Worth It

Once upon a time, there was a writer named Sarah. One day, Sarah was trying to write a short story for the summer writing class she was taking, but she had such terrible writer's block that she couldn't think of a single story to write. In desperation, she started writing about her writer's block, and behold, a story was born after all.
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Worth It

            It’s 9:57 P.M. on July fifteenth. I’m sitting at my desk, staring at a blank page in my notebook with a pencil in my hand and no ideas left in my head. Normally, I’d be thinking about going to bed right about now. Unfortunately, Camp NaNoWriMo is halfway over, I’m three days behind on my word count, and I’ve barely written three pages today.

            I have to admit that writer’s block has me feeling as trapped as my characters. That’s saying something, since one of those characters is in a heavily guarded dungeon, has lost his last ally, and is in so much pain that he’s wondering why he isn’t dead right now. I’d like to blame his situation on my characters, but no, this time it’s completely my fault. I can’t deny that. I also can’t deny that his situation is about half the reason for my writer’s block.

            I sigh and drop my pencil. I flip back through the last ten pages in my notebook, looking for inspiration and instead finding several spelling and grammar mistakes and nearly falling down a plot hole. I linger for a moment over the plot hole, hoping that fixing it will make my character’s situation slightly less impossible. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes it worse. So, I leave the hole as it is and flip back to my blank page.

            I start to pick up my pencil, but stop. The page glares up at me, and I glance at the clock. 10:12. I’ve just spent fifteen minutes getting nowhere. Then again, I’ve spent all day getting nowhere, so what’s another fifteen minutes?

            Returning my attention to the notebook, I pick up my pencil and start to jot down a sentence. I stop halfway through and grab my eraser. My character feeling sorry for himself won’t do the situation any good, though I suppose it might boost my word count by a few hundred words or so. More importantly, I’m dismayed enough as it is without my character having a pity party.

            Despite my best efforts with my eraser, I can’t get all the pencil marks off the page. The faint lines of the deleted words seem to taunt me. I can’t even come up with a single sentence I like. In the page margin, I calculate exactly how many words behind I am. I should be at twenty-five thousand, five hundred words. I have just over nineteen thousand, nine hundred, which means I’m behind by a solid five thousand. With a mostly stifled moan, I drop my pencil again. Maybe this isn’t worth it.

            I flip through the last ten pages again and find more mistakes, more places I should’ve worded something differently, more places a character should’ve said this and not that, and another plot hole. I consider the synopsis of my book. When I first came up with the idea for the plot, I’d been so excited. Now, however, I can’t help but consider how similar it is to other books I’ve read. I slump in my seat. Let’s face it. My story is lousy. I should just give up now. The idea seems rather attractive, in an “I-just-don’t-care-anymore” way. So what if I won’t complete this Camp NaNoWriMo? You can’t win everything. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat for once.

            I close my notebook, not bothering to put a bookmark in it like I usually do. I start to stand and walk over to my bed, but stop before I can climb in. I think again about my character. He wants to give up. He has a lot more reason to want to give up than I do. But I wouldn’t let him give up. I never let any of my characters give up, at least not for long. So what right do I have to give up on them? 

            Slowly, I turn around and walk back to my desk. Instead of sitting down in my chair and opening my notebook again, I kneel on the floor and pull open one of my drawers containing my finished notebooks. One by one, I lift them out: seven black composition notebooks and two spiral-bound notebook. I consider what it took to fill these notebooks. Hours of brainstorming. Hours of trying to find just the right words. Hours of trying to figure out how in the world to get my characters out of the messes I’ve put them in. Hours of not giving up, even when I’m stumped and my characters refuse to cooperate with anything I want them to do.

