Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Gone With the Wind

Silas stared at the redheaded girl, sitting by herself on the bench.

Her eyes were closed and head nestled against the back and armrest. In his chest he felt the telltale tightness and an emotion he refused to acknowledge having felt. Somewhat irate at himself, he purposely leaned back in his own seat, wrenching his eyes away from the brilliant scarlet of her hair, even as the zephyr curled her sleek tresses, sunbeams gleaming and dancing across each strand with a dazzling glint.

The scholar closed his eyes. It was unbecoming to, though he would deny it should anyone found fit to note, ogle someone so.

A mere week earlier he would have addressed her with masculine pronouns, given the guise she had taken when she had first introduced herself, it was only fitting. Yet it didn't stop the quickening pace of his heart when in her presence, nor the sidelong glances he would sneak as she hurried past in a flurry of notes and instruments.

Drabbles: (NS) Some Author's Note

This post is mostly intended for those who sought for the creator's input on the meaning behind the story North Star and to set a straight canon.

Simply put, there is no theme, motif, symbolism, nor allegory intended.

The story is simply about the adventures of a carefree girl who met, befriended, and finally lost, a dear friend. And who, to bring about closure to their decade long game, again plays seeker to pursue them to the far reaches of time and existence, glimpsing and at times very nearly caught up, but never quite catching them. It is uncertain if her friend is intentionally leaving her a trail to follow, nor their motive for doing so.

Snippets and Stories: (NS) Winter Solstice

Snippets and Stories
North Star: Winter Solstice

Truth be told, Rain wasn't fond of winter. The breezy weather was pleasant, certainly, but she always had to bundle up. Moreover, it was wet and damp everywhere, they couldn't sit on the grass or play games on the field during the cooler seasons with all the water and mud. Not that she minded the dirt, it was the cleaning up part that bothered her.

She hugged herself, leaning into and bracing against the strong winds that shrieked around her. By and by the school disappeared behind her and the roads gradually grew wider.

The skies were already darkening by the time she had reached home, and the beginning of stars twinkling in the sky. They winked at her and she giggled, waving back. It was around then that she noticed a single light growing larger.

It was a falling star.

Character Profile and Analysis: Reign Falle

Rain a bit older but still wearing
her red jumper and suit.

Name: Reign "Rain" Falle

• Profile:
• hair: white
• eyes: brown
• height (6' 3")

Personality: spirited, outgoing, exuberant, carefree, lives life to the beat of her own drum, sometimes comes off as oblivious, lacking in danger sense or mayhaps just a questionable lack of concern
Dress Style: Generally wears a red jumper jacket with matching pants, and will often tie her hair back with satin red ribbon, but anything comfortable, light, and functional also suits her fancy, spring clothes especially.
Quirks: Can commune with most sentients and has a knack for picking up languages. Uncomfortable with opulence and luxury.

Background: Rain met the Northstar when she was a young child, and shared stories with the celestial. She told him about the game Hide-and-go-Seek, and Catch-me-if-You-Can, happily exclaiming that she was a good seeker. The star then offers a combination of the two games to play with her, and she agrees gleefully, eager to try her hand at the new game. The star finds her and catches her and she's overjoyed as she becomes the seeker. She giggles, telling him that it's his turn to hide while seeks, but when the countdown is finished, he's nowhere to be found. Though she has yet to meet the Northstar again, she still continues searching for the celestial body. Never had she thought their game would lead to nearly a decade, where she would be the seeker, searching for the elusive star. Still she doesn't mind, going along life at her own pace, happy and carefree. She'll find him, eventually.

Analysis: Rain is one of my oldest characters, and started off as a silver haired mystery who wore a red jumper jacket and matching outfit, and would go around on adventures. Her name was originally simply "Rain" and it was through years of character development that it changed to "Rain Falle" and later finally as it is now, "Reign Falle". Her goal is to reach the Northstar, whom she made a promise with a long Time ago to play a mixed version of tag and hide&seek with. She goes on adventures chasing after the Northstar, and though sometimes catches glimpses of, has yet to reach. Along the way, Rain meets a menagerie of people and places, which she occasionally takes a photo of and scribbles about in her journal. Being a fast and oddly good seeker, she was confident in being "it". When she closed her eyes to count to 10, she never imagined that their game would still be on years later.

Poem: Wordless

Voiceless are these wanderer's thought,
That once had been but whispered not.

The burbling of a creek so lush
Does spill o'er the bank and brush.

Of the wayward traveler who passing by,
Stopped to listen and beside it lie.

