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Viewing 15 posts - 136 through 150 (of 178 total)
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  • #137432
    Neasa
    @irishcelticredflowercrown

    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    I am very sorry for your loss. It must be very difficult for you all during this time. Know that my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family🙏

    #142684
    Livi Ryddle
    @anne_the_noob14

    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    I feel so bad that I just saw this now. I’m so sorry for your loss. Sending love and kind thoughts to you and your family <3

    “Enough! Be quiet! I can’t hear myself think! I can’t hear my teeth chatter!"

    #142730
    Brian Stansell
    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    @anne_the_noob14

    @irishcelticredflowercrown

    Thank you, Livi and Neasa.

    I have been off for a while but am finally getting back on the SE Forums.
    Thank you for your prayers and concern.
    May you both have a very blessed day.  My mom finished her race well*.

    *I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful. [2 Timothy 4:7 NLT]

    Brian Stansell (aka O'Brian of the Surface World)
    I was born in war.
    Fighting from my first breath.

    #142735
    imwritehere1920
    @imwritehere1920

    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    Hey there, Brian.  I came to visit this topic and heard that your mom passed away.  I’m so sorry for your loss.  I’m glad that’s she’s in heaven with Christ right now, though, and I look forward to meeting her one day.  She sounds like an amazing person.  If there’s anything I can pray for you specifically, please let me know!

    We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master. — Ernest Hemingway

