Sep 29, 2010

The Universal Question Important for the Ways of Life: How do I write?

Well, maybe not universal.
This question I see in two ways.
Q: How do I write?
A1: Well young Padowan/Genin/or whatever noob you are(please don't be offended), you must write! How can you become a better writer if you don't write? Make some time to write everyday, even if it's 30 minutes to an Hour. Write a scene, some lines of dialogue, a description. Look at your room and describe your room, but don't TELL ME what's in your room, SHOW ME.
A2: Read! Most people who have told me I must read to be a better writer never told me the simpler way of saying it(though now I think about it, it's pretty simple now). When you read other fiction, you are studying how the writer writes. Your eventually going to start writing like the writers you read, but this is okay. I find myself reading Charles Dickens and Yoon Ha Lee more because I love the prose and the poetry-like writing. Every writer is different though! Read the genre of your choice to see the trends of that genre, read non-fiction like history, mythology, the news, etc. to come up with ideas for your story!
You see that reading has a great power over your writing. Also by reading, you learn new words and start to "thin out" what you like to read and by doing this, you start to know who your audience is. Well you guysl till next time.

Creating a Race, Part2

Last time, I talked about my process of creating your very own Fantasy race. Of course, your race is your race, and you can do whatever you want with it. Well, this is for people who can't really create their own races, but still love Elves and Dwarves.
Now, I think creating a race of Elves and Dwarves is harder than making your own. After Tolkien, people used Elves and Dwarves to no end. Whenever me, as a reader, think of Elves, I think of the following characteristics:
-Pointy Ears
-Fair skin
-Live in forests
-Blonde hair(or brown/black)
Whenever I think of Dwarves, I see:
-Long Beard and lots of hair
You see the problem? This formula for creating Elves and Dwarves has been used countless times in the past. In the early days of Dungeons and Dragons, they were guilty for this. Most people who read, and see the appearance of the Elf, will think of these characteristics, much like if the reader sees a Dwarf coming along.
People say that these are over-done. Not entirely so.
Let's take a look at Brooks and his Shannara series. Yes, their are Dwarves, but their origins are what stand out. *SPOILER* The origins of Shannara's Dwarves are the result of Humans who fled underground during a nuclear fallout, and over the course of years, have become Dwarves.
So, looking at this, I still see potential in these races if the writer puts some time into it.
We all know about how Dwarves like to mine, but did we know that they are ancestor worshippers? In Norse mythology they are.
Or how about that Humans who die can become the fair Elves, and yet they are seen, can pass through walls? Or how about the African Wakyambi Elves who have tails, dark skin, and live in the clouds?
My point here, is that their are tons of myths AROUND THE WORLD about Elves and Dwarves, so showing something new in these races IS NEVER A BAD THING! In fact, it gives life to your genre, and you earn much more respect. To have your Elves and Dwarves really shine, try combining the myths of all the Elves and Dwarves. Try mixing Norse Dwarves' association with death with the African dwarf Biloko's carnivorous appetite. Or think of why would Elves hide in mounds instead of a forest. Speaking of mounds, what about a graveyard or a place where many people died? Elves are associated with death too you know.
So, writing the Elf and Dwarf is never a bad thing, one just has to put the time and research into it. Till next time guys.

Their are no Blacks or Whites in Fantasy, Just Elves and Dwarves: On Race Creation

Well, the subject line is a bit far from the truth: Their are Blacks and Whites and Hispanics and everyone is in Fantasy, but that's not the point in this post.
In this post, I will try to help you create your won races.
Q: But Brandon, I don't have to! Fantasy is characterized by Elves, Dwarves, and Orcs! I can just use those!
Now, this question can be answered from two perspectives.
A). Fans of Tolkien, Brooks, and Paolini will enjoy returning to a world inhabited by their favorite races. These people won't mind.
B). Because of the way Fantasy is now, people will see Elves, and Dwarves as just a lazy way out of actually creating a world, and are viewed as taking from Tolkien, Brooks, Paolini, etc. and wish to see something new.
Personally, I'm with the latter than I am with the former, but I can help you in how you may create your own races, or give elves and dwarves something new.

First, creating a race. This is the process I use when creating my own alien race.
First, I try to get a vision of what my race is going to look like. Is it human like? Giant? Furry? Does thus race have horns? I'm looking for anything that will strike out to me, something I can mess with and develop a history on and maybe culture. When creating a race, I also look at other mythological races, legend, urban myths, history, and even today's news.
For example, let's say that I wanted to create a race of Black people with flaming red hair. How would society view this race? Well, in my mind, people think they are demons because of their long red-hair, and their unrivaled warrior skills and strange culture. In turn, this guys live in the jungles, savannah, etc. Anywhere to protect themselves. See that? Even though I just thought of that on the fly, I've given you a race, the history, and their physical features. Now,every race can have their own rules and social norms, taboos, laws, etc. to give it even more depth. You may use the fact that people see these guys as Demons against your characters. What I mean by this, is that this Black person is not the demon everyone think he is. This is breaking that stereotype that you originally thought of at first, but now you question "if that isn't true, then what is?". This even has your reader hooked to world even more, and they will want to know "who are these people?"
Alright you guys, this ends this post for now, and yes, their is a part2.

