Underground Sun – Second and Third Paragraph (Draft)

Clear sunlight greeted the boy’s pale, orange, fiery eyes like new friends as he emerged out of the bouquet of glinting rainbows. His translucent skin showed all the elegantly sorted ridges of veins built throughout his body. His heart beat quickly, blood flowing to the surface of his skin, taking in the fresh rays of light like a parched animal lapping up water, and turning his skin opaque — into a shimmering silvery sea with shifting pearlescent highlights. His opal-tipped fingers unbuttoned and released a grassy vest as he broke out into a run, wind catching his smooth, long, flowing golden hair.

He climbed out to the ridge of the wall and looked out. A creature with a beak and glass leaves coating its skin glided by, looking like a tiny angel with a plume of blue hair sticking up from its head. Light from a diamond-shaped sun spread across the expanse of emerald tipped trees and flowing peridot fields, attended to by the metallic men alongside their copper cattle. Upon an obsidian cliff-side, a young lady sat, staring at him.

My First Motivation to Become a Writer of Fiction

A consistent goal of mine has been to become a creator of some variety, but it had been difficult to settle on any one kind as a child. When I was younger, I wanted to make wonderful foods and become a world class chef, but that never stuck. As I grew older, I wanted to become a visual artist, but I gave up because I did not know where to start. Eventually, I settled on becoming a writer, because of the prevalence written (or typed) words have in our modern, multimedia age. However, I did not want to become just any kind of writer, I wanted to be a creative writer and perfect the craft of storytelling.

My first experience in this discipline started when I was hardly a teenager. One of my friends, Taylor, was bent on making a homemade animated series about all of the imaginary alter ego’s of our friend group. We had discussed at length what they would be like — her character, along with another friend’s, would be the leaders, as they were the oldest and most experienced; my other friend would the navigator, so keen on exploration that he often gets himself into trouble; next, the friend who was the most skilled in games would be the best fighter amongst us, knowing exactly how to finish a fight with style; finally I would be the informant, as I was the kindest and most supportive of the group. We talked a lot about what exactly the leadership dynamic would be like and how reclusive the skilled fighter among us would be. We meticulously crafted what troubles our navigator would end us up in but how he would be endearing all the while. And we wondered what kinds of things my alter ego, the informant, would know about the world and how deductive she would have to be in order to understand the variety of fantastical cultures we would discover and interact with. I had a lot of information to learn, and I soaked it all up because I truly enjoyed being around this group of friends. And when I had taken it all in, Taylor had asked me how my character would be introduced as the last member of the team to join, which would complete the ensemble.

That night, I began thinking of what kind of person each of my friend’s characters started out as. There were the bickering leaders, the rash adventurer, and the overly silent ninja-like warrior. And my character was shy, hesitant, and always keen on getting as much information as possible before acting, sometimes taking too long to act. So I racked my mind as to why she acted in this way. Eventually, I came up with the answer, and from this answer I found her origin, and from this origin I found inspiration, and from this inspiration I began to write.

It was like nothing I had experienced before. The words poured out of my mind and onto the paper as if I was retelling someone a story I had heard a million times. All the ideas I had flowed out, one after another, and tied together easily, despite the phrasing being cheesy and childish and the pacing being a bit off and amateurish. It was the first time I had ever written, created my own work of fiction into physical, tangible words that could be read and reread and understood. I worked all night and all morning on it and finished. When we met with each other again, I was excited to see what they all thought.

I gave Taylor my story, anxious for her and all of our friends to read it. They laughed at all of my jokes and made tons of remarks like “that’s so accurate, it’s scary.” Then, they provided their verdict. They all applauded me for my writing. It was an invigorating experience and it motivated me to make more stories independently even if I was still working off of the existing dynamics I already knew, like those that existed within my circle of friends.

Several years later, I continue to write. I am still working on my special craft of storytelling, not just through words on paper, but through skillfully spoken words as I read them aloud. I am keen to make something like that old universe I made with my old friends made together a reality and perfect it, even though they had long since abandoned the project. And I am especially keen to make more, creating new worlds, new characters, and new tales because I love my new craft — the craft of storytelling.

Ideas and Reframing

I imagine things all the time: new characters, plotlines, pieces of stories, you name it. I always have something new I want to accomplish, and once I attain the means, I do it, even if it doesn’t seem to come out right in the end. Then I think and imagine, learn and reframe things in my mind. I play games, digital or not, and I read and watch stories unfold. I observe comedy and grin to myself, truly laughing when something really catches me. After all, the one thing that made me laugh the most so far was just a bird with a voice overlayed, saying “blagh” and other similar onomatopoeic words. What’s to say I can’t piece together what truly inspires me to create my own, wonderful things?

What is to say you can not do similar?

Underground Sun – First Paragraph (Draft)

Sparkling jewels lining the walls of the stairwell held their own unique jelly-like luminescence in the heart of their many cores, projecting glittering notes throughout and around themselves singing a silent, radiant song of color. The sparkling of this light stared at a young, curious fellow as he climbed the crystalline steps of a tower meeting at the corners of a castle. Each step rang the clack of elegance held within each conglomerate of jewels under his simple shoes, and every smooth bump in the wall changed the notes of the humming music whispering under the tips of his fingers.

Ashen Snow – First Paragraph

The streetlights, blank, dull grey, and broken looked like dusted metal across the town. The sand was ash, burned from the land before it. The houses, most with windows and doors broken, had a fresh coat of ashen powder covering them all, and the trees, completely barren of color and life, loomed over cracked streets. Everything was unmoving — yet unsettled. Frozen skeletons of life and order and broken monuments of a world long passed stood in this grey desert land. Nothing grew anymore. Nothing lived anymore. Nothing. Not after the war.