    #142833
    Cathy
    @this-is-not-an-alien

    Hi @imwritehere1920 @obrian-of-the-surface-world @anne_the_noob14 @irishcelticredflowercrown *hugs for everybody <3*
    I guess I have an audio now and a OneDrive…actually I’ve been procrastinating posting it for while but I guess…if ya wanna hear it…</3
    Edge of Fire: Book 1: chapter 1 [words: 2104] link
    <p style=”text-align: center;”>I am not the hero of this story</p>
    <p style=”text-align: center;”>But the villain</p>
    It’s the sort of rain like icicles that melts your bones. Been two years and nothing’s changed. Every sloshing clip clop sends a roller coaster through his heart. The shadowed lad coughs as his dripping cloak clings to his skin, clutching his sides and trying to muffle the sound. Everything a blur by now like looking through a foggy mirror. Down a dark street, mud tripping his torn boots. A susurrus echo rumbles under the pattering sound like fingers thumping on glass.
    Dead if they find him. Used like a child’s doll.
    One of the only things he can see is the blur of dancing constellations in the sky. Stars visibly rove across the night in Casumbra. The town, Tertumbra, is no place to be after dark, not that he has a choice in the matter. If no one’s about he might slip through, stay the night. It’s far better than the ghoul-haunted woods.
    Can’t see a thing with every small light refracting on his brain, if there’d been a rewind he’d never–It doesn’t matter. As he feels along the wall of a house, he rubs his sooty forehead knocking his thumb along a scar that hooks to an end at his left eyebrow; just one more proof that something can seem like love, and only be a game.
    His body tenses before he consciously hears the sound behind him. It’s the noise of soldiers, a patrol to ensure curfew, especially during the war. Spies wander at night, and people who are hiding. He’s the latter but it doesn’t make a difference if they find him, everyone’s grave is six feet deep. Don’t move or keep moving hoping they won’t notice?
    Swish. There’s something in the shadows. Can’t move, not sure what part of him still exists other than feverish pain. Somewhere through that cone of dissociation he can hear heavy soldier boots clip clop along a different set of shadows. He just has to keep moving but his body won’t let him. Too numb. Keep moving. A knock and his feet drop under him into broken pottery he hadn’t noticed. Another swish, there is definitely something in front of him.
    “Prrreow” He nearly flinched out of his skin but it’s only a wulfling [Footnote: Wulflings used to be feline breeds intended for highborn nobles. During the Great War they were trained as bloodhounds but now they’re mostly strays living in boroughs and shires. Very dangerous in packs.] With a shaky gasp of relief he staggers up a little, his knees gouged bloody with fragments of ceramic and clay. The sleek predatory feline’s glowing eyes curl suspiciously, its bushy tail whooshing floppily behind it.
    “It’s ok…” He murmurs, his own voice foreign to his ears, husky and inaudible as if as counterfeit as his own survival. Without meaning to he sinks into the wall, cold feels like fire at this point, biting harsh. “…I’ll be out of your way in just a notch…”
    He stares tautly with glazed dark-gold eyes, breathing slowly. Blinking, his gaze slides to the scraggly creature glaring at him, batty ears prodding up and down like a flappy sign in a hurricane. So tired, too tired. He knows he should keep moving.
    “Don’t worry…I won’t hurt you…right now I don’t think I can…” He chokes, a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough. Tenitively, he makes a move to scratch the wulfling’s ears but it hisses at him. His hand withdraws a little, he can count its ribs through mattes of fur. “Sometimes people just hurt you…just because…because they can…”
    He swallows, his knees curling into his chest, watching the creature he tries to smile. Everything looks and feels blurry. It’s so cold it burns into his bones.
    Another noise. More footsteps. He tenses, listening in and out of awareness.
    “…somewhere that way.” Footsteps. Clip clop, clip clop. Under his baggy hood the lad traces a hand along the wall for support. Have to keep moving. But they’re too close. His gaze shifts back to the wulfling, hopping off its barrel with a careless, nauseating motion. Show off.
    “It n’t matter anyway, ready for a good round a the uby Gryphon.”
    He shifts a little, wondering how much longer he can stay conscious. Blazing hot skin, it’s like a fire-born game. No…it’s raining, freezing out here. Not thinking he touches the wulfling’s furry side so gently the animal isn’t aware of the intrusion. Fuzz clings to his fingers, stiff lumps are the bones that press into its skin.
    “…just want to see your pretty little ribbon.”
    He scratches the wulfling a little too stiffly and a clawed smack rakes into his arm. “Ow!” Tottering back he wrenches some semblance of balance before falling hard enough to make a noise, staring at the creature with a hurt look. Something hot oozes into claw marks on his arm. Fuzzy silhouettes outline soldiers in an all-too-bright light cast by the dual moons. A few yards away now. He can even see the muddy steel-tip of their boots.
    Have to get out, not enough time. Splintery wood gnaws into his hand as he leans hard into the barrel to drag himself up. “Just my luck,” He pushes up only to back up a few steps and topple against the mud and stone wall. “48,000 gods in Casumbran mythology and not one decided to create wood without splinters…or maybe give humans impenetrable skin.” His olive-tinted hand slides to the bow in the quiver underneath his cloak. It holds more than two years of regret, a present from his brother when he was nine.
    They’ll kill him if they find him. He’s going to pass out soon he needs to act now and he can’t run. Necessary. Only a coward would wait instead of seizing his chance, his father would’ve told him.
    ‘Honor, duty and crown, Alessio. This kingdom can’t afford weakness.’
    Two soldiers. One lagging behind just a little. Only generals and knights can afford good armor. Alessio could land an arrow through the man’s neck and fire another before his companion had time to react and it’d be over. If he doesn’t know he won’t miss, it might have been easier.
    The slender cord and the arrow between his fingers notched with red feathers like the Thayer ballad.
    ‘No weakness.’ He doesn’t pull back the arrow, it remains frozen in his hands.
    “See, and I told you, nothing here. Haha, let’s get you a good drink, eh?”
    Alessio doesn’t move, eyes poised on the slightest shift of shadow that might turn to his hiding place. When something brushes his leg he jumps.
    “Preeoww.” Its thick tail whooshes around his legs. Alessio’s eyes instinctively drop to it. “Oh, now you want to be friends? You realize you just lacerated my arm a few notches ago?” It is the first time in a long time he felt any even slightly reassuring physical contact. He still wants to be angry at the wulfling, instead of crumbling at the first fragment of warmth. “That’s not even slightly cute, not even a little.” He thinks at it, almost feeling betrayed again. Even so he brushes its ear softly and it gives a low purr.
    They’re so close he can see their faces.
    Alessio nudges the creature a little, but it ignores the hint. “Please move…” Carefully, he tries to step over the wulfling but it darts between his legs knocking him so hard he lands on its tail and it shrieks with rabid fury.
    “Hey! Out of there!”
    Panic jolts through Alessio like a hot stake in his spine, barely regaining his balance in time. He ducks in the corner, closing his eyes and praying for a merciful end.
    “Devils, to death and darkness, it’s just a bastard wulfling. Get out, you!” Thunk! With a yowl that makes Alessio flinch. “It didn’t do anything to you!”
    “Right here! I told you!” A steely thrust suddenly yanks him up. With a frantic slash Alessio quakes backwards into the wall, knife already escaping his shaky hand by the time the soldier wheels back at him, cursing while his companion laughs.
    “Why you little–” Alessio ducks but not in time as his body jerks forward, bunched knots of heavy-soaked collar wrenching weight with the force. Thick moist breath chokes the air, blazing white panic like an unstable narcotic. Sword in the soldier’s hand and precious little time, Alessio pushes back, a burning current sparking through the nerves of his hand.
    Both soldiers jump back. Without thinking Alessio glances down to see fire curling through his fingers, intoxicating smoky warmth winding through his bones. No nono no, not again, he can’t–no.
    “An aberrant…” Real fear creeps into the soldiers voice, fear and prejudicial hate. Alessio backs, then runs, whipping into an alleyway almost collapsing into a stone and mud structure, probably a house. Every nerve rattles inside him. It’s too dark. Blotches of color obscure his vision, it’s fever-hot outside even the rain feels like sparks of fire.
    He can hear them cursing, they’re right behind him. Alessio tries to feel what’s in front of him but it singes his hand. A cleft in the wall, or maybe it’s the side of a wagon, a–shutters! Wood shutters. He has to get off the street, he has to now. Snatching for his–oh no, the knife he dropped it. Without time Alessio jabs an arrowhead between the small wood doors. Clip clop clip clop! “Please open, please please open.” Twisting the arrow up and down, jamming it into the lock he abruptly catches a snap vibrate into his fingertips as the lock breaks. He whips a glance back before scrambling inside. In the process he drops the bow he hadn’t realized he’d still been holding. He slams the shutters closed and flinches at the noise it makes.
    Footsteps. He can still hear them. They’re…they’re passing. They’re passing, it’s ok, it’s ok, everything’s…