            I look up at the bookshelf across the room. Rows of novels greet my eyes: paperbacks and hardbacks, classics and contemporary novels, fantasies and nonfiction. All so different, but all with one thing in common: the authors didn’t give up. Come to think of it, neither did the characters in those novels. They kept struggling through, even when things got tough, and because of that, they succeeded. I glance at the notebook sitting on my desk. Even without writer’s block, it’ll be difficult to succeed, to achieve my goal of fifty thousand words by the end of the month. But it won’t be impossible. The only thing that could make it impossible to succeed is if I give up. 

            Is giving up really worth it?

            I smile and place the notebooks back in their drawer. I know the answer to this question: it isn’t. And so I won’t give up. I’ll keep working, keep trying to write, and keep trying to figure out how in the world I can get my character out of the predicament he’s in. At least now I think I know how to give him a little hope to keep trying. 

            I stand. Pull out my desk chair and sit down. And then I reopen my notebook, pick up my pencil, and start writing. 

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Note: the introduction is true. The story is not, though it is based on my life. I hope you enjoyed it!

Lost and Found

Hey'a, all! I'm sorry about the lack of recent posts; I've been working on Camp NaNoWriMo and it's keeping my pretty busy. On that subject, I'm afraid the book reviews I was hoping to do will have to be at least postponed until after Camp NaNoWriMo is over. In the meantime, I should have plenty of short stories to post.
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Lost and Found

            “Well, officer? Any word?”

            “I’m afraid not, Mr. Roberts. We’ve uncovered nothing new in well over a week now. In fact, that’s why I called.”

            Mr. Roberts’s grip tightened on the phone. “What do you mean, officer?”

            There was silence over the line for a moment. “Well, she disappeared three weeks ago, Mr. Roberts. There’s been no new information in over a week. All the information we do have points to her having run away, with no signs of foul play of any kind. It’s a cold case, Mr. Roberts, and we’re stretched thin at the moment. I’m afraid that, until further notice, we’re stopping official investigation on the case.”

            Mr. Roberts had seen the words coming, but they hit hard nonetheless. He slumped back in his kitchen chair, struggling to control himself. “You won’t search for Jenna any longer?”

            “Not unless we receive new information on her case, no. I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts. I’d like to be able to keep looking for her, just like I’d like to be able to keep looking for every other person who hasn’t been found yet. If we had any leads or enough manpower, we’d certainly continue the search, but as it is . . .” His voice trailed off.

            “Yes, I see.” He did see, or the logical part of his mind did, anyway. The police had done all they could, and he couldn’t expect them to keep looking when they had no leads. His heart, however, wanted to cry out, “But that’s my daughter out there! It’s the middle of winter, and she could be alone, lost, hurt!” Instead, he asked, “Anything else, officer?”

            “Nothing. We’ll be certain to let you know if anything changes.”

            “Thank you, officer. Have a nice day.” Mr. Roberts lowered the phone before he could hear the officer apologize again and wish him a nice day as well. He rose to his feet and replaced the phone in its base. Then he walked to the door, grabbing a coat from the closet as he passed, and headed out into the cold evening. The police might’ve given up on Jenna, but there was someone else who hadn’t, and Mr. Roberts felt it was time to go talk to Him again.

~~~~~

            She woke curled up on the pavement, cold and aching all over, just as she had . . . how many times? She didn’t know. She hadn’t bothered counting. At first she’d been certain she’d get home soon. Now it was just too much effort. She struggled to remember what she was doing out here on the streets. Where was her father? No, she’d left him. Where was Marcus, then?

            Oh. That’s right. Marcus had been a liar. He hadn’t cared for her like he said he did. He’d tricked her into coming with him so he could use her. But he’d asked too much of her, and she’d refused. She remembered that much clearly now. She’d said no, no, no too many times to him. Finally he’d lost his temper and beat her until she lost consciousness. How long ago had that been? A day? Three days? A week?

            She knew she needed help. She had to find someone to help her, even if it meant admitting that she was wrong. That she shouldn’t have left. Shouldn’t have trusted Marcus. She tried to struggle to her feet, but couldn’t seem to find the strength. She tried crawling, and this time she managed to move a few feet before collapsing again. She moaned and tried to get up once more, but she was just . . . too . . . tired.