Sep 23, 2010

On Reading Short Stories

Had it not been for Saladin Ahmed, I wouldn't be wanting to read short stories. His story, "Where Virtue Lives" was something I had not expected. After reading that story, I sought out more shirt stories on the internet, mainly Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

The short story is always a pleasant read. 10-20 pages of all the tension and story you want, as opposed to a novel. I'm talking Fantasy here. In Fantasy, the prologue kicks the book off, but I have to slave my way through four chapters of the book to get into the action. One book, I had to slave through ten. This being said, the short story drives us straight into the action. This is done by the "hook" line, the first line in the story which gives us the situation, and why we should be scared. An example would be Chris Wilrich's "The Sword of Loving Kindness" where he gives us the place, the two characters, and why they are their(to make a hellish deposit)

That said, I'm really digging the short stories. I can read five of them in a day, and as a writer, that's great study material to see how a short story works. Novels these days, especially in my genre, are huge. I'd rather read a 15 page story and get the same effects than a 600+ behemoth. What would you do?

Sep 21, 2010

Unfinished Short Story of Mist

Inspiration to even write Horros came to me in a dream. I can do better than this writing, and I will return to Mist. I thought of this as expanding it into a Mythos, ala Stephen King. Here it is. Written Before Stormwizard AND His Last Day.

Written by Brandon Markham

The only light that made it’s presence in the silent room was the small lamp that flickered on the hard desk. Earl was always afraid of the dark, and the way bills were these days, he was lucky to have that ancient lamp. But now it flickered, the bulb dying like a flame with no air, and Earl had no money to buy another bulb. Even if he did, he would not-could not anyway. Pelts of water crashed on the roof, accompanied by drums of thunder, with a show of cracking electrical whips. The weather was supposed to be horrible, and a possible flash flood might occur. Earl winced when he was blinded by a near bolt of lightning. So close? He thought to himself. Another flash came behind, and this one did not blind him, but suddenly, a man started pounding on the dirty window. A teal shirt and jeans, the man wore. Earl screamed when he saw the man’s bloodied face and missing teeth. Earl knew he was screaming for help, but found that his feet were locked in place.
The man was gone, and so was the light. The darkness spread quickly like a pandemic, consuming Earl in his own personal Hell. The breaker was outside, on the side of the one-story home. Outside…Earl told himself not to worry, that it was just in his head. Just in his head…was that man an apparition of his own imagination? Earl pushed it into the back of his mind, replacing the void with bravery that warmed his body. He used the light the dimmed outside the door as a guide, tripping over clutter in the dark. He slowly opened the door, since opening it up to fast would break it right off the hinges. When he stepped outside, he was suddenly cold and wet, and it seemed to him that the rain and winds changed direction. It seemed that they changed, aiming towards him. The door shut, but not by his hands. The door made such a deafening noise, that Earl could not hear the thunderclaps that stalked.
The man in teal and jeans was laying their, with no head. The neck was even off, as if it was chewed off the man, blooded rapidly flowing from that area.
A figure in black suddenly stood over the corpse’s body, holding a curved blade attached to a shining rod. His feet were dirtied ivory, and the cloak was tattered and pitch black, one that was almost one with the darkness. The figure’s covered head peered towards Earl, who was trying to turn the knob of the door, hitting the lock over and over. Unfortunately, the knob broke off. There is no hope for you sinner…the thunderous voice fell on Earl, making him scream and writhe on the ground in sheer terror. The figure moved elegantly towards Earl, scythe in the air. Earl writhed, the figure’s voice echoing throughout his head, when, he soon found himself no longer having a body.
The body was still writhing, despite Earl’s head not having been attached to it. The figure grabbed Earl’s head, making a trail of blood and the body gave out a hand, on it’s knees and stretching it’s arm out, like a child who wants her toy back. Now it is time for Punishment sinner…now…it is time…

Untitled, Unfinished Epic Sword-and-Soul

This was a lost idea I had a while back, I might return to it. Heck, I still have ideas for an Epic Fantasy set in an African world! Written before STORMWIZARD.