Who reaches for the sky but heavens not,
For in the water he saw aloft,

Clouds pure white in azure drift,

Awash in rivulets so flowing swift.

And quietly did the wanderer sigh,

For the world of dreams was upon him nigh.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Milès the Red

It was when her empathetic touch had yet to truly awaken.

One life had brought her to travel through the endless red dunes of the Zer Zuran Desert, in search of one who could pass to her the knowledge and art of geokinesis, control over the earthen element.

Tales told of a sentient serpentine beast who resided in the oasis Zer Zura, one who was rumored to carry an innate affinity for earth, able to manipulate sand as easily as one breathed.

According to lore, the serpent lay waste to Zer Zura. In a single turn of the sun, the once bustling city was ablaze with fire and screams, their once famous night markets alight a last time in an inferno that burned so hot the very air scorched and the sand became a bright ooze of melted glass that incinerated all. The dying screams were smothered by the infernal's smoke as the ash clogged and burned the lungs of those unfortunate souls that still carried on.

Such was the massacre and utter devastation that brought low the once prosperous Zer Zurians.

Yet that wasn't the last of it. In the stories, the monster was said to have ripped his victims apart, the ground they stood on turning against them as spikes shot forth from every direction and ruptured their bodies, the very sands of Zer Zura drinking so deeply of blood that centuries later the sand remained steeped in a dark crimson.

Tales continued to tell of the inhuman bodies heaped upon bodies that drifted to the kingdoms downstream, speaking of mutilated horrors, melted flesh, and scorched bone. So many in fact, that the rivers ran red with blood and the banks ashen with sickness. Reeds withered, and the corpses fed naught but the plague bringers.

And yet that was not the worst of it.

Those that tried to reach Zer Zura in the aftermath were stopped by an overwhelming residual heat that seemed only to grow as the red of the sand grew deeper, as if the very desert itself possessed with vengeance and tainted with malice.

Sometimes, a scarce piece of unblemished glass, so crystalline and pure, would surface. All the better to show the macabre gore that they dormant forever within. A moment in history, preserved and rendered in such clarity.

One almost wished for the glass to have developed cloudy.

Shyloris shuddered as she recalled the piece that the shady trader had shown her. It had taken her a long moment to realize what lay within, and that only made it all the more chilling.

Such innocent and beautiful glass.

And such a sinister capsule.

The color of the sand had slowly changed as she traversed the desert. Their light medley of tan beige and browns slowly darkening. Though she made a point not to formulate presumptions, it was hard not to, seeing the unsettling sea of maroon. 

It all appeared unnatural.

Even more so as she pressed on, and it was after much, though that was a story for another time, that she came upon a city built upon glass foundation. And it was at the oasis that she met the one dubbed Milès the Red. 

In the abandoned city, he slumbered, and roused by sounds he hadn't heard in more seasonal interims than he could measure.

Closing his eyes he saw the city, now still and devoid of life. Gentle pulses and reverberations rumbled in the Northern quadrant of the city, and he scoured the cityscape. Sure enough he found her. A mere child walking where no sentient had stepped foot in centuries.

Shyloris turned her eyes upwards from the eerily quiet city, up at the high strung lengths of cordage, lined with rags that may once have been flags or other banner of sorts. The light festive colors now but grey tatters, eroded away by sun and rain.

It was him who sought her out and came before her. His appearance surprised her and he led the child to the innermost sanctum where he resided, relishing in her awe at his spinning. He took great pride in his craft.

The child clamored with excitement and tried to converse with him. Almost-words that seemed familiar, but made infuriatingly little sense, as if on the brink of thought. Several times he thought he sensed her presence in mind, yet upon reaching out through the aether, felt nothing.

She traced the murals gingerly, and gazed appreciatively at the stream that had been directed to flow through the large dome.

Over the many years it was necessary to redirect the river as the original stream filled in over the course of time. That there was another with whom to share the sight filled him with an unfamiliar yet nostalgic warmth. One which he couldn't truly recall.

Still he was restless, scattered memories of aeons past flashing prominently in his mind.

He saw the fire, the smoke, the heavy smell of fresh blood and burning flesh. Somehow, it was lonely, even more so as he stood there, watching her explore and inspect his various possessions.

Some time of wandering and the child slowly gravitated back to him. She reached her hands out for him and puzzled, he awkwardly extended a hand back.

Was she trying to greet him? The time for salutations were long past.

To his surprise she grasped his hand, turning the appendage over in her own, Shyloris dragged her finger pads softly across his palm.

Then he felt it. In a moment he latched on to the aetherical signature and the door to their mind was thrown open, thoughts flowing forth like an opened dam.