~~~~~

            Mr. Roberts knelt in the silence of 3^rd Street Community Church, in between two rows of pews. He’d come here every Sunday for ten years, since he and his daughter moved across town and needed a new place to worship. In the past few weeks, he’d come here every few days, always for the same reason: to pray in the place where he felt closest to his Creator.

            He bowed his head, resting it against the smooth wood of the pew in front of him. “God, You know what I come before You to ask. I’ve asked it a hundred times already: please, help me find my daughter. Somehow, some way, guide me to her. I love her so much, God, and I’m so worried for her. She’s only sixteen, and she’s out there, somewhere, vulnerable and alone. When I think of what could happen-”

            He broke off, unable to finish the sentence. After a few minutes, he regained control enough to speak. “I know, God, that You have not abandoned her or me. No matter how much I love Jenna, You love her immeasurably more. Even now, no matter where she is or what’s happened to her, she is in Your hands, and for that I thank You. Protect her, God, and even if is not Your will that I see her again today or any time I’d call soon, guide her to someone who will help her. I lift her and her circumstances to You, knowing that You will not forget her or me. You’re the only hope I have left.”

            In the belfry high above, a bell rang out four o’clock.

~~~~~

            The brazen ringing of a church bell brought her back to the waking world. It seemed familiar somehow, though she couldn’t seem to figure out why. She blinked, listening for a moment, before realizing what the sound meant. If there’s a church bell, there’s a church nearby. She vaguely remembered going to church many times before she ran. It had seemed that someone there was always doing some project to help someone or another. Maybe someone there would help her.

            Once again, she tried to struggle to her feet, and this time, she succeeded. She stumbled along the sidewalk, keeping as close to the buildings as she could so she could use them for support. Several times she nearly fell, and she quickly lost track of how long she’d been walking. Nonetheless, she kept moving, determined to find the church.

            Finally she could go no further. She collapsed on a doorstep, too tired to try to figure out where she was. The last thing she saw before her eyes slid shut was a glimpse of a colored glass window.

~~~~~

            Mr. Roberts rose to his feet and walked down the sanctuary aisle towards the church door. He felt comforted now, after his time of prayer. Jenna was in God’s hands; He would take care of her.

            He pulled open the door and started to step out, but stopped. A girl, certainly not out of her teens, lay in a heap on the doorstep as if she’d collapsed there. Her dirty, ragged jeans and hoody made it clear that if she had a home or a place to stay, she hadn’t seen that place in quite some time.

            Mr. Roberts knelt beside the girl, pulling off his coat. “Poor girl,” he muttered. He grasped the girl’s shoulder and started to turn her so he could wrap his coat around her. As he did, the hood fell away from her face. He stared for a moment at her familiar features. “Jenna?” he whispered. Can it be?

            Her lips moved and she croaked out a word. “Help?” Her eyes fluttered open and fixed on him. They widened, just a little. “Dad?”

            Mr. Roberts broke into a grin. He lifted his daughter and grasped her in a tight hug. “Jenna! Thank God, I’ve been so worried! What happened- Never mind. We’ve got to get you someplace warm. You must be half-frozen.”

            Her eyes had already slid closed again. “’M sorry, Dad,” she mumbled. “Shouldn’t have left.”

            “Shh.” He tucked his coat around her and lifted her in his arms. “It’s all right. Thank God, I’ve found you again at last.”

