd like to share, I invite you to comment below. I just know that without my editors (among them are my parents and grandpa), I wouldn't be near as good a writer. (Thanks, guys! You're awesome!) So I would encourage you, if you don't have an editor, find one. Even if it is just a family member. It is a GREAT learning experience!

Describing Characters

One of my favorite parts about writing is creating the characters. From deciding how they look to how they act is always just an adventure for me. However, I tend to have a harder time describing what they look like than what they do. There are some tricks to avoiding stereotypical descriptions and having really unique characters.

1. What you describe. A lot of times a writer comes to the part where they must describe their character, and they dawdle around until they finally jot "He was a handsome man with blue eyes and blond hair." *Zzzz....* There are millions of people in the world that have blue eyes and blond hair! We need more than that to get a picture of this person! Each description should be unique and bring to life certain quirks about the way that character looks. I loved the very first description of Four in Divergent.

Page 59: "He" is the one attached to the hand I grabbed. He has a spare upper lip and a full lower lip. His eyes are so deep-set that his eyelashes touch the skin under his eyebrows, and they are dark blue, a dreaming, sleeping, waiting color.

I don't know about you, but that was enough to give me a pretty good first look at this character, and Veronica Roth didn't even go into hair color or body type. I believe the trick is using the most powerful descriptions you can, in the shortest amount of time.

Here is a description from my book: His hood and mask fell during the scuffle, revealing the young man's pallid, angular face. His breaths are long and furious. He appears to be in his late teens, perhaps a couple years older than myself. A mess of unevenly-cut black hair falls across his face but fails to hide his eyes. His eyes! A deep shade of violet, almost glowing in the shadows; they look warm against his cold sharp features. "Are you finished?" his lips twist. He would be attractive if not for that sneer.

Now, this description goes into a little more detail than the last one, and it's probably not as concise as it could be. But you get a pretty good idea of what this guy looks like. Cocky. Mysterious. And then there's those glowing eyes... What's up with that? The description is meant to make you realize that this dude isn't normal.

2. Don't clutter your writing. Another thing about writing descriptions is I CAN'T STAND IT when it takes half a page to describe something. We get it. She's pretty. If it takes half a page to describe a character, then the writer could be writing a lot more concisely. I think it's better to be short and powerful when it comes to descriptions. And another thing is that you don't have to describe everything about that character in one place. Feed your readers little nuggets of information about their appearance and quirks. They'll catch on. Information dumps can work, but they often slow the pace of your writing.

3. Have a picture in your head. In order to plant a picture of your character in your reader's mind, you must have that picture in your own mind first. You can write a willy-nilly description and go back to fix it later, but make sure that you have that picture in your head. In order to evoke something on the reader, you must know what you are trying to evoke. If you are struggling with coming up with a character description, I would suggest either sitting down and writing about that character until it becomes clear or look at pictures on the internet to come up with ideas.

A very helpful exercise I have used is taking a picture of a person, and describing them as best I could. Then I would write different descriptions of the same picture according to the mood I wanted to convey.

These are just a few tips that I would suggest. This is still an area that I struggle with myself. I wish you luck in creating your characters! :)

(Thank you for listening to my ramblings. My ebook, Crutch, is now available at Amazon for only 0.99 cents: http://www.amazon.com/Crutch-Kari-Rushmer-ebook/dp/B00X4B2PA0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1430765666&sr=8-1&keywords=crutch+alex+rushmer   I would love it if you checked it out and left me a rating.)

Crutch by Alex Rushmer

My ebook, Crutch, is now available for purchase at most retailers. I would greatly appreciate it if you checked it out and left me a review. :)

Here are some links to it:
   http://www.amazon.com/Crutch-Kari-Rushmer-ebook/dp/B00X4B2PA0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1430765666&sr=8-1&keywords=crutch+alex+rushmer
   https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/534893
   http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/crutch-alex-rushmer/1121725695?ean=2940151864848
   https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/crutch-1
   https://www.oysterbooks.com/book/DFPcqYAR6a8CXFcvrsfEoN/crutch
   https://www.scribd.com/book/261655234/Crutch
   https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id985011094


I hope you enjoy!
  

3 Ways to Pump Up the Suspense

So I just finished a novel by Kevin O'Brien called Unspeakable. He is one of the authors I had the privilege of meeting while at the Wordcrafters conference. It is the first mystery/thriller I have ever read. I stayed up until two in the morning just to finish it. I tend to bisect stories while I'm reading, so I learned several things about creating suspense in a story.

1. Point of view. I usually write in first person, but recently I've heard a lot of people say that they liked using third person better. While I think that first person is very good for giving the readers a personal look at the protagonist, I also have discovered that you can create characters and portray them to the readers in more detail when writing in third person. One of the things that was so good about that Kevin O'Brien book was that you REALLY cared about the characters and were rooting for them throughout the whole thing. It made for an extremely suspenseful climax.

2. Constant tension. When I write, I usually feel like if I want to keep the readers interested, I need to have an action scene in every chapter. But discovered by reading Unspeakable that that's not the case. You don't have to have a fight scene every chapter to put the suspense. What added suspense in that book was that every scene was set up so that the worst possible thing could happen -- whether it happened or not -- the protagonist was aware of it. Sometimes they thought they were being stalked. Sometimes the lights went out and they heard strange noises. Most of the time, it ended up being nothing or the scene cut off, but this kept you in constant suspense. This concept was kind of a huge epiphany for me. It greatly affects how you look at your own writing.