Malloy was a grave place to go, but knowing he would die less he go back, the island was the only place to hide. Darkness hung over tree littered land, a coastline was present under the moon’s radiance, a sinister feeling welling up inside of the shrouded man. The shroud was brown and covered with golden moon dials, marking him a denizen of Sahar’la, the desert man foreign to these waters, but he knew of Malloy. The land grew in size with every inch, a grand mountain now in view. The large object disguised in shadows was coming closer to the shrouded man’s kayak, prompting him to raise his bloodied hands and arms forward. The wind came suddenly, and without warning, the wrinkled sheet used for a mast shout out, the ship guided by the force of the wind. The man called on Aquarius for help, and the spirit bestowed him its power over the winds. All Bearers could call on the Zodiac for assistance, and for the Saharans who was looking to put the shrouded man’s head on a pike, he would need all the wind he could get. Soon, the man known as Mal, crashed on the island onto a rock headfirst, his ship broken upon impact. Crimson liquid scarred the black outcropping, Mal barely standing on his feet. The dark ship came closer, the same wind that Mal evoked serving the Saharans now. The treew would provide excellent cover, so Mal would hide in the dense black thickets that lay in front of him. The ship was coming fast, like a desert tiger in mad pursuit. Mal would have to think of a plan swiftly. A Saharan is a desert warrior, not a tree hugger.

Out of the veiled darkness, the iron ship made its presence known. From behind a scaly tree that immediately withdrew its leaves upon touch, Mal stared into the blue and purple darkness, barely able to make out about a dozen soldiers who cluttered the coast. The Bearer raised his hand, his hand stinging him, telling him to bring it back down, but Mal would not obey. Distant clouds slowly moved, fusing themselves together, and turning black like charcoal. Within minutes, the clouds let out a storm, rain punishing the island and softening the sand and dirt. The Bearer grunted and kneeled over, bloodied spit foaming from his mouth and the sick pain in his stomach. More blood came as he felt something explode in his body. He would have screamed and died, were it not for his willpower and his Third Oath. He knew the consequences of using a power that he had no affinity for using. He would have to deal with the pain later. The soldiers departed, into the forest. Their seeming captain garbed in what looked like white breeches and a sash, his armor only a shoulder pad that was clearly metallic, and a breastplate engraved in arcane runes that hissed an azure blue outlined in gold and covered with the same moon dials Mal had worn, moved slowly into the forest, his hand glowing, ready to cast a Magick.

The forest was indeed dense, vines denying Mal on paths, trees fallen, their roots twisted in seeming agony, and all this upon Mal’s pain, whose stomach was no more. The rain was still coming, Mal knowing that at least three of the soldiers succumbed to it. But at the cost of his stomach, the price was worth it. Mal would live; he just had to get another stomach affixed to him. But he would die, less he kept moving forward, which he had trouble to now. The body rejected Mal’s wishes to move on, Mal writing to quickly get up. And he was cold. This rain was too much, but it was already too late. Lighting flashed, painting the sky an ominous red. This was not supposed to happen. Screams could be heard throughout the forest, but Mal believed that it was everywhere. Crunching echoed throughout and heavy breathing and useless gurgling screams nearly drove Mal on the edge of fabricated insanity. What seemed to be a face appeared in the crimson lighted sky, flashes of that face laughing appeared, years of age marking it, scorch marks scarring it. The bloodied cries continue, and the rain became a deluge! The winds carried off the screams, mixed in was the cries of senseless mad laughter, cackling and yet sobbing simultaneously, the forest shuddered in the sudden change of wind. What seemed to be about thousands of bolts that piled the skies, one struck in Mal’s stomach. One tiny line’ as thin as a rapier, pierced that body like a sword, and Mal jerked and writhed, worms of crimson light crawling over his tense body. No saying it was painful, but Mal’s heart was ripping itself apart. He saw it above his eyes, dripping with blood. The lightning and thunder ceased, all things returning to normalcy. Mal blinked, unbelief filled his sight. His heart was still out of his body. What filled him more was his ability to breathe normally and stand, springing to his feet, but the sight was nearly unbearable.

The ship was thrown over the trees, soldiers lay here and their, one of them hung from a branch. Death filled the air, and Mal vomited on a body. To his surprise, the captain was not found, but also to his surprise, something put fear back into his heart. A lonely black figured reached out a hand from behind Mal and softly grasped his heart. Mal spun around, and saw that he was clothed in nothing but a black shroud, shadows veiling his face from view, but not his voice, his thundering voice.
“You have earned the eye of my master, young one.” Mal’s ears ached, his heart pounding, but he only saw it. Mal did not feel any fear. “Thus you and Him are linked, as I am bound as well. You serve no other Oath other than His and His alone. Just as I have for a long time. You will be known as… Hiraba. Yes…The Disturber.”
The man was still upon the man, putrid breath entering Mal’s nostrils, yet shadows still hid his face. He has heard of creatures such as these, those who walk the road of the living as nothing more than a corpse. A rotting being, once Human, now Nzam, a creature of Death, stared into Mal’s eyes from shadow, Mal knowing he should be fearful. It was a perplex thought and feeling, being able to sense fear, yet not feeling it. But it was what it was. The Saharan nearly stumbled backwards, breaking the sightless stare of a spell, only to see the figure in whole, still holding onto Mal’s beating heart. It was uncontrollable; the heart was rising in rate, channeled from the fear Mal was supposed to feel. He would not serve a nzam, he refused to serve a creature of the Great Dark.
“You have no choice” The nzam said as it squeezed the heart. Mal’s eyes were wet with worry, in an instant he knew, in an instant he pleaded for his life. He now knew the cost of betrayal to the Great Dark. He begged to stop, which the creature did. A faint cackling entered the air, the nzam showing no happiness. Mal’s eyes looked about, but saw nothing. He would not be some guinea to this nzam-no-he would not be some guinea to the Great Dark.

