Timberbee: The American Apprentice

This was my mantra for a great many years.

It’s the principle reason I never called myself a writer, even though I wrote nearly every day. I see some new writers (Like myself), on Good Reads, Because, as I’m learning, a writer doesn’t simply write, they also connect, though, writing is probably even more of an introverts job than welding, or…

truck driving.

But, a writer has to watch, right?

Has to engage with the world, read, observe, and, ouch, interact.

But, the other side of writing, is the marketing aspect, unless, you wish to be a great, dead, poet. To sit on reams and reams of finished stories, poems, plays, scripts…

The list goes on.

And, its so easy to do.

I asked my brother, who is a librarian. Married to a librarian. Been one for decades. Always loved books. Loved reading,

“What stories do you wish to write? What tales do you wish to tell, after being surrounded, day in, day out, by, books?”

His answer was so simple,

“None.”

He has no desire to write.

But, how many of us, when we pick up a book, turn a page, say to ourselves,

“Ack! give me a pen!”

And, wish to scribble out a new direction for a favorite character, or, go the other way and say,

“How did they do that?”

And, marvel at the magnificence of a tale well told, expertly crafted. At dialogue, and scenes, so real, we forget ourselves, and simply become, inspired.

A writer, Writes.

I’m learning that, for myself, this journaling, and, the stuff I do that no one will ever read, is so essential to my being able to put one word, after another, page after page.

I don’t write from Friday night to Saturday night. and, not much on Sunday. But, last week was an amazing week for putting words on pages.

I had thought that 2.5K was a decent, daily, word count, for, Me. I see now, after this last week, that it’s 4K which makes a difference. 2.5K is just… treading water. It doesn’t represent a real push, doesn’t require me to confront that which I am running up against.

What do I mean by that?

I can easily process what is represented in 2.5K words, in one nights sleep, or, that evening between writing sessions (Though, when I am writing full bore, I’m napping in the day, writing, playing, doing a bit of this and that, then drinking huge amounts of coffee, staying up almost until the sun rises, getting a bit of sleep here and there, then a hodge podge of things thrown in, whatever it takes to “clean the palette”, and keep on the keyboard).

What I CAN’T do, is process 4K words between sessions, and, what I’ve found this to mean, for me, and how I write, is that I MUST confront where the story has gone, and, integrate it, and, either shift the writing, throw it all out (Which means my program subtracts the words from the daily word count!), and begin again.

More often than not, though, its my preformed conclusions which have to be thrown out. Which is how I ended up writing the middle of “The Chronicles of dog”, last, my character did something I didn’t want him to do and, instead of rewriting the scene, I journaled, reread some preceding chapters and, found a hole in my story.

A hole that Almost seemed designed to be there, just, waiting to be filled, with a story needing to be told.

I have read so many books on how to write, and, it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that it all began coming together, and, I think, it won’t be until After, I successfully finish a couple of books, maybe a whole series, that, then, I’ll be able to go back to the “How To’s”,

maybe even take a few workshops, and such,

and,

Then,

finally understand how to do all of this,

Writing

-Timberbee

That is it.

The beginning is now connected with the last third. They have been, bridged.

I can already see some things which will need tweaking, but I think, the thing to do is to edit the middle, for, the beginning is edited, and then, the reconciliation, for, the middle was never supposed to be, it just…

happened,

And, in the “happening”, I saw the need I had missed, and it answered so many misgivings. And, it also pointed the way to the second series, for, in this book, is the origin of, the,

“Lord’s dogs“.

I wasn’t sure how that would happen, but I see it now, very clearly. Which isn’t to say that is how it will happen, only, that it breathes and lives, within me, now.

I write these posts because I’m “Processing.”

I need the stimulus in order to go on, and, I’ve found that I can’t do this through the writing, and how things just, “Work out.” Nor, have I been able to do it by speaking with others. There is no resolution in that. This is the only way I’ve found which works.

I write, I “journal”, and, something within me is satisfied, and then, it works.

-Timberbee

Time is so short, especially if you seek to spend it writing. I think of this in context to many things.

For me, one of the largest time sinks is Video Games, for, it has become the refuge that science fiction was when I was younger.

That and walking. Walking and watching, and, disappearing into the surroundings, the “practical” invisibility, that which occurs when you are seen but, never noticed, or, if noticed, you allow the observer to see you as they wish. You don’t jar them, don’t challenge their expectations. Oddly enough, you often become a mere, kind of painting, an environmental prop.