3. Think creepy. This is the advice that Kevin O'Brien gave at the conference. Don't go for the stereotypical, make things abstract and strange. This doesn't mean that you have to be gory and gruesome, but you should bring some fear to the readers, particularly when presenting the antagonist to them. The creepier things get and the more you pump up the suspense, the more they're going to care about what happens to your characters.

I would strongly recommend reading some of his work. It is very entertaining and educational. Thank you for listening to my ramblings. If you have any input, please comment below.

Sneak peek to Crutch

"Bullied at school. Tormented by his brother. A disappointment to his parents. No one believes that Conner, a disabled young man, will make it through society's deadly coming of age ceremony. On the eve of his birthday, he must overcome what his peers label as weakness and learn that strength is not just a physical quality. But as he is pushed to his limits, will he be able to bolster what little self-confidence lies within?"


This is the synopsis for the short story I just self-published to ebook. Crutch. I am super excited about getting some of my work out there. If you are interested, it will be available at Smashwords on May 2. It is also be available for pre-order at:

https://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/crutch-1

And at:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/crutch-alex-rushmer/1121725695?ean=2940151864848

Now at Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Crutch-Kari-Rushmer-ebook/dp/B00X4B2PA0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1430765666&sr=8-1&keywords=crutch+alex+rushmer

. It is only 0.99 cents. I would love it if you downloaded it and left me a review.

Here is a sneak peek of the first 30%:

My family didn't talk to me in the morning. Not one teacher called on me in class. The ride home from school was silent. For the first time in months I didn't have to deal with bullies. They know what today means. The law forbids interference of any kind.

Tomorrow I turn eighteen. Tomorrow I become a man. And tonight is my coming of age ceremony. I have prepared my whole life for this, and I am ready.

Warm yellow light from the evening sun illuminates the dining room. The smell of pepperoni leaves my mouth watering with anticipation. But I fold my hands grudgingly as my father says grace before supper. His voice seems to expand up to the high ceiling and then bounce back down toward us. I try to focus on the words, but my older brother kicks my shrunken leg under the table every few seconds. Hot anger surges beneath my cheeks.

No matter. Tomorrow he will never jeer at me again. Tomorrow I will prove myself.

“Amen,” the moment my father says the word, I reach out and pull a slab of pizza off the platter in front of us.

Normally my mom would scold me; her lips purse, but she remains silent.

Light sparkles in the chandelier above us, casting rainbow flecks about the room. I eat with ravenous hunger, watching birds flit in the hawthorn outside the window. The only sound to disturb the heavy silence is occasional clatter of utensils as my mom eats with a fork and knife. Her face is taut and stiff, as if she sent it to be starched along with her best clothes. But her sharp gray eyes are fixed on her plate.

After several minutes, my dad wipes his mouth with his napkin and sets it down on the table, clearing his throat. “Well, today is the day, Conner,” his tone is short and business-like. His heavy brow lies above his eyes like a storm cloud, casting deep shadows.

Mom looks up at him expectantly, but my brother continues to eat as if he hadn't heard.

“Yes, sir,” I nod.

“Are you ready?” his eyes wander to my crutches, propped up next to the table.

I scowl. He thinks that I am going to die. They all do. The weak do not survive in a world torn by war, and a pale-faced, cripple of a boy is never counted among the strong. He expects me to be weeded out. I repeat, “Yes, sir.”

“Don't worry,” my brother looks up, a small smirk twisting his lips. We are complete opposites. His skin is tanned; I burn after five minutes in the sun. He is built broad and firm; I am angular and wiry. Black hair as opposed to platinum blond hair. Dark eyes as opposed to blue eyes. He takes after my parents. Maybe that's why I get treated like the anomaly. “I'm sure that if worst comes to worse, he can beat it to death with a crutch.”

I resist the urge to kick him under the table. He can hit much harder than I.

“This is no joking matter, Ben,” my dad scolds.

“Yes, sir,” his voice holds a tone of mock respect.

My dad's attention is turned back to me. “Now, if you think you are ready, I suggest that you go up soon and get it over with. We will spend the night downstairs.”

I nod.

For a moment, I think he is done, then he continues, “Whatever happens tonight, remember that your mother and I are proud of you.” He rests his hand on hers, and a small smile creases her tight face.

I snort. They really do think I'm going to die. “Yeah, okay dad. Can I go?”

He nods, his brow furrowed.

 Spread the word!

Write!!!

Hey there! Sorry it's been so long since I've posted, but between school and driver's ed, my time has been kind of booked up. Last month, I had the pleasure of going to the Wordcrafters conference in Eugene, Oregon. I strongly recommend that you look them up. I had amazing opportunities to connect with other writers, and I got to meet people like Kevin O'Brien, Gail Tsukiyama, and Eric Whitchey. I even had the opportunity to have some of these people look at the first few pages of my book and give me input.

I learned a lot that I'll probably post about later, but one of the biggest things that was imprinted in my mind was the need for writers to write.

Well, duh! That's obvious!

Yes, but sometimes it's not quite that simple a concept. Sometimes we get bogged down or discouraged, and we don't think that our work is any good. We forget to take off our editing hat when we are writing the first draft, and we just feel like scrapping it. Maybe you're trying to send your book to a publisher and you've got a rejection. I think the thing that makes a writer a writer is the ability to take those rejections and move on. To keep writing even when they think that they are failures. To never give up on themselves.