Untitled Sword-and Soul Story

This was my final assignment for my Creative Writing class. After reading this again, I could have done so much better. Then again, this was my first attempt at Sword-and Soul. MAn, I really have a bad habit of not editing my first drafts! Here it is, and this was written BEFORE Stormwizard.

Written by Brandon K. Markham

Draak sharpened his spear after he killed the two guards in fron of the fortress. The defensive bulk of rock rose from the surrounding hay field underneath a black sky that was dominated by the moon. Draak had no time to think of the two guards, he only came with one purpose in mind. And with that’ he walked in the rock fortress, into the hollow as qutiley and swiftly as possible.
Torches lit the darkned ways of the articifla corrdors. The walls were rocky, not marble walled like some of the cities. Magic hummed in the fortress, Draak inspecting intricately drawn runes on the walls and celings, and even stalagmites. The spearman saw his own bark colorecd skin glisten in the brilliance of fire, and saw other guards in the corridors. The guards wore silver tunics that reached their ankles, and wore sandals like Draaka’s and either swords or spears carried on their backs or waists.
So, it IS true…Draak confirmed. He look at the young face of one such child not ten paces ahead when Draak stole to the shadows. The boy had a hard look on his face, one of a patriotic soldier ready to die for his lord. Anger and hatred swelled with sadness, as the rumors of abductions were indeed true. If so true, then Draak needed to hurry-
The boy screamed. It was a more like a warcry than an innocent scream, his face hardening, ready for battle. It was only then that Draak relized his leg shone in the light out of the shadows. That cry summoned other children, notably a small girl no more than eight with her heair bradiied and seathed a long sinous blade, and another boy who looked to be a newcomer into the world, carrying a small smspear. What madness is this be! So Draak reveraled himself in thew shadows, and ran to the corrsor on the western wing, left of the hollowed entrance. The runes were getting more intricate with every foot forward, and less familiar. Draak never touched on the study of Magic anyways, since it was forbidden by the kings. Kony however, would be one such person to do just that to get his way, and all in the name of his GHod as well. Draak ran and aran, with the children screaming for battle, screaming for victoyr, when more children increased their ranks. Draak was a fast runner, something he learned in the seventeen years he prepared for this day, as well as training withg the assegai he crafted from elepahnt’s tusks. However, such skills would not ;last forever.
I will not kill a child! The thought of such and act taunted him,. He poushed it away, but it still lingered, as if that was the only option he had ahd. The children were still puashing with energy, and Draak, with his age of thruty eight, was brginning to tire. He was a master spearman who knows the arts in and out, but he…would…not…use..then…to..kill..a..chikle! I will not! The odds were against hium.
A he spear went into the toddler’s torso. The next hit sliced the girl, the boy fell with ease, and the teenager died behind him. The next child died, and the nect one fell, sand the next alonmg with it. The children were beginning to make a road to the start of the corridor. And all this snes eless killing…all this violwnce that Draak wrought upon the childred…the spearman begged for forgiveness. He feared that God would not look upon him with eyes of forgiveness, but those of hatred and anger. Draaak heated himself. After killing the children, Draak hurt himself and his stomach, when he turned those thought away, and travled the corridors. He would need no distractions when it came to saving his daugyhter.

When Kony had heard the news, he killed the child in blinded rage, then, after seeing what he did, asked for fogiveness. Children served the messiah of God, to destroy the goivernemtn that shackled mankind to a world of worldly desires and unending pain. For this end, Kpny began the Army of God, to rise fear from the politicians and tell them that God’s wrath was coming. But that was not the case. Kony dismissed the black shrouded figure.