What wonderful paintings, so much color, so much life. Not like the rest of the city so withered. What happened to the the rest of Zer Zura's inhabitants? This is Zer Zura right? 

Many thoughts and more whispered into his mind in a low din, a much welcomed chorus. The spark of life, the thriving mind of a sentient so full of thoughts, so bright and colorful.

The city, the people, where did they go? Who is this, why is he here alone? His hands are cold. What is he doing here alone?

For a moment he reveled, privy to all of her stream of thoughts, memories, the idle poking and prodding of emotions, and revelations.

Until he singled out a lone thought.

-he doesn't look dangerous.

A thought soon banished.

Dangerous. In a spur of bitter resentment his hand gripped her's tighter than intended.

"Really now?" his tone amused. Would she accept the fear that drove so many others away?

Her amazement at understanding the foreign tongue was lost upon his visage.

When she looked up again, his eyes were bleeding red, the color dripping from his irises and staining what was once a pristine shawl, rising in red mist.

Perturbed, the incarnate took a couple steps back before breaking out in a flat out sprint. The brunette hadn't been able to sense any killing intent, and it unnerved her.

Behind her, she heard the rustling, the sand hissing as it surged forth in a crimson tide.

Somehow, letting it ensnare her didn't seem too pleasant a prospective.

Throwing herself around a corner, Shyloris dodged a low hanging branch of a fig tree, the un-pruned branches overgrown and scratching at her exposed skin as she rushed by. In an attempt to lose her pursuer, she dodged into another alley and darted around the corner.

Only to be met with crimson.

"Cruor. Though some know me as Milès the Red."

His words were lost to the time-locked child, for before her eyes his body grew serpentine, bones and joints popping with a sickening crunch as they rearranged themselves. Sangre's body elongate as vertebrae multiplied, the skin of his new body darkening and becoming rigid, taking on a sleek and glossy sheen. The skin of his face hardened, and a patch on his forehead and nosebridge likewise darkened with a protective plate of keratin as a nictitating membrane slotted over his eyes, which itself became like ocelli.

Yet there was more to come.

In a grotesque rupture of skin and clothes, did another set of limbs protrude from his torso.

Sangre grinned at the brunette, and as she watched in transfixed horror, a row of millipede legs unfurled from the underside of his new carapace, almost alien, the way they moved.

"So tell me, do you find me dangerous now?"

The crimson sand slithered around him, the particles moving swiftly and effortlessly.

When Shyloris didn't answer, Sangre gave her a mocking grin that was both resigned and bitter.

And then she understood, contrite eyes rising to meet that of the therianthrope's. Despite being empathically inclined, the incarnate's abilities were far from honed. Nonetheless she chastised herself for jumping to conclusions.

"Both sentient and beasts alike fear what they don't understand. To many I am but a monster."

Shyloris couldn't speak, ashamed of having failed to notice earlier.

Tentatively she reached out and took his hand in her's once more, turning it over and stroking it lightly with her fingers. The incarnate could feel Sangre watching her as she did.

"Your hands are cold." she murmured, before placing it against her cheek.

Sangre felt her content, the cold of his skin a moment's respite from the heat. And it was as much a relief to her as it was to him. The child didn't fear him.

Silas awoke with a start and glanced around the room, groaning inaudibly at the odd hours of darkness before sunrise.

Not again.

It seemed all too common for him to wake before daylight.

There was a more audible groan and the sounds of blankets rustling as Neiro shifted on the other bed, a moment passed before a muddled voice whispered loudly, "Silas? 's that you?"

"Yes." he squinted through the dark at his flatmate, "Go back to sleep Neiro."

There was an incomprehensible muttering as the albino rolled over off the bed and trudged over.

"In your own bed!"

Neiro promptly ignored him and crawled in, "You woke me up. And you have a bigger pillow."

Making a noise of indignation, Silas obstinately refused to give the blanket, remaining impassive to the poking and prodding.

His attempts to fend off and discourage his roommate failed and Neiro lumped up beside him on the bed, "G' night Silas."

Grumbling under his breath, the man sighed and yielded half his blanket, ignoring the smug smile Neiro was sporting.

As he was drifting off, he scowled. Something about the dream he had tickled at him, like a forgotten memory in the back of his mind or a word on his tongue. Nie tangible, yet not quite there.

---

A quick sketch and color highlight of

Sangre clothed in the Zer Zurian style

and partially morphed. Milès is spoken

with the French pronunciation. (Motyxia sequoiae)

Mirrors

Flipping through my files, I found this. A piece I was quite fond of when I had first drawn and painted it.