I remember walking in some N.C. city, full of tourists and homeless, myself, my brother-in-law, and our wives, and he was speaking of how the homeless could go anywhere, and who would notice them, and then remarked on one man, in particular, who appeared… not well.

Speaking loudly, gesturing wildly, and smelling, in the words of my brother-in-law, like he,

“Crapped himself.”

A very strong smell.

He seemed surprised when I told him we’d passed this man three times, now, on different corners, during our ambling walk.

Despite his outrageous performance, and his overwhelming, offensive odor…

He had become part of the environment.

I have a poem about just this, I’ll add it below.

How does this all relate to Good Reads?

Its the, “Time is precious”, theme, coupled with, the desire to watch, to listen, and the need to do this, if one is to, Write.

It’s so difficult, to spread oneself so thin. To be allied with half the people on the planet. So comfortable, to, instead, hole oneself up, to live in one’s imagination, and, simply,

Write.

But, we, cannot. For, that is a little death, that leads to much fear, and, stagnation.

-Timberbee

MftH 14

Motorcycle

It is a cool night as people file into the slaughterhouse.
I sit, and watch, here, atop my bike.

There is something wrong with the battery
or,
With its connections.
It lies just below the soft, supporting, comforting seat, upon which I rest.

I enjoy this,
Almost,
As much, this, sitting here, or, sitting there,
upon my center stand, watching the world, continue on,
around me.

It is a favorite pass time, to sit, thusly.
Once, I made tuna sandwiches,
Bought at a local market,
And, I watched,
Allowed the world to pass by,
Unhindered,
I watched,
Unnoticed.

I would be unseen, then,
as I am now.
No one pays attention to me here,
Now,
In this small town,
In this place,
Where a tourist would stand out.
Yet,
here I sit, letting the night wrap about me, a thick, black, bushy, cloak.

I am warm, in its deep embrace.

I am seen, but, still, unseen,
Unnoticed,
Unremarked upon.

This has been my great secret,
To,
Never hide.
Never, ever, hide.
And still,
To never be revealed.

I have laid my hands to their deepest secrets.
I have laid my eyes on Emperors. One Emperor.
But, still,

I have been in, quiet, listening mode, in the halls of power.
I have sat in, on calls between drug lords, and their ilk,
And listened, unseen, unopposed, unminded, by the men who have decided,
The course of industries.

I will be, whatever you want me to be,
You will see, whatever, you want,
To see.

Beneath your gaze,
I will conform. If that is what it takes,
To listen,
To watch,
As I, watch now,
Miles and miles from home.

No where to lay my head,
and,
Yet, no worries, for,
I merely watch.

It is good to be here,
not quite unseen, yet, still,
Not,
Revealed.

One, nods at me, in passing. I am cool as the night.

I am skinny, and greasy, atop a small, tiny bike, but,
It is not a toy.

It looks traveled, but, capable.

My plates might. Might, give me away,
but I look as they do.
That was always the secret.
I look as they do, or,
I look as they expect.
They do not find that they do not search for.

“It is how you act, not what you wear”, Angel would tell me. About, hiding in plain sight.

I act as they expect, and, I am unremarked. When they notice me, I am noticed as a brother.

I had a job,
Once,
Which allowed me to enter all manner of meetings. All manner of engagements,
To go,
Anywhere, and,
It was the same.
Be what they expect.

If I brought a frown to lips, then, it was as a necessary annoyance. They would wish the timing were different. But, I would become their silent partner, then, waiting, for an opening, sometimes, they would silently share their annoyance with another, sometimes, silently signaling their great disapproval,
With me,
But,

They would seek only to chastise, not chase away.
I was their messenger, and I carried them word from the hinterlands,
And would carry their missives, out,
Into the great,
Unknown.

Sometimes I would be, as I was now,
Simply a fellow voyager.

Sometimes, they would seek to impress me,
To expose the brutalities, done,
Testifying to their command, and control,
And,
Somehow,
Instead of a leak which must be plugged,
They would see, in me,
Someone who would keep their secrets, and, someday,
Someone who would,
Cement their legacy.

I was just there,
To listen,
To watch.

And still, at other times,
My presence would give them a boldness.

For a young lady, from India,
She could see my unmoving form,
In the booth across from her.

She was unperturbed, as she spilled out, excitedly, to her, increasingly disturbed male, companion, of how she had sought to end her life, and, instead, found a new hope.
With each outrageous point she raised, she grew bolder, more present, her eyes, dancing, sparkling, as she unleashed her story.