Kevin O'Brien, a New York Times Bestselling author, got seventy-five rejections before his first book was published! Seventy-five!

I don't know about you, but that gave me a lot of comfort. Just because a publisher isn't interested in your work now doesn't mean that they won't be later. So keep writing!

 



Before the Storm

Well, here's the next one. Sorry it's so long, but I couldn't really find a good stopping point. I hope you enjoy!

The air is ice cold, piercing through my layers of clothing. The thin covering of snow reflects the light from the white sky, making me squint. The fir trees rustle in the faint breeze. Huge, snow-covered mountains loom all around.

We stumble out of the cave, our clothing ragged and torn, faces dirty, blood dripping from wounds.

“Wait!” Ralof suddenly orders, crouching down.

Shayn puts up no protest, slumping down against a rock at the mouth of the cave. A distant roar echoes, bouncing off the mountains. I peer over the rock to see the dragon flying past, disappearing into the mountain.

“There it goes,” Ralof stands again. “Looks like he's gone for good this time. But I don't want to stick around to see if he comes back.”

I nod, taking a deep breath. All the strength drains from my limbs, and I sway on my feet. “What now?” I ask. “The Imperials are going to be after us.”

Ralof nods, “Better clear out of here.” He rubs his hand against his face, “We're going to have to lie low.”

“What about the others?” Shayn looks up at us, eyelids drooping.

Ralof looks back toward the cave, “No way to know how many of them made it out alive. But I am going to wait to see if the others can catch up. I need to know if Jarl Ulfric survived.”

“I'll get him to safety,” I glance at Shayn.

A faint smile spreads across Ralof's face, “My sister, Gerdur, runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I'm sure she'd help you two out.” After a moment, he asks, “Do you know where that is?”

I snort, “Of course.” Then I say, “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me,” is his reply as he grips my hand. “I wouldn't have made it without your help today.”

“Talos guide you,” my voice is soft.

Shayn grabs a thick stick off the ground, using it to slowly haul himself upright.

Ralof turns to him, “Make sure that the Jarl of Whiterun gets a detachment to Riverwood. That village isn't safe if there is a dragon on the loose.”

Shayn nods, smiling faintly, “By your orders.”

I move over to him, and he puts his arm around my shoulders. But he leans against the stick for support, holding onto me more for balance. We begin making our way down the slope. Snow crunches beneath us. Progress is painfully slow – my limbs are stiff, and he limps heavily. The silence is strange. It feels like the whole world should be in turmoil after what had happened.

Shayn looks over at me, his twisted, “How did you get involved in all this.”

I shrug, “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He nods, “We all were, it would seem.”

The snow disappears as we go down farther. Ragged blades of grass sprout from the rocky soil. Ferns curl up between the fir trees. After what seems like an eternity, we come to a cobblestone road. Beyond that is a narrow river. Clear water flows through it, rushing softly.

“See that ruin up there?” Shayn points.

I look up at the mountain opposite the river. Near the top on one side I see an assortment of towering structures, crooked and not even quite symmetrical. Black pillars form crooked arches and strange buildings.

“When I was a boy places like that always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing.” His shoulders lift.

“Huh,” I shrug, looking down at the road. “I guess I never thought about it.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” his lips twist.

My brow furrows, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“The Dunmer deal with all that dark stuff better than the Nords,” he grins. “Yeah, I know what you are.”

Anger courses beneath my cheeks, making my voice soft, “You know nothing.”

“If you say so,” he shrugs.

An awkward silence passes over us. As time drags by, the sun becomes low in the sky. The light falls in yellow rays between the mountains. Shayn's face begins to go deathly white, and he cringes with every step.

“Almost there,” I say.

His voice sounds strained, “I could do this all day.”

As we round a corner, I see the town ahead, nestled in the trees. On a small island in the river is a sawmill, stacked with logs. At the front of the town, above the gate, is a wooden platform like a small watchtower. But no guards pace back and forth across it. I breathe a sigh of relief. If there were guards, they stop us for sure.

I hear a clanking from the blacksmith working beneath his shelter. Candles are lit inside the small, wooden houses. The sound of a lute comes from what must be the inn. A dog runs across the cobblestones, barking with its tongue hanging out. When I close my eyes, I see the houses aflame, collapsing as they had in Helgen into piles of ash.

 

We cross a small bridge across the narrow river over to the mill. The saw grinds back and forth. Men cut the logs up, moving about nimbly. When they see us, they stop to stare.

“There,” Shayn points toward a woman writing on a piece of paper resting on a table.

Her light hair is pulled back away from her kind face. She looks at us and frowns.

For lack of a better opening, I pant, “Ralof said you could help us out.”

She looks at us a long moment, eyes roving from my dirty face to Shayn's. Her voice holds a thick accent, “Ralof. How do you know him?”

“I think it would be better if we didn't talk out in the open,” I glance around.

“Answer my question first,” her arms fold.

My voice is a whisper, “A dragon attacked Helgen and destroyed it. Ralof and I escaped together.”

A look of disbelief spreads across her face. She shakes her head. “You better come inside.”

I nod.