It was a basic profile of Shyloris and the twin presence residing within her.

By origin, Shyloris is a time-locked character, having partook of the immortalizing nectar of the Amaranthinae Lily. Over the years, she meets Neiro prior to his encounter with Silas, and the Numen becomes her anchor.

Despite the nigh omnipresent abilities of the Numen, however, there were times when Neiro would be away. 

It was during one such period that Shyloris happened upon an engraved silver pocket mirror. Upon polishing and gazing into its reflective surface, came an unguarded moment, and in that instant, befell the curse set upon it and the being within. The shade within the mirror had likewise bound her and they now coexist, both souls tied to the mirror and one another. 

By gazing into the surface they can swap in an out. While the one in the mirror can travel across all panes of the "Aether" and are safe from most harms of the material world, their life is protected only by the physical safety of the mirror itself, likewise does current inhabitant of the physical form hold the other's life in their hands. 

As such Shyloris has had to overcome much working with her shade, who is as much bound to her as the reverse. Oddly enough the immortal isn't as upset about the situation as most in her position would be to hear themselves bound, and is in fact rather spirited about. Something that her gloom could not at first comprehend. 

The two learn to coexist, protecting one another from harm. Where one falls short, the other picks up and as such they work over their shortcomings. 

Neiro and the shade seem to be acquaintances, and the Numen seems to sympathize with the plight of both Shyloris for her perpetual existence, and the Shade's fixation.

Poem: Merry Chase

Amongst the barren 'scape so banked in snow,
Lies the forgotten child meek, that none shall know.

Desperate in flight, does she e'er flee,
Yet never aloft, however she plea.

In the company of but shadows gloom,
In her lofty flight o'er the fallow bloom.

A stranger to all,
That only does appall.

Perpetual a chase, her plight,
For ever greater a height,

Yet the greater the ascent,
Portend inevitable descent.

Where hence the child shall fall,
Never to grace the Lord's hall.`

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Tiny

"Everything about you is tiny." Neiro murmured quietly.

Shyloris buried her face into the crook of his neck, nose bumping and nuzzling against the warm body.

The statement brought a light tint to her cheeks. She certainly felt small compared to the immortal.

Long fingers grazed her back, trailing up to rest on her shoulders.

After meeting him while he sought refuge in the barriers she had erected centuries ago, they had retired to the hollowed oak for the night.

Mismatched eyes roamed the grand space within the ancient tree, lingering over the odd knickknacks that were haphazardly, yet carefully arranged. It painted a chaotic, yet lovingly sentimental scene.

Loggia Deadlocke: Concept and Prologue

Loggia Deadlocke is the name of a comic I'm starting featuring webcomics of the various games I play (e.g. Terraria, FFXIV: ARR, Don't Starve, etc.)

It's kind of a "on the fly" comic, and more for practice than anything too serious.

Here's a preview of the first page, still in the work:

An example of the finalized first panel, to the L. you can see the sketch of the rough draft.

Quite bare at the moment, and in all honesty, it's a very lazy style where I use the free form selection tool to lasso, select, and clear selection.

First in line will be Terraria, and herein lies the problem. I want to delve into the comic as a story, but I'm unsure as to the "what" and "how"-to's. As it is I'll likely be making the comic in a fashion similar to Oglaf. Be warned, Oglaf is intended for mature audiences as much of its humor pertains to sexual acts and nudity, though there is a fair bit of gore too.

More on Oglaf, the comic is indiscriminate in its portrayal of sex, everyone has sex, and nothing of the who or what matter. It's incredibly entertaining not in a sensual manner, but in the blatant humor. I myself have re-read the comic several times, as the style of execution is incredible, and I can't stress that enough. Even now I still wonder how they do it with wit and gags.

But I digress, it's my hope that I can manage the same portrayal and execution of comedy, though considerably more modesty. Sexual humor is not a fancy of mine. Which made it even more odd how entertaining I found Oglaf.

Hopefully. I really want to show this to Cloud, but I'm a little worried. More on that in Satin Dog Days, as really this blog is more for my artistic progression and development.

Revisions: Cloudstealth and Ryuki Aurion

When I had sent them the unfinished piece, I had been in a slight rush, overeager and excited, to show them what I had. The piece was naturally rushed and less than stellar, and I've learnt my lesson that a piece unfinished is a piece best kept to oneself.

Ryuki had been fond of it and pasted it to her profile, and while it is flattering, incredibly so, I still wish I had touched it up a little more. It wasn't within my expectations to see it pasted and used. That being said I'm not sure how to bring it up and have in the end, settled for touching up on it myself and knowing that I could've done better. Still can but again, I'm impatient.