I’d turn a page,
Raise a fork to waiting lips,
Pretend not to be listening,
Not meeting her eyes,
But her eyes,
They would fall upon me,
A smile upon her lips, as she made point, after,
Point,
Becoming freer with each passing moment.
Something,
Being lifted from her.

I could see his face,
somehow,
possibly through a reflection in the glass behind her,
I forget now, all these many, many years,
Later.

But, his face,
This man she had once been promised to, before their both coming to this place,
His face, was becoming,
With each syllable, each word,
From her,
His face was becoming a wooden mask,
Even as freedom was entering,
Animating,
Hers.

She was to have been his, somehow.
But now,
She was free.

And,
He,
He was become the prisoner.

She left before he. Left before I.

Dazzling.
She stood.
Carefree,
A flower,
Opening,
A, happy free bird, her cage door swinging,
Finally,
Open,

And,
He,
Where she left,
When she left,
He,
Entered, that place,
And,
Calmly,
Carefully,
Entered that empty cage,
And,
With all due patience, turned,
Faced the world,
And,
Closed the door,
Behind,
Him,
Self.

I am, perhaps, one, maybe two or three, chapters, from joining the middle of the book with the later third.

It is just a matter of Raven traveling, now, to where he needs to be. He has left the city of the Mammoth Hunters, and, must now, arrive, beneath a different sun, a different, sky, and enter, the Broken City.

The book is nearing its end, and it is half edited.

It still needs an end point, but, that is close as well, for, I know, now, where Raven will go in the second book, and it is something that will set the stage for the second series, and,

to be honest,

to be frank,

I want to begin work on the third series, for that is the one that will satisfy the sci-fi, geek, within me, if anything within me can be called, “Geek”.

This book, this series, satisfies as well, but it is so personal, less, “Fun”, and more a journey that Must be taken.

Though I am enjoying the story, immensely, and I am not anxious for it to end, still, the ending of the first book, will be a milestone in Raven’s journey, a thing I am truly delighting in.

I am writing this as a pause, for, after tonight, if I can bridge this, tonight, tomorrow will be of reading and seeking to reconcile, to fix any broken continuities, to adjust any commentaries, and to see how the styles match.

I am to new a writer to have “Beta”, or, “Alpha” readers, who might point out glaring errors, and, as an unsigned, self published author, with scant resources, and no knowledge of the process to fall back on, there are no editors either.

I read my story to my wife, who, greatly enjoys its descriptive nature (She is blind, and loves a story which can paint a cohesive, picture), but this subject matter is not what she, herself, reads, but she listens, for my sake, and gives me input, for, she is a good reader, and likes good writing, and is not hesitant to give her opinion.

Family is not a good source of criticism, either, and, though I have had my poems read before groups of friends, they all like different things, and don’t seem to understand that the poems paint a picture.

One friend, she cried at the reading of a love poem, something my wife didn’t want anyone else to ever read, for, she saw herself so starkly portrayed within it, that she feared some, embarrassment, but, I told her what I had seen, that, everyone sees some aspect of themselves in it.

And this is why it moved people. They didn’t see HER in it, one saw himself as the man, one cried for she wished to be the object of attention, but, was not, had not been so in such a long time, this is what happens when we read a good story.

I feel,

That fiction can teach more, sometimes, than “Fact”, for, if its a good story, it draws upon what we know to be true, and we cannot help but enter the tale, and, make it, our,

Own.

-Timberbee

My wife says,

“Writing comes easy to you.”

How far from the truth that is, for, I can see my next few chapters. Saw the scenes play out, in my head, though, now I know, this is but a guide, for, as I begin to record, to, really watch and write down what I see…

It will change. It always does.

Why is this?

The poems are so much easier.

They start with a title, and then, an opening line, so much like a boat ramp.

I will do one now, all I have to do is cast out, and, see…

Crows

What things you are,

black,

clustered, mid, road,

beneath high trees, some fall day,

as she drives,

to run you down.

How she hates you.

Hates your kind.

And yet, so delights in,

You.

There is something, between,

You,

for,

I see you.

I see,

Her.

That image,

so, so,

Witch,

Like.

No hat,

but a garden,

magical, and,

always,

always,

Secrets.

And you cluster,

and,

Caw,

gather round,

above,

always,

in the trees,

above,

but,

Behind.

For, she does not wish you,

Present,

Seen.

Though,

you come when she is not near,

to cluster,

to call,

and she will not,

answer.