Did I end up in sime kind oif labyrinth? Draak was starting to get annoyed and it rose with every minute. The corridors seemed to be going arounf circles, and was perplexing and hard to navigate. He marked one of the walls with a mark from his assegai, and he came back to that same spot three times. As frustating as it was howvewr, he could not give up hope. It had been seventeen years since that grim day. When Kony destroyed his village and took his daughter. Seventeen years since he last saw Mawu. Now he was a master spearman, and now is the time to save her. Now…he only had to find his way to Kony, that deranged maniac!
Draak stumbled upon a room. It had many cages, some hanging from the rock iciles on top, and some just on the bottome. The child guard dlept in a chair at the far end of the room. Draak made his way to the prison cells, and could tell that the women were beaten and ravished. Young women who lost their beauty and diginity, their prime shattered…could have been bo other than Kony! Face so tight that the wrinkled did not hide…not her. Short and a bit plump…not her. After looking at nearly twenty cells both on ground and up, Mawu was noit ina sinlge cell! Then a woman called for him
“Who…who are you?” She was old, but no wrinkle scarred her face. She was garbed in a green dress with tiger prints and embroidered in gold with a matching felt. Somehow…Draak felt a connection with this person…but it was not Mawu, he was certain.
To answer her question, Draak said, “I have come here for my daughter, whom Kony stole from me seventeen years past. Do you know who she is?” At first, silence fell in the room, but the woman spke.
“Mawu…Mawu…” she spoke, her eyes rolling, searching for any conection to that name. “Could she be the mother of these chilfren?”
Mother? No…
“I believe she is. Yes…I remember her now. Seventeen years past, she was kept in a cell like this all the time. When she was of age…she birthed the majority of his children…he always took in beatigful women.” Draak fell to his knees. The slain children’s faces rose in his mind, thought ravaginf his mind. He could have screamed, but did not want to wake up that guard. He did not want to kill anymore of the children, now that he found out that theyr were…they were..his-
A warcry pierced his ears. Draak stood to find a child rushing towards him, spear first. Draak uncounsciuly raised his and the child ran into it. Streams of blood kissed Draak’s face, who just realized what had happened. The child fell, with not even a signle scream. He dide a soldier’s death as Draak withdrew his spear. His eyes widened in disblief, and they reflected with the woman’s smiliar brown eyes.
“That was your…” the tired voice of the elderly woman suggested, but trailed off. “From here, there are stairs…go up the steps. You will find your daughter…and Kony.”
Draak almost did not hear her. I did it again….God, forgive me…please God…forgive ME! As he curtsied and left the door, tears swelled up in his eyes.
“He wasn,t always a bad son you know” Draak snapped his back towards the woman. His jaw dropped, but he snapped it back up, shutting it. He turned to the wodden and splintered door, and opened it, returning to the corridors.

Following her directions, the spearman came to a corridor with screaming children. Not aain…please God…noit AGAIN! The children came with their swords and soears. Draak did not even raise his. He would not kill children…he would not kill his own blood.
A whistle echoed. The children stood, backed into the walls in ranks, as if to surround the spearman. I was their, that a black shrouded figure whose face was covered I darkness walked up the steps and into the torchlights, carrying a spear. Draak paused and looked. This was no child. The figure attacked, charging the spearman with a the spaer. Draak parried and tried to stab the figure, but it jumped back, and threw the spear. Draak split it upon impact, splinters pirecing his armorless skin. The figure produced another spear. Draak held up his in defense to the plunged that could have killed him. The figure then, suddenly, swung the spear, blade maning the cut into Draak’s neck. Draak caught it, but wiced at the pain. He pushed it away. The figure battle hard in an organized way, and with every move a touch of death followed. Draak could not die just yet, so when the figure jumped into the air and plunged, Draak rolled, and stabbed the figure in the back.
The figure’s hood dropped, and the light reflected on the beautiful ebony face that was Mawu. Draak let go of his spear, and she fell. The children all ran to her body, whose cheeks were still rosy, and eyes were widened. No…had she known?
Draak cried. His tears fell on the cold ground and heard the childrens cries as well. He did not even bother asking God for fogiveness. He could not push these thoughts away, as the faces of his slain children filled his mind. Slian…by this hands. Vengence…that was all he could think about. Draak had some fault in this…but if Kony did not even come ti his village, then none of this wouldn’t have happened. This Gave him the drive to stop Kony from ever doing this to anyone else again. This gave him reason…this gave him courage. Draak moved across the children, who did not even break to kill him. Threy wew stilol distruahgt. Drak enetered the wooden door, and faced Knoy.