The revisions aren't too obvious and I've still a long way to go, but for now I'm relieved. I'll probably revise it again once I get the motivation back.

They make a cute couple.

Umbral Night

Umbral Night

The submission date is today, and there the drawing was. Unfortunately, it seems I didn't finish in time, and submitted the entry as was.

Some have posted up their drawings on social networks such as Tumblr, sharing their piece with others. It would suffice to say I have a very slim chance indeed of landing in the top 5, but nonetheless, I had a lot of fun with the project. It's probably one of the first pieces which I found truly satisfying, and though not completed, finished.

The theme of the Heavenswards Transition contest is to show how your character is doing in Heavenward, and how they've changed, new gear, class, and so on.

Umbral Night basically shows Silas practicing his arcane spells, the shadow behind him his old class prior to Heavensward. In going into 3.0, he chooses to go back to his starting class. On a whim I chose to go back to arcanist, a decision that has likely changed . Heading into the future while looking to the past.

Honestly though, it is a rather messy finish to this piece. I hadn't finished the shading, so the shadow looks a tad too prominent and out of place. His weapon is meant to be the Hive Grimoire as well, and I hadn't finished the glow yet.

It would suffice to say that I'd be amazed (overjoyed first, but also amazed) if I actually managed to place top 5 among all those other more practiced artists who have also likely put in more time into their work and touching it up to a greater extent.

Contest Entry: FFXIV Heavensward Contest

This'll be the first time I enter an art contest.

As expected I'm nervous. Though slim, one still hopes and tries. Simple though the prompt was, I feel I've learned plenty. Still haven't fully transitioned into the border-less style, but I've compromised some with colored lines instead.

Despite all attempts at sportsmanship, I find myself fervently hoping for the prize that will be gifted to the top 5 pieces judged: The FFXIV: A Realm Reborn, The Art of Eorzea.

Signed by the director no less.

I cannot express just how eager I am to prie open the the cover and take in the concept art, for there is much to learn and study from even the guidelines, if not more so, than the full piece itself.

The artist in me admires the work and details that have been worked into the game I so enjoy. The submission date is only a couple days away, I hope I make it.

It's not finished yet, but it's coming along nicely, if I do say so myself.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Soft and Fluffy

Shyloris had been many things, and she remembered all of them. An alchemist who studied at the Malarkurious Parline Academy, a prestigious and wonderful school it had been. The daughter of a wealthy entrepreneur, an office worker, an instructor at a daycare, a soldier and guard who toiled at the Great Walls, a runaway from the Salem Witch Trials, a salvager of old wreckage as had been common across the veil, the list was endless.

Happy times!

All of the lives she lived, she treasured in memory. And in every one, she would bring back a memory-piece, that held, in whatever life she lived, of dearest sentimental value.

At least once per lifetime she made a point of visiting that one place. Buried in the hollow trunk of an ancient gnarled oak tree, it's roots twisted and rough, but an amazing hiding spot nonetheless.

And so it had been that day that she, for she had been female that previous life, took to the tree, bag in hand and a cozy maroon scarf around his neck. 

Shyloris could not have anticipated what came next. Not in the experience of a thousand lifetimes.

The timelocked child had made it to the grove, past the unnaturally large dandelions that signaled his passage into the veil.

It was there that she met him.

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - Matcha Latte

Shyloris sat in the alcove, legs drawn up to his chest to cradle the sketchbook as he watched the streams of sunlight flittering through the brisk morning and dewy grass.

A few yards away there strung a blown glass bird feeder, from which several crepuscular birds were finishing, and the diurnals just arriving.

"Life is the art of drawing without an eraser." -John W. Garder

Shyloris lifted a dusky green mug from it's coaster and smiled as he caught whiff of the still steaming creamy green fluid.

"I’m bad, and that’s good."

It had the soft bittersweet flavor typical to matcha, and the botanist relished in its nostalgic taste.

"I will never be good, and that’s not bad."

He worried his lip and stared beyond the cloud of steam. Life is like a game, he mused.

"You have to learn the rules of the game."

Snippets and Stories: (WtI) Dog Day Shorts - The Typewriter

The Typewriter: Snippets and Stories

The Typewriter is a short story that falls a touch on the serious side. It reflects the maturation and loss of the absolute faith that only children can so blindly follow as one grows and goes through the "up"s and "down"s of life. Just a snippet and look into how I'm spinning the yarn for this story.