Not you, and,

not,

Me.

-Timberbee

This is one I would edit, I think. For I am full of distractions now, a question called, music I cannot turn off, nor, turn down, for that would welcome further, distractions, and, right now, it is hard to think about writing those few, so very, necessary, scenes, and yet, I am learning that, this might make for the best setting for putting down those words which Need to, come,

out.

For they need to.

It is like walking with Brother Wind. You must do it when you must do it. There is no tomorrow, there is no, “Back Burner”. Wind does not play second fiddle, and, neither do,

the,

Words

-Timberbee

I wrote another 2,868 words, before going to bed, at somewhere around 2:22 am, for a daily total of 6,453 words (within a single, waking, cycle).

It was my best writing day in months. But, it required, a lot. Though, I spent time with my wife, and did things a “normal” husband would do, I was finally able to allow myself to truly get into the scenes. But, also, I’m home for three weeks, and, already, 10 days has passed.

Part of my desire during this time I am home is to seek to create writing as the escape from “Work”, that I have allowed video gaming to become, for, when I return from the road, after driving, I do need that, “Break”, that separating of myself from those rigors, to the adjustment of home life, and, I feel good, right now.

I close my eyes, or, even cast my thoughts, out, and I feel my character,

Breathe.

And, it is a good feeling, and I want to walk with them, watch them, on their walk, and see, with them, what lies around the bend.

Come, open the pages I put down, and, walk with,

Me.

-Timberbee

Eight minutes to midnight, another 800 words, after a bit of a break.

How many words today?

3,585. It is a good number. It feels good to have written this. I want to write some more, finish another scene, but, those words will show up on tomorrows count, and, the count is just a sign that things are progressing. Things are,

Moving.

Its not a race, but, if I ever wish to make a living of this, as with welding, timber framing, driving a truck, we aren’t paid to sit around, and, the ideas flow even better as fingers run across the keyboard. There is no shortage in sight.

again,

Be blessed in all you DO

-Timberbee

Descent

The laughter became a roar, became a thunder, as ancient stone, gave way, the earth beneath us, plunging, taking us with it, in a cascade of rock and dirt and bones, which lay behind, beneath all,

A mad rush to black, unseen depths, A hidden chute, long since built over, forgotten, laying silent, an opening to a world closed off from ages past.

We thrust claw and dug nail, to no avail, solid, seamless stone, the passage made slick as tons of rock and soil and bone, scoured it, plunged around, beneath, above us, thrusting us, out, and,

Away.

Down we plunged, headlong and tumbling, in this ancient avalanche, in the making.

The fall, straight, a plummet to dark, fetid, depths, the laughter, a groaning of the earth, a shudder, as the headlong, straight fall met gentle slope, and finally, a seam!

We dig, we cling, pummeled by falling stone, bone plates, heavy hide, our gear, strapped so tight, to avoid the noise, the clanging, the jangling that might alert quick witted prey,

Earth and stone pours down, around us, over us, a claw breaks, we dangle, then plunge, as a stone nearly dwarfing us, collides, shatters our delicate hold, we fall, again, into the mix, spinning, turning, seeking to find up from down, kicking out, reaching out, sending,

Out,

We find,

Calm within the storm, and seek, now, to flow, to move with, rather than fight, in this wild, breakneck plunge, to depths unknown,

And about us,

We grasp, raking claw through dirt and falling debris, to slow our descent, until, at last,

We are,

Alone,

Within a tube, slowing our fall, we ride, using newly grown claws to bleed our speed, until the shaft, the slick, near seamless tube of stone, smooth, and cool, flattens enough, and we stop, before, a great, black, edge, swept clean.

We stand, on this, barest of ledge. Eyes, seeing, next to nothing, but a blackness, a radiant, blackness.

To notice, a depth of color, before us, black. The deep black, before us, and, ahead, but, above, beside, behind, though we move, a delicate thing, on feet, bare, and, somewhat sticky, now, broad, and flat, piercing this slick, slick surface, with finest of hairs, a new adaptation.

Behind, above, beside, a black bordering on, gray. Become distinct, more distinct, than that ahead, before, and, peering down, below.

And we feel, the great depth,

Below.

An endless depth, and sense, from there,

The laugh, the groan, the echoing, aching, roar, as it fades, fades, far, far, off, leaving, an,

Emptiness.

With hands, become like feet, we pick our way, out, and into the ahead, out from the comforting slope, the thing become a roof above our head, the tube emptying into this,

This deep, bottomless, well.