She leads the way back across the river and down the road. Behind houses, small gardens produce bright, strong vegetables. She comes to the door of a large house opposite the blacksmith's workshop and lets us in. On one side, a large fire is built up on the hearth. Shelves hold books and vegetables that must have been harvested recently. Dishes are already set out on the table. A large pot is mounted over the fire, filling the house with a delectable smell that nearly makes me swoon. It must have the same effect one Shayn because he sways next to me.

Gerdur must notice it because she orders, “Onto the bed.”

“I'm fine,” he mumbles, hair hanging into his face.

She points at it, staring at him.

He limps over to the bed, grumbling, and practically collapses on it. The warmth makes the tension leave my limbs. I take off my shield and the weaponry weighing me down, dropping them by the door.

She gestures toward the pot, “Please, get yourself something to eat.”

“Thank you,” I grab a bowl of the table and ladle stew into it, slurping ravenously.

Gerdur grabs several towels and a bottle on the shelf, then seats herself beside Shayn. “Remove your armor,” she says.

He frowns at her, “Do what?

Her lips twist, “Don't flatter yourself, soldier boy. Now remove your armor so I can fix you up.”

Slowly, his eyes flitting about with suspicion, he removes his armor. His thin, cotton garments are in tatters. Several holes are scorched in the cloth. Under that, I see where his chain mail was burned into his flesh from the fire. But she examines the nasty wound in his leg first, beginning to clean it.

He makes no sound, lying there obediently.

“Now,” Gerdur glances at me. “Tell me what happened at Helgen.”

I give her a short account between mouthfuls of stew, my memory of it a little foggy with exhaustion.

“A dragon?” she shakes her head once I've finished. “It...It can't be. They've been gone for so many years. Although it would explain what I saw earlier flying down the valley from the south. I thought I must have just been seeing things.”

Shayn chuckles, “So did I until it just about set me on fire.”

“It was a dragon,” I insist. “Ralof will tell you the same thing.”

She glances at me, “Where is he? Did he make it out safely?”

“Yes,” I nod, pulling up a chair from the table. “He was waiting to see if anyone else made it out.”

She is silent for a long moment, focusing on the task of bandaging Shayn's leg. “I believe you,” her voice is soft. “You two have the look of someone who's seen a dragon.” She rolls her eyes, “Things just go from bad to worse. First the war, now dragons. What's this world coming to? The Jarl needs to know if there's a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenseless. We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can.”

Shayn sits up, “We should go now. Do you have a horse for me to borrow?”

She attempts to push him down. “Slow down. Morning will come soon enough.” Then she walks over to a table at the other end of the room. “Now I know I have a health potion here somewhere.”

Shayn leans back against the wall. He already looks a little better.

I walk over to Gerdur to refill my bowl in time to see her put a pinch of something into a small vial. “What's that?” I ask.

“Nothing,” is her soft reply. “Just something to make him sleep.”

I nod, taking another spoonful of stew. “I'll go to Whiterun tomorrow. Will you wake me at dawn?”

“Of course. You can sleep by the hearth,” she walks back over to Shayn. “I'll find you a blanket.”

He takes the vial and drinks from it without hesitation. Gerdur goes outside after handing me a blanket. I remove my armor from my sore body, feeling suddenly weightless.

“Hey, elf,” Shayn's voice is a bit slurred, his eyes only half open. “What's your name?'

I fold my arms, offering a wry smile, “I'll tell you so long as you stop calling me that.”

He nods.

“Myra,” I shrug, settling down next to the fire.

His head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing.

I lie down beside the hearth, drawing the thick blanket around my shoulders. The sound of Gerdur entering again to build up the fire sounds so distant. So distant...

It seems like only seconds later when I feel a hand on my shoulder, giving me a firm shake. My body feels stuck to the floor. The blanket is tangled around me. Surely it's not morning yet.

“Wake up,” Gerdur's voice is soft. “The sun is rising.”

I heave myself upright. “Okay,” my voice is thick with sleep.

Her footsteps thud over to the other end of the room, “I've packed you a breakfast to eat on your journey. Whiterun is nearby, but there is no time to lose.”

“Right,” I stagger to my feet, rubbing my eyes. The chain mail feels like ice, even through my shirt. Outside the window, the streets are dark and still. But there is a pink tinge on the horizon. Gerdur stirs something on the hearth, humming softly to herself. A piece of cloth is wrapped up on the table, bound with a small string. The home is silent except for Shayn's heavy breathing. He lies asleep on the bed, lips parted.

Gerdur glances back at him, “He's much better. The health potion did the trick.”

I nod, “Good.” After strapping my bow and quiver to my back, I take the small package on the table. “I best be off,” my words still sound a little slurred. “Thank you for your help.”

“Get a detachment of soldiers here and your debt will be paid,” she nods to me, her voice kind.

“I will,” I promise before heading out the door and into the chilling air. The mill and smithy is silent now. High above, a cloud shrouds the mountaintops, giving them an air of mystery. My clothing rustles, making it feel as if a thousand prodding gazes are fixed on me from the shadows. The horizon is lighter now, making the sky a deep shade of blue instead of black.

I make my way down the cobblestone path to the north. A stone bridge leads out of the village, providing safe passage across the narrow river. The water travels in a smooth stream, faint and dark. At the end of the bridge, the path forks. One follows the river going toward the north and the other leads up the mountain. I take the first one, following the sounds of the river. Rocks jut up beside the path. The air smells clean and wet, like the moss growing in the caverns beneath Helgen. I unwrap the bundle she had given me to find several thick slices of bread and an apple. The food settles in my stomach quickly, making my eyelids droop.