---

Synopsis: A story short of a boy who sneaks into his father's study to admire the antique typewriter. He reminisces upon an old fable of its seemingly indestructible nature, having survived several misfortunes and catastrophes that the family had undergone. Yet just as it had miraculously survived many a disaster, it was deemed likewise useless as anything more than a decoration, for it could function to type as well as it could fly. There were other aspects such that it differed from the typical typewriter, like the parchment roll that lacked an insert for fresh paper, looped on a perpetual roll.

Staring at the typewriter, the youth notices a small keyhole, and holds up the metal key hung on a looped string of leather. A family heirloom. On a whim, as if beckoned by more than a child's curiosity, he inserts the key into the slot -a perfect fit-, and turns the key without resistance. The machine whirs and clicks, and to his amazement, begins typing a singular message:

Greetings, Master Curse. It is a pleasure to serve you.

BOP 4: Love is in the Air

In an lush green meadow of a color reminiscent of a the fleeting Spring season, was a house, small and quaint. From a red chimney rose a plume of smoke that carried with it an aroma of slow roasting meat.

Before it was a sinuous path of large stepping stones that was framed on either side by river rock and bordered by fruit trees and herbs. It trailed up up to a shaded patio where a large chair swing stood, swaying softly with the passing zephyr.

As he turned he saw her. 

A petite figure yet with a healthy earthy appearance. Her brilliant brown hair glimmered with the rays as she twirled, the drawstrings of her mauve jacket swinging as she did. On the front was a gold threaded dandelion

She smiled and the sunlight too, seemed to echo with her laughter.

BOP 3: Despair

Silvanus sat rigidly beside the gurney, brow furrowed and shoulders tense. A hand clasping his shoulderbag, the other on his arm as his fingers found their way to the sleeve.

doot doot doot do-

The monotonous drone of the EKG monitor filled the sterile room.

His knuckles were white from how hard he was gripping his arm, The floor was white. The sheets were white. The walls were white. Even the curtains were white. Everything was too white.

BOP 2: On the Offensive

He clutched the pistol in perspiring hands, nervously fingering the safety lock.

Silvanus had never seen, let alone hold, a real gun, and its weight felt far greater than the mere 5 lb. the engraved label had claimed it to be. 

In his ears he heard the thump of his pulse and the painful clench in his chest. Breathlessly he slid to the ground, knees wobbly and hands shaking with adrenaline as he strained to hear something -anything- in the deathly silence. 

As if the nighttime visibility wasn't bad enough, a light fog had settled over the city, blanketing the landscape in an mist. Despite the lack of wind, the fog swirled and twisted, ghosting around the streetlamps, wisps curling under their light.

Still he heard nothing, and he shivered lightly. The night was neither hot, nor chilly, yet he felt cold inside as hot prickles ttickled his skin. 

Then, out of nowhere a gunshot rang out, near deafening as it broke the stillness of the night. 

A gasp escaped him and he shrank back, pushing deeper into the corner where he had jammed himself into.

A sob threatened to bubble out, but he forced it down. Igneus and Forswua were out there. Forswua had been the first to notice the footsteps, and their continued presence trailing them all the way from the party. 

With a knocking of shoulders, the stoic twin had nonchalantly grunted a warning to Iggy and the two together had casually, but with all due haste, donned on their respectful Blitz Gear while shoving a G-lock pistol into Sil's hands. 

The recent reports of prowlers and student attacks, likely having some root in the recent riots and political upsetting, had resulted in the allowance for students to carry their Strife Allocaters off school grounds.  

As the footsteps trailed behind the trio even as they winded past several empty streets, not unusual given the late hour, Iggy had leaned down and whispered to Sil, "Lay low, and don't come out no matter what, okay? One of us will come for you."

And just like that, on the next turn he had, in one smooth and fluid push, been nonchalantly shoved into an alleyway as Iggy and Forswua continued on, carrying on a facade of smalltalk as they did. 

He heard more than saw them quicken their pace and likewise did their lurker. They were luring the danger away from him, baiting their pursuer far from the physically compromised redhead.

Like a helpless fawn hid, still as death, while the mother doe risked her own life to draw away the would be predators.

He shut his eyes tightly as the excessive adrenaline fatigued his muscles and made him both light headed and short of breath.

Silvanus tried to even out his breathing even as choked gasps forced their way out, fear driven tears pricking at the corner of his eyes and panic flooding his senses as images of mutilation and blood from the recent media played like a broken film behind the darkened screen of his lids. 

He was hiding like the useless whelp he was.

One of his flatmates could be bleeding out on the pavement and here he was barely able to even hide properly.