    Numb to the point of passing out, Alessio hangs on the windowsill panting softly. Stiffly he runs a hand through his hair. Something stuck on his skin rubs into his soppy dark curls. He just broke someone’s shutters, he thinks, fumbling through his pockets. All he can find are three marveti. Not enough but it’ll have to do. He sets it on the windowsill and doesn’t move. Closing his eyes the sound of his own breathing lulls him into a partial anesthesia.
    “I don’t want to die yet.”
    “Ehem,” From some part of the room and Alessio flinches upright. “Most people…most people actually use the front door…”
    Alessio freezes, all the adrenaline punching him into a daze. The owner of the house, assumably, how’d he wake up so soon? Maybe time is so skewed right now. The man is in his sixties, seventies, leathery skin, very tired…wait, focus–
    “Not a, erm, not a very pleasant night for a walk, is it…” His voice is wandering, gravelly…Alessio blinks back a sheet of kaleidoscope dots. He shakes his head slightly, finding it hard to breath. Can’t back out, nowhere to go. Have to find a way out. Stay conscious.
    “You’re…you’re, erm, bleeding all over the floor…”
    Alessio glances down, but everything’s a blurry haze of brown, black and red.
    “I…I’m sorry, sir…I’ll cl-clean it up…”
    “I don’t think you quite heard me, I said you’re bleeding on the floor.”
    “I’m sor–” Alessio blinks, trying to think of anything to say to make it stop and–bleeding? “I’m not about to die, am I?!”
    “It’s…it’s ok…just calm down, son…and…put down the arrow…”
    Alessio hadn’t realized he’s still clutching the arrow he broke the shutters with. His knuckles ache, he consciously loosens his grip and there’s a tiny thunk as it drops. The stranger, whoever it is, clears his throat again, like a nervous tick, his voice bleeding a forced cheeriness or reassurance or whatever it is to try and get him to follow his lead.
    “It doesn’t…look too bad…erm, it’s just a small gash…” That’s bleeding on the floor…! He can’t hear anything over the pounding of his brain, and everything looks as distorted as a reflection in a pool during the rain. Hands reachi–Alessio jars back as the stranger tries to take him by the shoulder. Crystal blue eyes, no…no it’s not him but the bl–Stop!…just breathe…you’re not there anymore…just breathe…
    “…alright…it’s ok…let’s…we haven’t started off very, ehem, well…just…what is your name?”
    Alessio tries to focus on the man, trying to find out whether or not it’s safe, and he can’t quite understand what he’s saying yet. He wants to trust him, he can’t, he needs to get out before…
    “What’s your name, son?”
    “I…it’s…Ky…it’s Alessio…” He can’t hear what the man says next. A dizzying web over his eyes is the last thing he remembers.