My legs ache as I make my way along the path. I shake them as I go along, trying to regain the circulation. My armor rattles against the weaponry strapped to me. As the wind howls through the high peaks, I glance up, half expecting the dragon to come flying down from the mountain.

The minutes drag by in the stillness.

Dew beads up on the scrubby blades of grass and drips from the fir trees. The path slopes to the left, heading downward. As the trees around me thin, I see a fork ahead going in three directions – west, north, and east. Through the hanging branches, I can make out the huge walls of Whiterun in the distance. I breathe a relieved sigh.

Thank the Divines it is so close to Riverwood.

The river changes from a swift trickle to roaring rapids. Several Imperial soldiers walk up the road toward me. I put my head down, hoping beyond hope that they will not recognize me. They pass slowly, conversing in low tones. I hold my breath, my heart pounding, until they are safely passed.

When I reach the fork, I turn to the west. The land around is barren of trees. Farms surround the city, separated from the grassy land by short fences. Whiterun looms up from the ground, the gates on the outside shorter than the towers and enormous palace inside. The grays of the stone walls and wood roofs blend together. Guards make their rounds on the streets around the city, faces covered with large helmets.

After passing the fragrant farms, I enter through the stone arch and make my way toward the gate. Guards stand behind the walls and on platforms around it, keeping a bored, relaxed watch. As I near the strong, wood gate, a guard starts forward, drawing his sword.

I tense, one hand going for my weapons.

“Halt!” he barks. “City's closed with the dragons about. Official business only.”

I swallow hard and speak with confidence, “I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack.”

The guard falters a moment, his grip tightening. Then he growls, “Fine. But I'll be keeping an eye on you.”

He bellows an order, and, after a moment, the gate creaks open. I enter the city, my footsteps clattering on the cobblestones. Inside the gate, guards drill soldiers, shouting orders. A woman to the left of the gate tans leather on a rack. Small homes on either side of the street are fashioned from aged wood, carved with intricate patterns. My breath comes in sharply at the beauty of the place. Ahead, carts line the road, vendors calling out over one another.

“Fresh meat!”

“Fine jewelry for sale!”

“Apples, two septims for three!”

Music drifts through the air from the inn beyond. A sign mounted out front reads “The Bannered Mare”. For a moment, I am not sure where to go. But when I look up, I see the palace, Dragonsreach, looming above the city. I hurry up the steps to the next level of the city. This must be the rich district. The homes are painted and carved with massive bulkheads, sitting high above the street. The people meandering about the street are dressed in fine clothes. A small stream runs through the city, carefully controlled by a trench dug into the stone. In front of Dragonsreach, a gnarled tree grows surrounded by trellises. Just beyond that is a statue of Talos, the hero-god that was outlawed by the Thalmor, the god that the Stormcloaks worship.

 

 

I pass by these and walk up the staircase to the palace. A circular courtyard surrounds it. Though the palace is built out of simple wood and stone, it is decorated with intricate pillars and arches. After I manage to get the guard to let me in, I walk into the cavernous hall.

Two large tables are set for several dozen people. In the center of the hall is a huge hearth. Orange flames blaze up from it. The room smells of a succulent breakfast, of bread baking and warm honey. Apple pies and perhaps sweet, glazed ham. Beyond the hearth, a man sits on a throne, arguing with a men dressed in fine silks.

As I approach, a woman comes between me and the Jarl. She is obviously a dark elf – her skin is grey, darkest around her black eyes. Her leather armor rustles as she walks. “What is the meaning of the interruption?” her voice is strangely deep. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

I fold my arms, “I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack.”

Her eyes narrow, thin lips pressing together, “Well that explains why the guards let you in. Come on then. The Jarl will want to speak to you.”

She leads the way for me to stand in front of the throne. The Jarl's lanky form is sprawled in a relaxed posture across the throne. One finger toys with his yellow beard. The firelight glints off his golden necklaces.

“So, you were at Helgen,” his eyes search my drawn, sleepy face. “You saw this dragon with you own eyes?”

“Yes,” I snort, the anger of the last few days surging beneath my cheeks. “I had a great view white the Imperials were trying to cut off my head.”

The Jarl looks faintly amused, “Really? You're certainly...forthright about your criminal past. But it's none of my concern who the Imperials want to execute. Especially now.” He leans forward, “What I want to know is what exactly happened at Helgen?”

I shrug, shifting back and forth, “The dragon destroyed Helgen, and last I saw it was heading this way.”

“By my spear, Irileth was right!” he gasps, glancing at the woman clad in leather armor. “What do you saw now, Proventus?” he says to the man who had been arguing with him before. “Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?”

Irileth steps forward, red hair glowing in the firelight, “We should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger if a dragon is lurking in the mountains.”

The man protests, pasty face scrunched, “The Jarl of Falkreth will view that as a provocation. He will assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack it. We should...”

“Enough!” the Jarl cuts in, voice stern. “I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” she salutes and walks down the hall.

The man stares at the floor, “If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties.”

“That would be best,” the Jarl nods, heavy brow furrowed.

Proventus hurries away.

The Jarl looks at me, silent for a moment. “Well done. You sought me out on your own initiative. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it.” He nods to a servant standing nearby. The servant comes forward, handing me a heavy bundle on bent knees.

I take it, feeling the weight of it. Armor, by the looks of it, and of very good quality.