BOP 1: Another Day

Breadth of Possibility or "BOP"s  were first introduced to me through my creative writing teacher, Ms. Tarn Wilson, a charismatic someone who nourishes, and inspires, respect from her students.

Here's an example of her work, Faithful Over a Few Things. With even a glance, readers are drawn in by the slice-of-life story, and a deep respect bubbles forth from within, spreading out as it sings to our hearts and minds, her words weaving only the finest of silk.

Thank you to my dear mentor, Ms. Wilson. It was an honor to be a student in your class, and one I will never forget.

It is only with the deepest admiration and respect for her that I turn back to writing the BOPs as she had once taught me, and which I now hope to impart, though I can scarcely hope to deliver it with the same words of inspiration, I hope to pass on and share her teachings if even a little, just as she did with me.

In writing a BOP, the first step is to make yourself comfortable. Find a quiet place where you wont be intruded upon. Once you're settled, take out your choice of paper and writing instrument-

-and start writing.

That's it. 

(Technically, you can do anything you want but since this is about writing we'll keep it to that.)

Write about anything, anyone, anywhat. Even if your mind goes blank -write about that too-. The only rule, if it could be called that, is to keep writing. Don't stop.

And that, my dear reader, is a BOP. 

A breadth, of possibility. Challenge yourself then, to write about everything and nothing. there is no wrong answer.

And with that, I hope you start your own BOP Journal to write and keep track of your BOP sessions. See where you start, and how far you'll go. May your sessions prove to amaze even yourself.

---

Sil let out a deep breath and turned a critical eye towards the potted plant, hands outstretched.

He felt his hands grow warm as his mind reached for the bonsai's aether. It was a slow and gentle flow, much different from that of animals.

While that of animals flowed swift like creek or streams, that of plants were comparable to clouds. Slow moving and largely unaffected by the rush of aether.

Slowly, carefully, the redhead reached out with his own and wrapped it around the plant, fingers curling and extending as he did.

As their life energy swirled together and seeped into one another, Sil started bending the plant, creating the twist in the trunk and drawing down branches to a more typically appearance as seen in Bonsai.

"Oh! You're an animater." Despite the amiable voice, the redhead jumped and the plant sprung back, rubber banding back to their original position as the connection was disrupted.

When had he shut his eyes?

So engrossed in the task, he had failed to hear the other's coming.

One of his flatmates, Forswua, set his bag down, ignoring the flustered greeting he stammered out.

Behind him his twin, Igneus, and the one who had spoken earlier, gave a low whistle, "That's rare even for us Enhanced."

Sil nodded, eyes fixated on the ground. If he remembered right the two brothers were of the Elemental class, though he couldn't remember which.

Igneus glanced at the bonsai and let out a small noise of realization, "Sorry,did we interrupt your practice?"

He quickly shook his head, Igneus was alright. The man was friendly enough.

His twin on the other hand... Well. Time would tell. Forswua was rather stand offish, and it unnerved him.

Even now he had yet to speak, opting to nab a bottled glass of soda.

Faster than he could comprehend, the glass seemed to gain a frosted look to it, condensation gathering on its surface.

The disbelief must've been obvious, for Igneus let out a laugh.

He reached up and caught a bottle Forswua passed and held it out for the redhead to see.

It was room temperature.

"We're Elementals, aspected towards heat and plasma." With that he brushed his hand across the bottle, and like magic, the surface gathered condensation, small wisps visible with the difference between room and glass temperature. Impressive still were the ice crystals that he saw form as the surface frosted over.

"Comes in handy when you run out of space or forget to stock more sodas in the fridge." He said, still grinning.

With a twist of his hand, the top came off and he offered the cool drink to Sil.

The Animator took it, his awe changing to astonishment at the frosty chill of the glass.

Unbeknownst to him, Igneus exchanged a look with his twin.

Forswua scowled as he caught the cheery twinkle in his twin's eye, ignoring the gleeful grin directed at him and the nod of his head towards the redhead.

Silvanus, as their new flatmate had identified himself, seemed alright. Kept to himself, was clean, organized, and most of all, quiet.

Forswua sipped slowly at his drink before going back to observing his roommate.

There was a childish awe and glee on his face as he stared mesmerized at the bottle, and the manner in which he took a tentative sip stirred up a warm feeling within him.

He was proud of his abilities as an Elemental, and seeing the other's admiration helped to rekindle his own interest.

Perhaps the year wouldn't be half bad.

Slice of Life: Fly Away

“If you truly love it, let it go.”

“But… I love it so much”

In my hands I held the bug cage, watching the little red beetles climb stray branches and test out their new wings. Some others, having newly morphed, were resting under the warmth of the sunbeams.