The mage known as Kornelius Ashona, or Kony for short, was shroudee in deep purple with runes lacing his eyes, neck, hands, and face. The cvoiel was purple as well, but it did not hide his dark face and emerald eyes that held no guilt. Drakk rose his spear. The room was more like an altar, deep steps from froue directions laeding to the center, and KKony was standing on top.
“Are you another one of the kings dogs?” Kony had asked, Draak gave no answer. “No…you afe not…I know you. Well, at least heard of you.” Draak gave no impression. His thoughts were to only kill the man who destroyed the lives of these vhildren…knowing that he himself has destroyed others as well. “You are MAwu,s father…she always said that you would come to save her. Howq much do you love her? Do you eeven know? TO come seventeen uyears later, come into my and…” Knoy’s eyes widened, then a mocking smile came on his face, unnerving Draak who lowered his spear by a few inches “Your grandchildreds blood and Mawu’s as well screams from your stained blade...” Knoy let out a laugh “How did it feel? To slay your own kin…how did you feel to kill my children. Do on tfear, I seek not vengeance…that is is less children needed for what I am poaniing.” Draak let his face lead him into perplexity. Kony’s tone implied that the children were used more than just fighting.
“You know, like all the rest of the people, that my army fights the kings who control us all. Out kings are corrupted with power, and we are suffering everyday…do they help us. No. They do not care for human life. RThat is why murder and rape are commonplace, why thievery has not been solved, and why the problem of evil is still a problem” Draak nevber knew this side of Kony. But still…!
“The children are needed for so muchg more. They will not fight” Draak dropped his spear. Thoese children with weapon…if they were not going to fight, then what were they doing?
“I need sacrifices to summon a beats so powerful, that the government will be destroyed.” Picking back up his spear, He pointed it to the mage once more. Draka now understood the runes in the foirtress.
“You…monster! You destroyued whole civilazations to take these children, ruined the lived of people, and changed their mentalility. The givernemnt is not the problem, the people running it is! You talke odf God as your father, and tat you are our Messiah. A real Messiah is no monster like you!”
“Killing one’s own grandchildren and daughter are noit acts to make a monster more than a fiary tale than? Draak?” Draak did not move, hiding his frustaion behond a face that scvreamed for Kony’s death.
“Very well then…” Kony lauched himself into the air and stayed. Levitating, he darkned the room as the sun rose and let its rays flood into the room. “You may die like the dog you are then. I will rule, and we will all be happy!”

Draak dodgyed the fifth ball of fire, but it was too close. This was like fighting a bird, Kony did not stay still! Sure, Draak had gotten him a few times, but they were all grazes at Kony’s feet. In a last ditch effort, Draak threw his spear at Kony at a close range, since attacking from the ground was useless. Kony couahgt the projectile however, anmd threw it.
Pain flared in Draak’s torso when the spear protruded from his chest. His heart slowed, Draak feeling his life give way so fast. Kony laughed.
“The kings will all die, and the kingdom of God shall rise from the world’s ashes…yes. This entire world is filled eiith sein, and so….with this beast, I shall burn this dammed world into nothing, and rasie it again from the ashes! It is the wioll of God!” Kony did not laugh, but instead turned away. The runes suddenly bvrightehedn in the dark room, and hummed. Lights of blue, red, and gold laced each other and travled to the centewr of the altar where Kony was. The room lightened more with every second. Screams could be heard from the opposite side of the door.
Draak unseathed his spear from his cheatst, and immeduiately felw into a world of pain. But this did not stop him. With every piuece of strnght he had, Draak stepeped small steps toward Kony, and within seconds, stabbed him. The Runes died and Kony with it, as his head looked down, DRaak thinking it was in horror. Then Kony fell. Draak followed.
In the surrounding darkness, the children entered the room. Among them, was a woman in black. Draak wanted to open his eyes, but found no strength to do so. He found however…words.
“My grandchildren…this world must change for the better of the people…please…” Mawu, bent over, obviously in pain, and kissed on his cold cheek. Draak died, with a smile on his face, knowing that was forgiven for his transgressions. Draak thought that hopefully, this world will change.
The End.

Unfinished Novel of King's Diary

Who knows, maybe I'll finish it one day. This was an Epic Fantasy novel idea that I started. I had Magic and Politics play a HUGE role and the characters who are hurt. Also, I had nearly all the main characters related one way or the other. It was like A Song of Ice and Fire met Elantris. Haha, here is the unfinished novel. I wrote this BEFORE Stormwizard

King’s Diary
Written by Brandon K. Markham

“On that night, so many years ago, I should have never committed such a Sin. Now I will die because of it, a punishment that is light on my sentence. All I can ask for is…forgiveness.”
-Unknown Entry