    To be a light to the world you must shine in the darkness.

    #143445
    Brian Stansell
    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    Moniker: @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    Book Title: Excavatia: From Dust Arise (Book 1 of the Excavatia Series)
    Audio Link: Chapter 12 – Days of The Warrior Kings – Scene 1 (The Bruel)
    Duration: 4 minutes 15 seconds

    Text: Words: (635)

    The rain had just begun to fall when the Xarmnian troop leader, called a “bruel,” kicked in the door to the Inn and the main dining hall.  The door was unbolted, but the bruel didn’t care.  He wanted a show of violence to punctuate his entry.

    An olive-skinned woman, matronly plump, yet by no means obese, came out of the kitchen area wiping her hands with a dish towel.

    “Now what is this?” she demanded, seeing the Xarmnian bruel standing like an imposing shadow in the door way of the Inn, rain hissing behind him on the threshold.  The door swung against the inner wall, its hasp and catch splintered by the kick inward.  A pool of water ran in rivulets into the room, blown through the rudely opened doorway.

    “Where is the keeper of this Inn?!” the bruel demanded.

    The woman quietly dried her hands and draped the dishtowel on the serving counter, before answering.

    “He and the missus are out.  It’s the off-season.  Annual restocking trip.  Can I get you and your men rooms for the night?”

    She looked past the man at the broken latch and the heaving door, then back at the man.

    “Was that necessary?” she asked, but the man did not respond to her question.

    “Ale!” the bruel demanded.

    “Just as you please,” said the woman, rounding the bar, reaching under the counter and bringing out a tall metal flagon and turning towards a tapped barrel along the back wall.  She eyed the handle of a small dirk, lying just under the lip of the barrel rack, barely visible to anyone not standing just so.

    The wind behind the man tugged at the open door and knocked it against the wall post.

    “Mind getting the door, luv?” she said, with a slight grimace, her face averted.

    When she turned with the filled flagon, the bruel had moved closer to the bar and had unsheathed a long knife, laying it horizontally along the surface of the bar, under his cupped hand.  The woman’s eyes flicked to it, and then looked past the cruel man, daring her to meet his eyes.

    She started to set the flagon down on the bar, and the man’s other hand flashed out catching her wrist in a cruel and tightening grip.

    The woman winced as the pressure increased but she did not drop the flagon.

    Quietly, her teeth gritted against the crushing pain, she said, “You want the drink, or not?”

    “Set it down on the bar,” the bruel growled, glaring at her, waiting for her to look up and meet his eyes.

    “You’ll have to release my hand,” she said, swallowing, eyes fixed on the wooden bar.

    Suddenly the pressure subsided, but the bruel’s other hand flexed around the handle of the knife, his fingers curling under the prone handle.

    The woman shakily sat the flagon down, the foam almost spilling over the rim.

    The bruel took the handle of the flagon and raised it to his lips, turning his head slightly to keep an eye on her.

    “To your health,” he growled the threat, as he took a long draught, downing the contents, keeping his eye on her for any sudden movement.

    Finished he sat the flagon down on the bar with a slight knock, then wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand, this time lifting the knife off of the bar.

    Four Xarmnian soldiers stepped into the dining hall from the open doorway behind him, their clothes dripping wetly from the outside rain, two holding long pointed throwing spears, the others bearing swords tinged red with fading gore.

    “Now I’ll ask you again,” he said, carving the air in front of her, waving the gleaming blade from side to side across the bar, “Where. Is. The Inn keeper?”