Justice Battle

Hello, everyone! I apologize for the fact that I haven't put up any reviews; I've been having some trouble with figuring out how to say what I want to say in them. In the meantime, here's my latest short story.
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Justice Battle

            In the hundred and thirty-first year of the Byzarian Empire’s reign over all Terevia, Emperor Virgilus Oroacer introduced a new way to show just how much power he had over those he ruled and just how undefeatable his warriors were. The Justice Battles pitted those criminals who had been sentenced to death against the finest warriors in the elite Emperor’s Legion of the Byzarian army in brutal, bloody duels with only one possible outcome. Lesser criminals also had their chance to fight in less fatal battles, and should they acquit themselves well, they would be offered a pardon and a place in the army in return for swearing absolute allegiance to the emperor. The Justice Battles quickly gained popularity with the general public, who viewed them as excellent entertainment. As time went on, the Justice Battles became less and less just and more and more brutal. The rules against killing in the lesser battles were forgotten, as was the custom of pardoning those minor criminals who fought skillfully. A new class of soldiers, the Vengeance Legion was established simply for the purpose of fighting in the Justice Battles, and before long, these glorified executioners began to receive more fame than the soldiers who protected Byzaria. By the time Gratius Thales succeeded Virgilus as emperor, the Justice Battles had become the bloodiest and most popular form of entertainment in the Byzarian empire, though those who thought far into them would likely wonder how just they truly were. Any criminal and any person judged to be a rebel to the empire could and most likely would end up facing the swords of the Vengeance Legion. Some brave citizens, especially those who followed the One God rather than Byzaria’s six deities, saw the perversion and lifted their voices to speak against it. These people were all too often branded as rebels and killed in the very events they decried. And so the bloodshed continued until one fateful summer day.

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            “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” The cries of a thousand dusty throats rolled through the arena and echoed off the walls. Justus, one of the many Justice Legionnaires, stood in the center of it all, his sword held ready to kill his latest conquest. He held up a hand, silencing the crowd’s cries, and looked down at the man lying at his feet. He’d fought many men in his career: men so terrified they could hardly hold their blades, men who raved and cursed and fought like berserkers, and men of nearly every attitude in between. Never, however, had he faced one who acted as calmly as this foe. The man had defended himself surprisingly well, but he’d never attacked. He’d just blocked, blocked, blocked until Justus sent the man’s sword spinning from his hands, kicked his legs out from under him, and planted a foot on his chest to hold him down. Even then, however, he hadn’t lost his composure. He stared back at Justus calmly, without any last, begging pleas for mercy or curses upon Justus, Emperor Gratius, or anyone else. He didn’t even struggle or put up a futile fight to try to get back up and regain his weapon.

            Justus gripped his sword hilt tighter but didn’t bring it down. In a voice too low for those in the stands to hear, he asked, “What’s your name, man?”

            The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he answered in an equally low voice, “Hykinos.”

            “Hmm.” Justus had never heard of this man among the criminals or the major rebels, though he seemed vaguely familiar somehow. “And what’s your crime, Hykinos?”

            “Speaking truth,” the man replied, evenly. “Declaiming how perverted our culture has become and declaring the redemption of the One God.”

            “Ah.” A rebel, then, though the calmest rebel I’ve ever faced. Not that Justus had faced many rebels; other Justice Legionnaires were usually chosen to fight them. “How many men have you injured in your so-called truth-speaking, Hykinos? How many officials’ homes have you attempted to destroy to make your point?”

            “None,” Hykinos replied. “I follow the One God, and His way does not involve violent protests. He commands me to speak truth and do good to others, and so that is what I do my best to do.”

            Now Justus knew where he’d seen this man. He was one of the men who went about collecting food and clothes for the city beggars and offering to pray for people. Justus recalled one time in particular when he’d noticed Hykinos give his own cloak to a ragged beggar shivering on a street corner. He wondered, as he had then, what would prompt the man to do such a thing, and if it was that same influence that allowed the man to face death so calmly. Was it the One God they claimed to follow? Or was it something else? Either way, did this man really deserve death?

            “Justus!” Emperor Gratius’s voice rang out from his private box, cutting short Justus’s thoughts. “Get on with it! Kill him!”