We stare, up, and see, a blackness there as well, almost, but not quite, as rich.

To where does it rise?

How far had we fallen?

How far had we traveled?

Does this well extend into the high hills, which overlooked the mounds, a hill barely noticed as we sat, outside, watching, our prey, enter, descend.

I felt a chill, as I realized, what this well might entail, to what use it may have been put, in times, hopefully, long past, but, the laugh.

The laugh.

That senseless hunger, we felt, moments before our world, collapsed.

A narrow ledge, ran about the well, and I feared, the only way, would be,

Down.

But it was not to be, for, on the far side, a thing so hard won, by creeping where man was not meant to creep, we found a passage, barely large enough.

To what purpose this was put, we did not know, but, were about to explore.

Carefully, we entered. The stone, rougher, stacked and worked, not the seamless, smooth thing of tube and, well, but, worked. And deeper we were.

How long had we fallen? But Rider was ready with the answer, an answer I banished, for, the knowing of it did me no good, for, the thread was here, almost, barely, pulsing, just beyond our sight.

We could feel it, and, if we looked away, just so, could see it shimmer, could almost, almost, see it, pulse, the faintest of glows, and, it was a thing more felt than seen, still reacting to this place, or,

We were.

What realm this? This land of death, decay, dryness and dusty, ancient, dead, bones.

And we felt piles of flesh, torrents of blood, and the screams of masses and masses, whole nations, chained, one to another, to be dragged up, a now buried, pyramid, and cast down,

Hearts torn, still beating, terrified faces, to plunge, final moments of life in terror, as a great, great, seeking hunger,

Awaited.

We shrugged off the images.

Coming Not, this time, from Rider, but from the very walls, the very stone, the bones, the dust which was the ancient life, of this place,

A place of,

Death.

And the thread pulsed, within us, now, pulsing, strongly, glowing, reminding us of our task at hand,

And we knew its name, the one we sought, a name to be whispered, when the time was right, a name placed within our mouths, to be uttered, to evoke, the final, Death, of the kind known as,

Draugr.

This sits at 2700 words for today, The chapter, “The Coffin”, is an example of a poem that seems to fit, it is the interlude between seeing the Draugr (not so named in the story at this point, but it will be so named soon) and entering its lair. I didn’t have to edit, or add, a single word of the poem, and yet it seems to fit.

I may do some more writing tonight, but I will take another break (I spent a couple hours with my wife, talking and watching something on the net), and maybe it will still be 9/10/24, and maybe it will be the next day. Coffee and ice cream are before me, but, I’m happy with today’s progress and, can see that the story is coming together.

What I am writing now is the middle portion, having already written the beginning (And edited up to my recent few days writing), and much of the end portion of the book.

The actual ending will depend on several things that occur within the next half dozen to dozen chapters, but it is tying together quite nicely and answering many questions I had.

So, I will end this days series of posts with these two chapters, as an example of word count, and,

process.

Sleep well,

-Timberbee

The Coffin

He lay. I lay. Within the lidless, ivory, vine etched coffin. Breathless. Not stirring. A place between life, and death.

Beneath tall, tall, trees. In deep, dark wood. A bed of leaves, dry, and brittle, above.

While below, beneath the dry layer, wet and mold, and worm, and beetle, and hungry scent.

A world, beneath a world, covering, entrance to, a vaster, unknown / known, hinted at, world.

A place of life never halting, never slowing, of caverns of blackest night, feeding the world, above, with life, of the light, and airy kind.

Below, the eyeless rule, which dwell without light, or space, or absence of, eternal, ever present, pressure,

Far beneath the rolling cloud, the outstretched hand, the driving form, the roaring breath, of brother, wind.

Where Wind, in the below, is a quiet thing, picking his way, through the dark, twisted, ever changing ways, of the deep dark.

Night descends.

Visiting hour. Begins.

The horrors spring forth. From the nothing. From, the nowhere, to leap,

Born anew,

Within a once still, heart, of coldest stone.

Their faces huddle, all manner of monstrous thing, huddle above, to stare down, upon me, to fill the sky, to blot out the swaying, far above tree.

Closed eyes, still do not see,

But, a heart knows joy, kindled, with… Love.

Brothers returned, a heart of stone, made flesh, to beat, once more. Tears fall, from above.

Ambling forms, return, merge with descending, inky black, disappear, into far off, nightmares.

A form stirs, awakens.

Yellow eyes open, in mist black, formless, form.