Darkness shrouded the manor, but it did not matter to Simon. He could see like an owl, and move like a mouse, quick and quiet, turning here and their, making sure that no guard caught his movement. He had already dispatched three, but their bodies were hidden well. This job was too easy, kill a witch the King asked, she would be in her manor, sacrificing to her pagan God. She was not the first to be accused either, as the order came to round up all the women in Bezekten less than a day ago. However, Simon could not help but wonder. Why would the King want to kill this particular person? Simon stopped in front of an iron door. All the other doors were crafted from fine wood, so…why this iron one? Simon planted an ear to the door, and voices could be heard from the other side. It sounded like two people talking, a man and a woman.
“…when…okay…but…okay…” Simon heard a heavy voice through the door. This has to be the man.
“No doubts…you must…” This tone was heavier than the first. Why did one of the voices sound like a woman?
“Tonight…will do…yes, Lady Mekasef”
Mekasef. The King’s target was behind this door. All Simon had to do was-
“Wait a second” The voice was loud and clear, as if the iron door was thin. The door warmed against Simon’s ear, Simon twitching in response, then jumped when it was burning. Suddenly, a bright orange circle was made in the middle of the door, and the iron began to open itself, expanding, and silver liquid falling towards the floor. On the other side of this newly fashioned hole, a woman with lustrous red hair and arcane symbols on her extravagant face, caught Simon’s eyes with her own azure ones.
“I knew you would come, Assassin.” She spoke. Soon, the hallway in which Simon was in was chilly. He realized that a window had been opened on the other side. “If you were looking for Mekasef, then you have found her.” This was it. Simon was going to get the job done and quick. Mekasef began to move, but was stopped by Simon’s pinning throwing knives that he flashed. Mekasef was stuck on the chair that she sat on. Her face was a bit harder, but it did not catch his eyes. “What, your going to have your way with me first, then take me to the King?” Simon gave her a perplexed look, and after breathing heavily, began to speak.
“I’m not like that, I just don’t want to deal with Magick.”

Chapter One(and the only chapter) of Una Historia de dos Almas Gemelas

I helped a friend out who knew nothing of writing, re-write this story into something more powerful. I'm not a romance guy. I'm an Epic Fantasy fantatic. But my friend-Marilyn Tepepa-was a great friend of mine, so I couldn't say no. You can say that this was "our" project. I lost the other two chapters, but here is the first.

I really like my descriptions. If it's one thing that I love about my writing are my descriptions, and I improve everyday. Thank You Robert Jordan!!!

Una Historia de dos Almas Gemelas

On one particular Saturday night, Mary and her friend Leila were driving to their destination: La Mirage. It was the hottest place to go, for the time, and Mary was looking pretty hot herself. What, with her knee length fitted black dress that exposed legs that most guys would die for, and curves that women were envious of. Leila was a bit darker, being garbed in earth green and brown colors, but her short and wavy hair colored autumn leaves highlighted her earthly eyes that glistened like the visible stars above them. It was a clear night, and with every inch forward, Mary saw crowds and crowds of people.
Guys here are a trip, Leila had said once, warning her of the men that hunt women like tigers pouncing like pray. Mary had remembered a Chinese proverb: Corner a mouse, and it will scratch like a cat. She came here to party, not to fast talk with some guy. Leila came to party as well, but the way she partied…Mary knew that she was the designated driver. Already being put on edge that she could not touch a drink, she pushed the anger away and focused on the night ahead. The thought still lingered in the back of her head.

It was a fun night…so far. Men and women wearing today’s fashions danced and shook and did whatever just to have fun. Music occasionally switched from Hip-Hop to Soft Rock, but never touched on Metal or Pop. Some people left because of that. To Mary, however, it did not matter. She danced, not in an attracting way like some of the other were, but that still did not ward men from approaching her. She must have turned down six guys before that lingering thought crept back into her mind. As much as she fought it, it was there. That urge to drink. Maybe after a drink, I can calm down…
The bar had a window that kissed the roof, and a imitation palm tree was its side, with fluorescent lighting bordering the window. She slumped on a stool, trying to cover her legs from the sheer coolness that suddenly entered the room.
“What would you like to have…miss” The bartender had asked. He scanned her up and down, measuring her, objectifying her. She reconsidered having put on that dress. Leila was having the time of her life. Any drink would give her a good time.
Can’t drink. It was useless thinking that, as she already asked for a miller draft. To her surprise, however, another man stepped up to the plate. She was going to have to strike him out as well. Though he was pretty big, arms heavy with muscle that made it seem his shirt were to rip, sandals and blue jeans, golden like eyes that just shined in the white light…and…and…
Well…his guy can’t be bad.
His approach was normal. A normal walk, hands out of pocket and chest up.
“How many guys already tried to talk to you?” He had a low tenor, which made Mary’s legs shake a little bit. Something was stirring within her. IT was a…weird feeling…something she has not felt in a while. As she was scanning him from head to tow, his eyes were dead-set on hers. He was not objectifying her…
“Countless.” It was more like six, seven including him, but the answer just came out.
“I can imagine. Oh, where are my manners, certainly not in some dumpster!” He let out an open hand. “I’m Raphael Alma Sustantivo, but everyone just calls me ‘Rafy’”