“Take this as a token of my esteem,” the Jarl nods.

“Thank you, my Jarl,” I bow slightly.

He strokes his chin, eyes thoughtful, “Of course.” Then he continues, “There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps.” A faint smile spreads across his face. He stands, “Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter of these dragons and...rumors of dragons. I'll introduce you to him.” His eyes hold a mischievous gleam, “He can be a bit...difficult. Mages, you know.”

I follow him to a room on one side of the hall. Maps are laid out across a long desk along with several soul gems and spell books. On one wall, a circular alchemy lab casts a green glow about the small room. A cloaked figure pours over a book behind the desk, his face shadowed.

“Farengar,” the Jarl's voice intrudes on the silence of the room, “I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project.”

The court wizard looks up, dark eyes roving from the Jarl to me. I can't help but shiver and avoid his gaze. After a moment, he addresses me in a taut voice, “So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me.” He strokes his chin, “He must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me.”

The thought makes my legs wobble a little, but I shrug, “How hard could that be?”

A smile twists his small mouth, “Well, when I say 'fetch' I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

I let out a heavy sigh, suppressing an eye-roll. But I would much rather help to solve this dragon mystery than leave now. “What does a stone tablet have to do with dragons?” I pick at my fingernails.

“Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker,” Farengar speaks with a haughty tone to his voice. “You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumors. Impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that is outside their experience as being impossible.”

The Jarl gives me a here we go again sort of look.

“But I began to search for information about dragons – where had they gone all these years ago? And where were they coming from? I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow – a “Dragonstone” said to contain a map of dragon burial sites.” He points at me, “Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself.”

I shift back and forth for a long moment, mulling things over, then nod, “Alright.”

Farengar grins down at me, “Well then, off to Bleak Falls Barrow with you. The Jarl is not a patient man. Neither am I, come to think of it.”

I snort.

“This is priority now,” the Jarl nods, scratching his chin. “Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons. We need it, quickly, before it's too late.”

“Of course, Jarl Balgruuf,” Farengar nods. “You have given me a most able assistant. I am sure she will prove most useful.” He gives me a pointed look.

I nod, folding my arms.

The Jarl turns to me, “Succeed at this, and you will be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.”

The idea of compensation tips the scales. “Very well,” I say.

Then I turn and head down the hall. To Bleak Falls Barrow. To uncover the mystery.

Unbound - Part 2

Well, here's the next part of my Skyrim fanfic. I am really enjoying doing this just for the fun of it. I kind of drifted from what actually happened in the game because most of it was just gore.

I hope you enjoy!

An earth-shaking roar makes my heart leap into my throat. Wind whips past my face. My neck still across the block, I look up. Something swoops past. The shadow of the tower looms above me.

“What in Oblivion is that?!” General Tulius cries.

The headsman's ax is raised to strike, dark eyes meeting mine from beneath the black mask. His arms are tensed for the blow.

Suddenly, a huge, scaled creature lands on the tower above us, making the ground rumble. The headsman falters, looking back and gaping. The serpentine creature's huge wings fall down over the tower, gripping the sides. Bits of stone give away beneath its claws. From beneath the rows and rows of sharp, silver scales, two red orbs pierce into the company. Above that are two horns bending back toward its long spine. I hear the sounds of weaponry sliding from its casing. Shouts and screams all around.

A woman shrieks, “Dragon!”

Hadvar stands in front of the block, sword at the ready. “Archers!” he bellows.

Then the dragon opens its mouth, issuing a sound like thunder. A quick wave of light blasts toward us. The impact knocks me back. My face smashes into the ground. Someone steps on me. Moss and cobblestones flash in front of my eyes. Shouts. Screams. Black spots speckle my vision. I hear another roar and a crash like an avalanche from the mountains.

Gulping air, I heave to my knees. Blood runs down one arm from a nasty scrape.

Pandemonium. The tower is a flaming heap of rock across the road toward the gate. People run here and there. Imperials rally on one side of the fort, shooting at the black shadow flitting across the sky.

A rough hand closes around my arm, “Hey, kinsman! Get up! The gods won't give us another chance!”

I look up at Ralof's dirty face. His bindings have been cut. He looks strangely calm though he has to shout to be heard over the tumult. I nod, struggling to my feet.

“This way!” he dashes toward a tower opposite the one that had collapsed. The heavy wooden door is open. The dragon swoops above, blasting a house to the right into a pile of ash.

The moment we enter the tower, the door is slammed shut behind us. I gasp for air. A thick scent of blood chokes me. Several Stormcloaks lie on the floor, clutching bloody wounds, some crying out loudly and others lying still. Ulfric stands nearby, watching several people try to get the wounded on their feet.

“Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof pants. “What is that thing?! Could the legends be true?!”

Ulfric's voice rumbles deep in his throat, “Legends don't burn down villages.” Then he orders, “We need to move! Now!”

Ralof dashes up the circular staircase, calling back to me, “Up to the tower! Let's go!”

I hurry after him, my heart pounding inside my chest. “Where are we supposed to go?! There's no way out!”

We come to the landing. A second later, the wall bursts open. Ralof leaps back toward me, pressing himself against the wall to avoid the large chunks of flying rock. I see the dragon's huge head a moment before it sends a blast of fire through the hole. I duck down behind Ralof, heat filling the tower. The fire stops, leaving the rock charred and blackened.