The coffin dissolves…

The wolf howls, as Beast stirs, night enveloping… all.

Into the Depths

We are in.

We did not follow, for, to do so seemed madness. We found, another way.

We picked our way, following the pulling of the thread, so thin this was, no great, thick cable to draw us, it was subtle, and slight, the thread as though laid atop these fallen, scattered stone, bones all about, reaching out, up, through that which grew here, and we tread among them, our feet like blessings, whispers, in this place, and found ourselves, entering,

Blackness.

A mound, torn asunder, by time, or events, we flow, within, and find the thread, stronger, our eyes practically blaze, for, there soon becomes no light, in this tight, tight, place.

We had thought, that we must abandon cloak and thrower, and shafts, and maybe, even axe, for the way we are led to is so narrow, so slight, and the pulling, is… odd. A jumbled thing.

Had we been new to this, we would have failed. For, something told us, so subtly strong, in that, almost indescribable manner, to retain our clothing, our weapons. A thing we often wondered at, for, what were such things compared to what Rider could do for us, with fur and fang, tooth and claw and plates of bone and thickness of hide.

And yet,

Always,

Always, we are to, retain these delicate, delightful bits of beautiful metal and hide and bone and wood.

And Rider paints for us the Hunters, and their copious, beautiful gear, and, at once, the sounds of their own transformations. Mysteries to be unraveled, should we prove tomorrow to come.

So, we stand, and wait, and test, and feel. In this tight, tight, gloom, and dank, dank, darkness, where creeping things crawl over us, test us. Where web and mold and biting things dwell.

We breath in, and feel out, as we once did, when we followed the pressure, and not, the pulling, then we would test, to find the current, to know the state of the world, and, our place within it. To simply,

Feel, and, dwell.

And the patterns emerged, began to emerge, for we saw, felt, the flow, as though beneath the sea, swaying to it, watching the dance of those creeping and biting things, with the things to small to see, with the things we are to busy to feel, and we saw,

Saw,

The thread,

Pooling, twisting, delicately, descending, through a place unglimpsed, and as yet,

Unmade.

A thinning of the floor, covered with debris, an illusion of the most mundane kind,

Time.

We gently moved, and swept, excavated, a way, and found, an opening, big enough, though tight, still, but well within Rider’s doing, to make us, a, leaner, more flexible, lighter, thing.

We descended, flowed, through a passage not traveled in… it was hard to know, but, the air was different here, cooler, and drier, and the thread practically glowed, and, never had we seen such a thing, never had we seen the sendings, only, felt them, though we knew, each of us, knew, that this was something else, that, magic, was afoot here, and that which we followed, within ourselves, our brother Wind, and his sendings, was contrasted by the one we came to seek, whose realm we were invading, and we would be, unwelcome,

Things.

And it would know us,

And,

Deep within, something began to laugh, began to waken and,

Laugh.

No video game, but a moment forthcoming.

A nice hike, this morning, to much sun for my wife. Grueling, but good memories afterward, at a table covered with Korean BBQ, side dishes and Bee Bo Bim Bop (Sp?).

then, she shone. and, smiled.

And here are 700 more words. I still don’t know if this is short for a chapter, but, it is what follows the Cross Worlds Tavern scene, and, precedes a fresh encounter. What will I find in the burial chamber? How deep will they delve, to what will they lead?

I am intrigued!

I add this here, to show most of a days writing, in a period that did not take many hours, and, I add earlier activities to show what it is like, most times, when I am home, and now, my wife wakes from a nap and I will not write again for a good while. But, I am putting down my process, both for me, and, for You.

Just an example of a writer learning how they write.

-Timberbee

Pursuit. The Scent.

Upon all fours, through the rain, we ran. Closer we were!

I could smell him, far ahead, borne on the wind, far ahead, over hills gone green, barest of green, pushing against, old, dry, dead, stems, and yet, it felt as winter, coming on, or, deep, deep fall, which, in this place, was mere days, days before the coming cold, the blanketing snow, though,

I could not see the snow. Could only see the cold, and, could see a hollow.

Dead trees, within a shallow bowl, a beaten path to the left, winding right around rising hills, more trees, stunted, but, green, alive, needles, not leaves, or, perhaps, some leaves, for I could feel them,

Brown, and sharp, sliding, rattling, in the cold, coming wind. Still, almost, still, in the breeze which existed,

Now,

And a flash of red, cloaking a large, quickly moving body.

I could see him, and yet,

I could not.

