What a long strange trip it's been.

Well, class is nearly over, and this blog will most likely end with it. It's been a while, and everything has been enjoyable. I will miss commenting on your blog posts, and having responses to mine. I'll miss drafts with you, and in class discussion. I'll miss group work, and the intelligent responses it produces. I'll miss you guys.

One pager snippet

Just a snippet, cuz I'm mean and want to have original content when I'm in class.

As teachers, we are not failing these students by not enforcing our will onto them. Instead, were we to force them to try to write, to torture themselves into producing something that exists only because we demand it; that would be failing them. Every person has a niche, and our job as teachers is to help them find it. Though we may be here to become writing teachers, this does not mean we should assume every person can find their niche in writing.

Another New Start

Cuz we don't have enough unfinished stories here.

He woke with a start. His breathing and heartrate were as if he'd just sprinted a mile. The nightmare had returned again. It always did, even when he tried to drink himself into an alchohol-induced coma. His staff glowed softly again the wall, practically underneath him. He apparently hadn't wanted to risk losing it last night. He couldn't tell. As he stumbled out of the alley, staff in hand, he noticed how cold it was. A quick burst of warmth emanated from his staff, eliminating that problem quickly and efficiently. He didn't fully understand how the thing operated yet, but it was amazingly useful. The only thing it couldn't do was stop the damned nightmares. Or if it could do that, he certainly hadn't figured out how to get it to. His staff was a recent aquisition, picked up at a flea market for the bargain price of way too much money. The only reason he'd bought it was to get a full examination of the runes carved into the dark wood. His fascination with the occult had been a constant source of frustration in his life, until this staff. He'd long ago lost track of the money he'd wasted on fraudulent claims and visually pleasing fakes. This staff, now warming his entire body, made every single penny spent absolutely worth it.


I don't really have much to say today. It's been a long day.

The one I like most

Drake woke up in an alley. He could remember naught but three things. His name was Drake, he'd been very happy last night, and that he hadn't intended to spend the night in an alley. He shivered in the morning gloom, looking around in a vain hope to establish where exactly he was. He noticed a wine bottle by his left leg, empty upon further examination, a man about ten feet down the alley, lying slumped against the dumpster, two fire escapes, and a few grimy windows. A cold wind blew down the alley, carrying with it a terrible stench, and Drake pulled his coat more tightly around him. Drake walked down to the dumpster, if only because he could use it to block the wind. Once Drake arrived at the dumpster, he saw there wouldn't be room for him to lie against it the way the other man was slumped. The smell emanating from either the dumpster or the man was incredible at this distance. Drake resisted the urge to vomit. Drake considered attempted to move the other man a few inches over, to make room for his own spot out of the wind. Before doing so, however, he took stock of the other man and his belongings. The man appeared to live in the alley, probably hadn't shaved in weeks, was wearing a threadbare hat and thick coat, and had the rattiest blue jeans Drake had ever seen. Coming to the conclusion that waking this man probably wouldn't kill him, Drake carefully reached out , and nudged the other man in the side. As he did so, he noticed his hand felt sticky and wet. Drake, suddenly feeling very uneasy about his situation, chanced a glance at his hand. He hoped it was something innocuous, like water. Anything but what he thought it was, really. Luck, however, was not with him that day, for when he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood. Drake couldn't hold back any longer. He vomited.

For the record, this is unfinished, but there's well over 20 pages written. I'll only be posting this story when I run out of other stuff to post. This story's my baby, and it's eventually going to take some trips to publishers.

And now for something completely different

Perigren. That's what it's called. The drug that destroyed the world. It's just a little pill. Who could have imagined that a little white pill, no bigger than a penny, could end the word? Yet, it happened. The world is over. Governments are gone, chaos reigns, and the only currency left is force. In this world, the strong survive. Well, the strong and the guys with the Perigren, anyway. I am Gil Handersen, and I might be the last sane man left.
Perigren. It started as a military experiment, something to give to soldiers with fatal wounds. Something that would allow them to defy death long enough to win the fight. The scientists got it figured out. I don't know how, but they did it. One little pill and it would become impossible to die for two weeks. In fact, the only way to kill someone on Peregrin is to destroy their brain. Almost like zombies, except these are still humans. Humans who have sold their lives for this power. The pills were quickly rushed into production, without even testing. The pills worked, though. Massive blood loss could be ignored while on Peregrin, burns were inconsequential. In fact, it was discovered that while on Peregrin, it was unnecessary to sleep, eat, drink, or do basically anything that was previously considered necessary. That's the story of the origin of Peregrin. Now it's time for the story of how it destroyed the world.

A respite

I didn't write any new stuff for the ongoing story, so here's something completely different.

The hellish fires raging on every side of him making escape an obvious impossibility would have concerned ordinary men. They probably would have concerned most extraordinary men as well, but this man was insane. Once, he was an extraordinary man. He still considered himself extraordinary. After all, insanity wasn't ordinary, was it? And he knew, without a doubt, that he was insane. The world knew it too. The smell of sulphur wafted through the room, which struck him as odd, because he couldn't remember any sulfur in the building. Once upon a time, not so long ago, the world had looked towards Ben as a savior from the coming darkness. The heat was incredible, and he could feel the sweat pouring down his body. Sweat, he reflected wryly, was supposed to help cool the body when the situation was too hot. He knew it wouldn't help him here, though. Ben Whitecap, born to the most prominent member of the Adaldian parliament, was supposed to have led an army into war. The smoke was quickly filling the room. He was supposed to have delivered an easy victory against overwhelming odds with naught but a trusting populace and tactical brilliance that had never been tested. It was becoming hard to breathe, hard to see, as the fire raged on. Instead, Ben lost his mind at the first battle he witnessed. Now, finally, he was going to die.
Ben Whitecap finally knew no miracle would save him. He was finally, finally, going to die. Even as the flames burned him beyond all recognition, Ben Whitecap felt no pain. There was the laughter, the damning laughter that followed him everywhere, but no pain. Ben finally gave in to the laughter. He'd fought the laughter tooth and nail to this point in his life. Now, doomed to die, he finally allowed the laughter, laughter that had followed him from his first failed battle, to win. Ben Whitecap grinned wildly and cackled as the flames raged on. He was still laughing when the roof came down.