Ralof peers around the corner, then hurries to the hole and looks out. Most of Helgen is visible from here, the houses aflame, rocks flung about, people crouching in corners like rats hiding from the light.

Ralof points, “See the inn on the other side?!”

I look down. The inn is only partially aflame, most of the roof fallen in. It lies several feet below. “Yeah!”

“Jump through the roof and keep going!”

Without hesitation I leap from the hole. For a long moment, I am suspended in the air, my surroundings rushing past. Then my feet slam into the floor, and I topple over, unable to catch myself with my wrists bound. Heat presses in on every side. I scramble to my feet and hurry over to a hole in the floor. Then I drop through and emerge back in the street, on the other side of the fallen tower.

“Haming! You need to get over here! Now!” I see Hadvar crouching near the wall of a house.

A boy stands in the road, backing away from a fallen form. To my horror, the enormous form of the dragon looms on the street close behind the form, watching. I remember the boy that had been told to wait inside by his father – this must be him.

“That's it, little cub,” the fallen man rasps as the boy inches back. “Make me proud.”

The dragon opens its mouth.

“Gods, everyone get back!” he grabs the boy and pulls him behind the house as the dragon sends a blast of fire toward him. I throw myself down next to them, the flame singeing my clothing. The fallen man is engulfed. “Torolf!” Hadvar shouts.

I cover my mouth, letting out a choked yelp. Memories of my father flash before my eyes.

The dragon spreads its wings and swoops back into the sky, still circling the fort.

Hadvar looks back at me, one side of his face bloody. A stricken look is frozen on his expression. “Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you want to say that way.” He looks back at an Imperial standing near the sobbing boy, “Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tulius and join the defense.” Then he runs out across the cobblestones.

“Gods guide you, Hadvar,” the Imperial murmurs.

I run after him. Sounds and images flash before my eyes, blurred and confused. Burnt bodies strewn across the ground. Cries of pain. Arrows flying. Fire everywhere. We pass men shooting at the dragon as it flies by.

We are going by a wall when Hadvar ducks down, bellowing, “Stay close to the wall!”

I lunge against the wall just as the dragon lands on top of it. Its wings grip the stones above us. A house in front of us bursts into flames. It takes flight again.

Hadvar tosses words over his shoulder, weaving his way through the ruins of the fort, “Quickly! Follow me! It's you and me, prisoner!”

The gate that leads out of the fort is blocked by another fallen tower. We work our way past it, ducking to avoid falling wreckage and the cursing, screaming people. We are near the middle of the fort, passing under an arc of stone. Two small, stone buildings lie next to the wall. Ralof comes from another archway, standing in front of Hadvar with his sword drawn.

“Ralof, you damned traitor!” Hadvar's voice is thick with fury. “Out of my way!”

Ralof's eyes are narrowed and yet triumphant, “We're escaping, Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time!”

Hadvar snaps, “Fine! I hope the dragon takes all of you to Sovngarde!” He runs past.

Ralof gestures toward me, heading for a door in one of the stone buildings, “You! Come on! Into the keep!”

I dash after him, waiting in an agony of impatience as he fumbles to open it. Dragon fire rushes toward us as we slam the door shut and bolt it.

Then there is only silence. I gasp for air, feeling the cold air chill my hot, sweaty body. After a moment, I look around at the small, circular room. Moss grows in cracks between the stones that make up the walls. The floor is muddy. A gate-like door lies on either side of the room. Next to a small table lies the still bodies of two Stormcloaks.

I shiver.

Ralof kneels down beside them, closing their eyes. His voice is soft, “We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother.” After a long moment, he stands, wiping his eyes. He looks back at me, “Looks like we're the only ones that made it. That thing was a dragon! Just like the children's tales and legends! The harbingers of the End times.”

“I thought...” my voice quavers, “I thought that they were gone for good.”

“As did I.” He takes a deep breath as if to calm himself. “We had better get moving. Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off.”

I offer my bound wrists. He cuts the rope with the blade of his sword.

“There you go,” he forces a weak smile and gestures to the fallen Stormcloaks. “You may as well take their gear. They won't be needing it anymore.”

I nod and kneel down beside them. They are both men; I take the armor from the smaller of the two. The chain-mail falls heavily across my shoulders, reaching past my knees and elbows. After pulling on the blue cotton tunic, I strap the leather vest over it.

Ralof walks over to the door on the right, “I'm going to see if there's another way out of here.” He tries the door, but it is locked.

I pick up an iron sword. The rough grip feels so familiar, so comforting.

Shouts echo through the place, coming toward the room from the left door. “Someone's coming!” I look at Ralof.

Ralof hisses, ducking next to the door, “It's the Imperials. Take cover.”

I press myself against the wall on the other side, holding the sword at the ready and listening.

Anger boils inside me as I hear the sharp voice of the Imperial Captain ordering, “Come on! Get this gate open!”

The gate slides open. Ralof strikes down the first Imperial that comes through.

The Captain shouts, “Stormcloaks! Don't let them get away!”

I lunge forward away from the wall so that I will have room. The Captain charges past Ralof – who is locked into battle with another Imperial – and swings her sword at me. I block the blow with my sword, the impact jarring my arm. I have trained with weaponry all my life, but then, I bet she has too. And she has a shield.

She holds her shield at the ready, dark eyes narrowed.