    Brian Stansell (aka O'Brian of the Surface World)
    I was born in war.
    Fighting from my first breath.

    #148472
    Erynne
    @erynne

    Nobody panic! (I am but no one else is allowed to)

     

    I got permission to do this and spent like the last week working on the audio. And, it’s like a minute long. So, yeah…

     

    Anyhow, I apologize for the bad editing, and the bad voice (yes, I know I sound like a dude. I swear I am female)

     

    Also, I just did the prologue as a test and my alpha reader informed me that it’s the only interesting part of my story. Thank you, sis

     

    Moniker: @erynne

    Details: 228 words 1:30 minute audio

    Audio: Prologue

    Text:

    I hate that feeling. The feeling that this is happening, that this is real. The feeling that everything you’ve ever worked for, everything you’ve ever protected, is lost. I thought about this as I stared into the large crowd in front of me, full of shouting people. Each was shouting for his own reason. His own emotion. It may have been anger or fear, some may have been pleased, others may have been distraught, but did it really matter now? It was over, I had lost.

    It was hard for me to look at the few faces in the crowd I did recognize- my mother, my sister- the faces I would never see again. The disappointment and confusion shone in their faces like the sun used to shine through my bedroom window every morning. Except this wasn’t happy or hopeful or   good. This was the end. I also thought about the ones whose footsteps I was following in- my dad’s, Jack’s, the baby’s. I had let them down. All of them. I sighed as the guard brought me to the center of the platform.

    “I’m sorry,” I whisper as I close my eyes to prepare myself for the pain, the torture, and finally, my death that was to follow. Of course, I never could’ve been prepared for what happened in those few moments after I closed my eyes…

     

    I hope that works…

    • This reply was modified 5 months, 3 weeks ago by Erynne.
    • This reply was modified 5 months, 3 weeks ago by Erynne.
    • This reply was modified 5 months, 3 weeks ago by Erynne.

    Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you ever know who would love the person you hide.

    #148490
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    @erynne,

    Gaah, I’d love to listen, but I can’t open the file!! *curses technological difficulties*

    https://thepeninspired.wordpress.com

    #148491
    Erynne
    @erynne

    @joelle-stone

    Nooo!!! Is there any chance you can tell me what I need to do? I don’t know anything about this technology thing 😫

    (Do I need to contact the…

    *tries to come up with a compliment that starts with B.*

    *Only comes up with bloated*

    *Oh! Brilliant!*

    Do I need to contact the Brilliant Brian??)

    Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you ever know who would love the person you hide.

    #148493
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    @erynne,

    This is what I’m seeing. Maybe check the link and make sure there isn’t a typo?

    https://thepeninspired.wordpress.com

    #148494
    Erynne
    @erynne

    Ok. I’m not even sure if I shared it right though. How do I do that?

    Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you ever know who would love the person you hide.

    #148495
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    *blinks* Uh… I don’t remember. XD @obrian-of-the-surface-world HELP! XD

    https://thepeninspired.wordpress.com

    #148497
    Erynne
    @erynne

    PLEASE HELP ME BLOATED/ BRILLIANT BRIAN IM AN IDIOT

    Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you ever know who would love the person you hide.

    #148499
    Brian Stansell
    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    @erynne

    Hi Erynne,

    I think you are attempting to share the file link from your local hard drive (C: Drive).
    Try putting it in a Cloud-based drive like One Drive (Microsoft’s version) or a Google Drive.  This way the file is in an Internet-accessible place, that you can give permission to access.  Story Embers used to have someplace where we put shared drafts that we could work on together for the different contests we had when we had the Guilds.  I’m not sure if those are still available. But if you can put a copy of the file in either a Google Drive or One Drive, then you can Right-click the file with your mouse and get a shareable link that you can paste in the forum chat pages.

     

    Brian Stansell (aka O'Brian of the Surface World)
    I was born in war.
    Fighting from my first breath.

    #148501
    Erynne
    @erynne

    @obrian-of-the-surface-world

    Thank you so much, Bloated/Brilliant Brian, sir.

    Be weird. Be random. Be who you are. Because you ever know who would love the person you hide.

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