            Justus nodded. “Yes, Emperor.” He raised his sword higher, ready to bring it crashing down on Hykinos’s neck. However, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Killing a murderer, a violent rebel, or another who endangered others was one thing. They deserved death. But this man did good. Justus had seen it himself.

            The crowd’s chant of “kill him!” began anew. Justus looked up and surveyed the crowd. What if he’s onto something? What’s good or just about killing a man who hurts nobody, who helps those who cannot possibly have done anything for him, whose only crime is speaking his mind? Are we really as great as we think we are when we view the death of one who does not deserve it as nothing more than entertainment?

            “Justus!” the emperor called out once more. “I said get on with it!”

            Justus took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do now. He shifted his grip on his sword so he’d be using the point rather than the edge. Then he drove the sword down-

            Into the sand by the man’s neck. Silence fell like a boulder over the arena. Justus looked up at the crowd. “No.” His eyes traveled to the emperor. “No. I will not kill this man. He has done nothing to deserve death.”

            Emperor Gratius rose to his feet. “He has defied his emperor and the ways of our empire. I have judged him and ordered him dead. That should be enough for you, Justus. So kill him!”

            “I said no.” Justus’s heart pounded, but he would not back down. “I cannot and will not kill this man.”

            “Then your own life is forfeit.” The emperor at him. “Guards! Seize and kill them both!”

            Justus didn’t wait to see if the guards were obeying. Sheathing his sword, he bent and pulled Hykinos to his feet. “Come on. “ He started running towards one of the archways leading out of the arena and heard the other man following. “We’ll have to move fast if we want to make it out of here.”

            “Indeed.” Hykinos drew level with Justus. “I’m glad you made the right choice, Justus.”

            Justus didn’t stop running or even glance at the man, but a slight smile crept over his face. “So am I.”

The First Mission, part three

We last left Mikayla trapped in a room with a mystery man. Who is he? Will she be able to escape? What about the information she came to retrieve? Will her mission succeed? You'll find out today in the conclusion of "The First Mission"! Miss the first two parts? Click here for part one and here for part two!
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The man straightened up. “So, Mikayla. You came back after all. Your mother said you wouldn’t, but I knew better.”

Mikayla scanned the room. Yes, there! There was the row of indentations that marked the ScanChip access ports. All she had to do was find a way to hold her ScanChip over one until it had the information they needed. As subtly as she could, she began working the ScanChip out of her pocket. “I didn’t come back because I wanted to see you.”

Her father took a step towards her. “Perhaps not, but you are here, and here you will remain.”

“I won’t.” Mikayla edged away from her father and towards the ports. “I have another home now. A better home.”

“With the Silver Bullets, I take it?” He shook his head disgustedly. “I am your father, Mikayla. You belong here with your brother and me.”

Mikayla took another step towards the ports. She was nearly to the closet one now. “What about Mother?”
Her father hesitated, a look of what seemed to be genuine sorrow crossing his face. “Your mother died shortly after she was brought back here. I tried to save her, Mikayla, but I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do.”

Mikayla struggled to fight back tears. “Oh.” She’d guessed as much, but even so, knowing that her mother was gone felt as if someone had struck her heart with a whip. She forced herself to keep moving towards the ports. “Even if she were here, though, I wouldn’t stay.” She navigated the ScanChip into the indentation and felt it click. How long will it take? How long will I have?

The First Mission, part two

We last left Mikayla going to join her team for her first-ever mission. How will the mission go? Will she and her team be caught by the Brotherhood? We'll find out (at least partially) today! Miss part one? Check it out here!
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The rest of the team was already assembled at the exit when she reached it. The two men nodded to her as she approached, and the woman smiled at her. Mikayla nodded back, and they set off. A Shadowcopter carried them most of the way, its invisibility shields running the whole time, and they traveled the last mile on foot. Evening was beginning to fall by the time they reached the Brotherhood headquarters, for which Mikayla was glad. Even though security was higher at night, the lengthening shadows would make it much harder for her team to be spotted as they approached the building.