In my hands I held a precious thing of irreplaceable value, Life.

Young though I was, I was mesmerized by it, and the small creatures I had grown fond of in the process of rearing.

Reluctantly I opened the cage and watched them take off. First one. Then another. Then more as they climbed high up as they could before their shell split to reveal transparent wings.

For a second they seemed still, then they were up in the air, zooming off till their small red dot became untraceable.

Not one looked back, and I hadn’t expected them to. Though a small part of me hoped and longed to imagine that they’d come flying back. To give personify them.

They flew away, and I stood holding an empty cage.

A large but gentle hand held my shoulders as a frown etched into my face.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be back next year, and there’ll be more of them you can raise.”

“I know.” was the mumbled reply. I knew they would be back, they always do every year. But when they do they’ll be different.

Ladybugs only live a short few weeks to breed, and then they die.

She left to go in and cook dinner and I allowed myself to sit squat on the ground, still clutching the cage.

When I was little, I remember those who cried, would get attention. I was a fairly egocentric as a child such that attention was what I wanted. But, even then I was having a hard time bringing up the tears. A small worry that hit me was whether or not my feelings were sincere.

I loved the little critters, I truly did, but was it not enough to wring the water to my eyes? I felt sad yes, but it wasn’t enough to make me cry.

It had never been easy for me to tear up.

So I stood and put the cage away. Next year I would be there to greet their offspring, bring a few home, and set them upon the aphids in our backyard. To watch the cycle of life start anew.

“I’ll see you all again next Spring.” I looked up at the skies and mustered up a smile I didn't really feel.

With that I ran back into the house. My 1st grade teacher Mrs. Williams had assigned us a short essay on our reading, and I hadn’t quite finished.

Concept and Prologue: Bad Start

As practice for graphic design, concept, and art, I've thought of making a combined journal and diary in the form of a graphic novel. Yet at the same time I hesitated in its making as it had a considerably narcissistic quality to it.

Thought it would end up as can be seen here. Despite the internal conflict over its making, I settled with starting the comic. Though I do desire to share it, as is the case with most artists who are proud of their work, similarly am I keeping it to myself for the most part. That being said having it on a blog may seem controversial given the nature of such forms of media, yet as can be seen in the statistics of the blogs in truth it's quite limited in audience, distribution, and an overall easy storage for mindless thoughts and recordings.

Moving on, the picture is an "in-progress" cover for Bad Start. The graphic novel diary and journal of your's truly.

Taking on a new style of "border-less" coloring, mostly exemplified by her pants and sneakers. May or may not keep at it, or simply use it as a flourish here and there.

Zoomed into some of the finer details I was satisfied with. As you can see the pants are "border-less" and one differentiates shape and form from color and light variance.

Poem: Silent Melody (Voiceless)

Summary: The fear that they have no meaning, that the voice will go unheard and never will be. That it would disappear. A written piece about the ignored cries, unpopular thoughts or beliefs, as well as the inability to speak out.

Usual copyrights please, no quoting, rewriting, excerpts, abridging, or borrowing any part of the poem, thanks.

The voice that will never be heard,

A sentence, a phrase, a word.

From the harp, strung strings from hearts,

Strummed a melody that at once departs.

Words and lyrics are they without,

If heard would never bring about.

Till strings strung taut meet inevitable end,

Beyond the means of any possible mend.

At last to be banished and sent,

To the darkest abyss as was meant.

For solo alone to endure and fend

And at last disappear, with Winter's forthcoming Wind.

Scribbles: Diridon Station

A sketch while waiting to board.

Scribbles: Progression

Seeing as I was using a program installed from questionable sources, I'm not too surprised that I ended up with software errs.

Nothing like bashing your head with technology at 3:00 am in the morning, the "witching hour". And you know what they say, "Either violence really doesn't solve anything, or you're just not hitting hard enough." Apparently I hit hard enough. It's sort of possibly maybe working again and here is the progress:

Basic Outline (L. side) and Color Test (R. Side)

Strange that strangers would do stranger things, offering to help me with my software problems. Was a kind thing to do but I highly doubt it'll amount to any. Not in ill meaning, simply that software and programs are such fickle things and differ so much situation to situation. So many settings and even more possibilities and bugs when it comes to the various other programs, OS, etc. etc.

Scribbles: FFXIV

A random drawing related to Final Fantasy XIV: A Realm Reborn

Silas Curse, Dunesfolk Lalafell and starting Arcanist

A sketch of a certain pink-haired Miquo'te that reminds me of the Japanese Cherry Blossoms