For I was days away.

I could feel it. Days away. But not from the hollow. The hollow was closer, but I didn’t need to follow in his tracks, for, I felt the pull, even as I saw the images.

Stones, now, with guttering torches, a mound, deep, filled with dark and gloom and…

Something waited therein, and we would see him enter. I knew this. Would not cut off his retreat, though I could see how he moved, an almost lame thing, a thing as a deer, doe not buck, feeble, and yet, he moved, swept across hill, cresting onto high plain,

Now a bear, A thing of silver within black turning to gray.

And, not a doe, neither a buck, as he was also, not the bear, not the dog, not the wolf, we saw,

Something stuck between, for, this was his infirmity, and yet, swift.

The piercing call of a hawk, oh how we were spotted, and spied upon. But we sank, even as the darkness rose, to hide us, once again, the impenetrable night, and we veered off, far to the North, so far, low and fast we ran, hidden in the rising black, which rose, as air streamed, low and fast and filled with rain and dirt and leaves and the calling of one hawk, after another,

Unnatural calls,

Left us, drifted to the east, falling, to the south, as we felt our quarry, saw our quarry, his red cloak, shifting, over a body which thrashed, and moved, forever changing, forever melding with, some thought, mirroring the unsettled, within, of the mind which rode it, drove it, and it shifted, again, this time we saw,

A,

Buck. Grand. But faltering, as though confused, as though lost, before becoming the eagle, a thing huge, of crooked wing, but taking to flight, though we felt is, as, something more,

A black thing. Black presence. Heavy, the image of the eagle, of the buck, of the doe like creature, of the bear, of the dog, of the wolf, but images, worn,
Shown,
Revealed.

Not real.

This was its core, a man within?

We could sense it. See it, that red cloaked thing of flesh and blood,

But,

This was it. This black, force, moving through a rising dark, for, we saw now, it was always dark where it traveled, a thing more presence than real, images we saw, within ourselves, something shown, something,

Wished for.

By,

This,

Presence.

Which moved, which flowed, and streamed across, over, the landscape, leaving despair and doom, in its wake, a path which healed, slowly, healed, long after its passage, as though, awakening from dreams and restless sleep, remembered night fears, night, terrors, night, mares.

And we paused, high atop a rise, staring down below, in a valley dotted with standing stones. Mounds. Entrances built into excavated hills. Fallen stone all around. Over grown, abandoned, toppled, low, stone walls, and through this valley of ancient graves,

A single,

Man,

Moved, cloaked in this black, dark, presence of gloom.

We saw as blackness leaked out of its eyes, and a low, stone door, opened before it, and two, black flame, guttering, torches, sprang to life, within, before the darkness,
Swallowed,
It,
Up.

The writing below occurred after a nice bit of Journaling, which happened right after my last post. It was preceded by a few hundred words to cap off the previous chapter.

I put it here to show something just below 1400 words total, in a short period of time. Not to highlight the writing, but, I was talking about 2K words being a very reasonable AVERAGE goal.

In order to keep that average, I have to have my 3K, and my 4K, and, very occasionally, my 4.5K days.

I want to “reward” myself, with a bit of video game playing, but, before I do that, I feel “Raven“, my character, needs to be on the move. I want to leave him somewhere in transition. Not at a stopping place.

So, here are about 1100 words forming the chapter I wrote between these posts. And now, I leave you to allow Raven, and Beast, and Rider, to pursue, the “One”, and see where it all may go.

I will be as surprised as you.

– Timberbee

• By The Way; No one reads these, right Now, but I write them for the future, when, You will. When. You. Will.

Someday.

^_^

The Cross Worlds Tavern

I stood before the worn sign. A light, swinging, banging, upon the ancient looking boards of the place.

Large shuttered windows, on either side of a flimsy, weathered, wooden, door. Ancient, worn, iron hardware. Which fit the hand well.

I was surprised, to see myself gripping the large, black, wrought iron handle, my thumb already depressing the large, smooth, tongue, my arm pulling back, a door, far, far heavier, stouter than it looked.

All without conscious thought.

I paused at the threshold.

Rain now, coming down in sheets, pouring now, like a river, amidst trees which, hadn’t been there, a moment before, and I stood, there, almost over the threshold, yet, in a bubble, protected from the deluge. Unable to think. Unable to move, until, a gesture, distant, of a man behind the bar.

A grand, welcoming gesture, and,

I moved, life flowing into limbs which had been, momentarily, frozen, where, just before, they moved of their own volition.