They circled around to the east side of the building, where the shadows were deepest, and crept towards the door. Two guards stood outside, and Mikayla knew that security cameras were watching the area. “VAAJams on,” Blade whispered. Everyone obeyed. He pointed to the building. “Raven, get going.”

The female Shadow Agent nodded, her face now serious. She slid off into the shadows and Mikayla lost track of her. Only five minutes later, first one guard, then the other slumped to the ground. Raven appeared by the door and beckoned.

In single file, the rest of the team crept up to join her. Raven already had a guard’s hand pressed to the lockscreen by the door, which slid silently open. Blade slipped inside first. Hawk entered after him, then came Mikayla, and finally Raven. The doors slid shut behind them and locked with a click. Mikayla forced herself not to shudder. We got in. Surely it’ll be easier to get back out, unless we’re discovered.

Blade set off down the brightly-lit halls. The others followed close behind, moving silently and swiftly. On this uppermost level, the halls were mostly deserted, and they were able to traverse all the way to the emergency stairs without seeing another soul.

Blade pushed the door open and beckoned for the others to enter. They did so, and he followed, releasing the door. Once it had swung shut, he whispered, “No more cameras until we get to the second underground level. Correct, Night?”

Mikayla jumped and then nodded. “Yes. The first underground level is just sleeping quarters for the ordinary people. Brotherhood leaders and their families are housed on the second underground level.” She suspected the others had already heard that information, but saying it out loud reassured her. Unless someone was taking the emergency steps, they’d have nothing to worry about for two levels.

The First Mission, part one

Hey'a, everyone! It seems I've been neglecting my blog of late, and for that, I apologize. I think that posts will be a bit more frequent this week and in the coming weeks, especially since the creative writing class I'm taking requires that I write at least one new story every week! I'll be posting the first of these stories today through Friday, and I also hope to post some book reviews sometime in the near future as well. These book reviews will be a slightly different format than the reviews I used to do on this blog, and there will also be more of them per post. I have no idea how long I'll keep doing these reviews, but I'd like to be able to release a book review post every few weeks this summer.

In the meantime, however, enjoy part one of "The First Mission", one of my latest short stories!
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The First Mission

When Mikayla Alave received her first official mission, she was in the middle of hand-to-hand combat training, trying very hard to not wallop her opponent and getting rather walloped herself for her efforts. She didn’t have anything against the young man; in fact, she thought he seemed like a rather decent fellow. But lately, every one of her punches seemed to move faster and contain more force than it ought.

She sensed, rather than saw, her opponent’s punch headed for her gut. She dodged and instinctively started to try to kick his legs out from under him, but stopped herself just before her foot could hit. Slower. Slower. Go easy.

Her opponent’s fist hit her nose squarely. Off-balance from stopping her kick, she fell back and hit the ground. She shut her eyes and bit back a groan. Beaten again. What’s wrong with me?

“Cat! Night! Enough!” Her trainer’s sharp voice broke through Mikayla’s thoughts. A hand closed on her shoulder and jerked her to her feet. “What’s the rule when you’re beaten but aren’t seriously injured, Night?”
Mikayla forced her eyes open and looked her trainer in the eye, as she’d been taught. “Get back up again immediately, ma’am.”

Her trainer nodded. “And why is that the rule, Night?”

“Because if you don’t get up immediately, you’re likely to get killed,” Mikayla mumbled. She wished her trainer would let her be just this once. Couldn’t she understand that sometimes, even if you weren’t seriously injured, you didn’t quite feel like you could get up again?

“Correct, Night.” The trainer crossed her arms, switching her steel-grey gaze from Mikayla to her opponent. “Cat. You did well. Take a breather and I’ll be with you in a moment so we can talk about how you can do better.”

The young man nodded and sprinted off towards the benches lining the training room. Mikayla watched him go, fighting a sense of envy. She knew what was coming.