I feint toward the left, then swing the sword toward the weak spot in her armor, above the hip and under her arm. She knocks my sword away from her, counter attacking with her own. I duck under the blow. My hand locks around her wrist, jerking her to the side and stabbing my sword into her back beneath the armor. She cries out, then falls limp to the floor in a pool of her own blood.

I shudder, looking away.

Ralof slides his sword into its sheath, searching the pockets of the Imperials. “Maybe one of these Imperials had the key.”

As he searches, I pull the shield from the Captain's slack arm and strap it to my own. “Find anything?” I ask.

“Aha, here it is,” he pulls the key out and walks over to the other door, unlocking it. “Come on.”

We weave our way through the dark place, groping. The occasional crack in the ceiling sheds a cold ray of light. After a while, we find a few torches, and Ralof lights one. The orange light casts on eerie glow over the stone walls. A musty smell chokes me as we go farther and farther. Except the occasional shelf next to the wall or crumpled bedroll in adjoining rooms, the place is completely bare.

The place suddenly begins to rumble, bits of rock raining down on us. All at once, the ceiling behind us collapses. We dive out of the way. Dust makes it difficult to breathe.

Ralof chokes between bouts of coughing, “No going back that way now. We better push on. The rest of them will have to find another way out.”

“Right,” I choke.

The minutes drag past like eternities.

Then I hear the sounds of fighting up ahead. After a moment, the sounds fade into silence. As we round the corner, Ralof shudders, “Trolls blood! The torture room...”

But the torturer lies dead, a cowl covering his face. Several Stormcloaks are searching the empty cells.

Ralof asks, “Is Jarl Ulfric with you?”

A woman with her hair pulled back in the remnants of a braid replies, “No. I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up. But we came in through there,” she points to another door.

Ralof begins stuffing supplies into his pockets.

After a quick search, I find a small bag of gold and tie it to my belt. A bow and quiver lie near one wall, probably taken from an unlucky prisoner. I take those and strap them to my back.

I hear a groan and turn. Ralof crouches down next to a man – he leans against the wall, his wiry body tensed. There is an awful cut on his leg and several spots on side where he was obviously burned. His olive skin is smudged with dirt, his angular face scrunched. He must be a Nord, but his face seems a little too elvish. Ragged black hair hangs into his face, a braid, longer than the rest, falling to his shoulder.

“He needs treatment,” the woman looks at Ralof. “We are going to stay here to see if anyone else makes it through. Take him with you.”

Ralof nods slowly, “Shayn, are you able to walk?”

A smirk twists his lips. He's younger than most of the men I've seen today, probably only a few years older than me. “Ever since I was knee high to a Skeever,” his voice is strained.

Ralof chuckles, pulling him to his feet, “Come on, then.”

Shayn winces, leaning against him heavily.

Ralof looks back at me, “We'd better move on. We've got to get out before the dragon brings the whole place down on our heads.”

I nod, and we make our way down the hall. There are empty cells on either side. After a few minutes we come to a dead end. Ralof holds out the torch in front of him. There is a hole in the ceiling, large enough to crawl through.

“Let's see where this leads,” Ralof hands Shayn the torch. Then he jumps up, grabbing on and heaving himself up. Shayn leans against the wall, holding up the torch. His face is pallid; sweat beads on his forehead.

He looks at me, his gray eyes somehow playful, “You're not one of us, are you?”

I shake my head.

“Come on,” Ralof calls down. “This might be a way out.”

He reaches a hand down. I take the torch from Shayn, and he grips my shoulder as he limps over to the hole. Ralof pulls him up, then me. The torch reveals a narrow pathway. We follow it, our breathing loud in the heavy silence.

Voices come from up ahead. Ralof and Shayn exchange glances and we make our way forward cautiously. The narrow path broadens into a huge cavern with stalactites pointing down toward the floor. Glowing mushrooms grow on the walls. Ralof snuffs out the torch. In the middle of the cavern stands a large group of Imperials, many of them lying down, obviously wounded. Their voices are hushed, but the echo carries their words to us.

“Our orders were to wait until General Tulius arrives.”

“For Arkay's sake, we need to leave! That dragon could bring this whole place down.”

Ralof leans over, his lips near my ear, “We'd better sneak around. I'd really rather not tangle with them right now. Keep your bow ready. We'll take it nice and slow.”

I nod, making my way forward, crouched down next to the wall. As I go, I take the bow off my back and nock an arrow to it. I've always had more ability with a bow than other weapons. Fallen boulders and stalactites help to conceal us. Ralof supports Shayn, walking behind me. My heart pounds in my throat. Every time an Imperial turns in our direction I expect him to shout and draw his sword. Sweat trickles down my face. We are nearing the other end of the cavern when one man looks straight at me, standing nearby.

Hadvar.

I draw back the bowstring, aiming the arrow at his chest. Can't breathe.

He doesn't make a sound, staring at me.

Our eyes lock in one meaningful look, then he turns away, saying nothing.

I let the string go loose without releasing the arrow, continuing on. Adrenaline makes my limbs shake. He's not going to say anything. Once we reach the other end, we slip through the passage, unseen.

Ralof hisses, “What was that?”

I shrug.

The stone path begins to slope upward beneath us, the walls pressing close on every side. I grope my way forward, unable to see anything in the blackness. My breaths become labored.

Then I see a light up ahead.

“There!” Ralof points. “We're almost there!”

Our pace quickens, and, what seems like seconds later, we emerge into the sunlight. Helgen is nowhere in sight.