It was the act of crossing the threshold. I saw, as Rider replayed it for us.

We were all here. At this place I have been to before. More times than I have recalled, I see now. I knew, without understanding how, for I had no memories beyond the few recent occurrences, yet I knew, deeply, deeply knew, that I had been here, countless times, and there had been many, many barmen and, many, many,

“Angel.”

I said, awoken out of my revery, by a welcoming hand upon my arm, and, I realized, I had yet been in a state, and was, just now, fully free of it. Fully… invited, into this place.

I stared back at the door.

We were standing at the table. The singular, round, standing height table, two drinks before us, no,

Not two.

Three.

“Rider doesn’t drink, I think, correct?”
He said,

And,

I stared, speechlessly at the door, just now, closing, of its own, settling, again, into its frame, blotting out the raging storm, which I now saw, through the single, large, smoked, window, to my right of the door.

There was no second large window, simply a small one, high and to the left. Very small, up, behind the bar, which ran to my left, behind which was the figure who had, earlier,

Earlier?

Beckoned me.

I saw wet footprints, leading from the door to the many booths, in the deeper section of the Tavern, to my right. Wet, fresh, prints, atop two older sets, all leading the same way, none leading here.

Angel laughed, low and deep, not unpleasant.

He raised a mug and, this time, I saw him drink, deeply, white foam staining his upper lip, and I realized, though I was staring at his face,

I could not describe it. Knew he had eyes. Believed there were two, but could not say color, could not say shape.

Sharp teeth?

Even as I thought it, I saw an image within my mind, saw teeth like an Orc’s (How did I know what an Orc looked like), emerge, then fade, to things sleek, and bone white, ancient, veined white, sharp and oh so long, oh so, delicate, so, deadly.

Horns or hair?

Scaly skin or smooth?

It was as though I could see, and, could not, that, anything I could imagine was possible, and, yet, was not, the, truth.

He smiled, nodded at my own beer, and I saw the one for Beast, in a silver entwined tankard, glass, heavy, clear, glass, wrapped round with both dull and bright, silver.

“Pick it up.”
He said,

Without hesitation, I did so.

The brew was strong of scent, and black, as pitch and night, yet with a heavy froth.

The lid was back and I was in the process of raising it to my lips when he caught my wrist, gently, and wagged a finger at me,
But,

I drew in the scent, remembering days long gone, some memory I knew to be good, of some far, far off day, I knew to be a childhood, and I would drink of this. Would consume this memory, of that day, where children played, made noise of joy, and a parents face threatened to swim into view.

I would have this, I would…

“So rebellious.”
He said,

And my own drink was upon the table. My hand curled about it. A plain tankard, of heavy, clear glass, and a pale ale, within. No scents of yesterday, no promises of a normal life,

Nothing but, fermented grains.

“So rebellious.”
He repeated.

“That is why you are here. You know that, right? You thought to be reunited. Well,”
He said, slowly, leaning his great bulk slowly forward, and it was then I noticed, I was, a boy. A lad. Though the table still came to below my chest, still, his presence was massive, before me.

Looming over me.

Staring down into my eyes. My eyes. Which did not flinch, did not shy away, did not fear, did not anger. Simply, stared back, and all the today’s all the tomorrows, were the same, and,

Yesterday?

It did not exist.

There was no yesterday.

There was no Tomorrow.

Not even, a,

Now.

And, yet there was. There was a here, but, I could not reach it. It was like his face. I was in a place, not here, and, not there.

And, I decided, here was as good a place as anywhere.

Beast gripped his drink in a massive, fur covered, claw tipped, hand, and, stared down into the black whirlpool I mistook for froth, for foam. It was a thing to draw one in, to drown one, in the,

Promise,

Of something else.

Just, the promise. No more. No less. Just, a wish, to be wished, to be tasted, to be held within, forever, and I saw that, not here, but elsewhere, there were rows upon rows of those who were lost in wishes. Dreams. Sighs.

Beast stared and,

Smiled. Then, stared back into Angel’s eyes, and, for the briefest of moments, I saw Angel,

Flinch.

And, then, it was me.

Mammoth hide cloak, throwers and shafts, leather skirt and knives and belt and bags, and, through the thundering, roaring, gale force winds, Angel shouted at me,

“Are you reunited?”

“What!”
I shouted back,

The room fading, the night growing black with rain and wind and debris, and the roaring, crashing, thundering waves almost,
Almost,

Drowned out his retreating,

Laughter.