“It’s late!” Rafy had exclaimed. His gold watch read one o’clock in the morning. He and Mary had been talking for a while about so many things…life, dreams…love was inevitable. His journey might end here with this woman, his journey for his maiden. So many have left him before, but something about her just felt…right. He figured that she felt the same way. He wanted to speak some more however, but his watch told him not too. He saw Leila, who was introduced. She was knocked out cold. He needed to wrap this up, unfortunately.
“Mary.” He called, and she spun, a great smile as bright as a crescent moon paved her face. “Puedo obtener su número de teléfono ... amigo?” It was his killer move, a low voice that was surprisingly a whisper. It crept underneath women and made them shudder. Not in a bad way…but in a more…sexy way.
“No” Wait…what just happened? Being around women his entire life was not working for him right now. Great, he just blew it, the one chance at love, and he just-
“Dame el tuyo y yo te llamo.” Raphael blinked. She was playing hardball…Raphael’s arms tensed with excitement as a smile started cracking on his face. He sighed and smiled, writing his phone number on a spare piece of paper, then handed it to her.

Final Draft of Love of the Spirits

I love this story. It still seems a bit shaky, but at less than 1000 words, I think I did a good job. But I know I have to improve. I wrote this story BEFORE Stormwizard.

Love of the Spirits
By Brandon Markham

To see my wife-sister again, I must kill mama. She’s a Witch, a heathen and enemy of the council, but my love sees beyond that. You are the only one who can Sohma they mocked while beating me, after stealing my love, Zula. Death will not be the worse for your wife if that Witch is not dead by sundown.
Funny how they say I won’t die as well and something in my stomach told me that they knew of my powers. Inheritance, I suppose. The power of the Spirits.
The falling sun took the once azure sky into a cold night as I shifted my cloak and my once glistening bark colored skin toned down, keeping a fastidious eye on the dial. Fifteen minutes, and the council’s dogs were their already, and on one zebu, in an array of chains, Zula sat with her eyes tracing the ground
“ZULA!” I called, but instead of Zula turning to see me, the black faces of my enemies stared.
“Sundown is near, Witch-son. Do not let your love fall with it” One of the pelt clad men said with the other four nodding in agreement. One looked to have other plans, but my plans were already in place. Just thinking about it made thousands of knots in my stomach. More came with the first scream from the small hut ahead. The men stared at me in horror, like I was some kind of monster.
“We knew you had her gift, Witch-son, but…a poison?”
“She would not die any other way. She is a powerful Witch, my mother.”
“And whatever does not kill you, only makes you stronger”
Like a demon in flames, Wadjiine was in the middle of a ring of fire, having engulfed her house in the same fires. “Spirits I thank thee, for your messages of my future”
Divining the Spirits…she saw me-
“You” Mama stopped me in my tracks and I froze to the ground. The five men rose from their great horned cattle, and invisible to the normal eye, took out their spears. Mama wasn’t staring at me, I realized but to the soldiers that were charging at her. Suddenly, a light shrouded her. The power of the Spirits fed her what she wanted, not too much though, as I saw it. With that power, she tore the ground and shaped it into a mouth. A small hole, really a gap, but nonetheless the earth ate two of the soldiers, the other three leapt over the hole like tigers after prey, and they were snaking to Mama. Zula tried to get out of her chains, I saw.
My heart must have sunk into my already sick stomach when I realized a harsh reality. One or the other, one must live…and one must die. I was in the middle of the fight, not far from either…but if I abandoned one…
Closer and closer the soldiers came to my mother. The aura around her glowed brightly, meaning to kill them all, but she would die before that happened. And then Zula…my love. I love them both. The Spirits forgive my crime and witness to my tounge, I do! The soldiers upon reach now, their spears about to drive home in seconds, I Called. The light around me was furious and growing with each second as the spears came closer. There was no time to cast, the Spirits divined to me, but that was not my plan. Mama seemed to know too.
“Sohma! NO!” Even after I tried to kill her, the love in her voice was only stronger.
Heat flared from my body and burned everything around me to ashes. The soldiers were screaming in the quintessence of agony, and I joined them as well as I suffered the consequences of eating too much power. But it worked. When the flames died out, the men laid on top of each other in a blacked mound. I fell over. Mama called for me, begged me to wake up, commanded me to wake up, but I would not obey. Out of love for my mama and Zula, I would not obey.

Final Draft of His Last Day

The piece of work you about to read is a piece of mess. It sucks. I wrote this thinking it to be a Horror short story. I really like how I open up; I've been working on the "hook" for months on end, and recently found a new way to do it. It seems that By the middle of the story, I get lax. Also, their is no theme. This story was written BEFORE Stormwizard.

His Last Day
By Brandon Markham

Today’s job was Robert Milton Jr., a sixty-five year old pedophile charged with the murder and rape of a two year old. Ben always loved putting these guys to sleep. The executioner strode down the corridor, the very air permeated with rot and death. Over a hundred of these people Ben condemned, and a hundred more would come before he would die. The thirty year old loved his job. It gave him a reason to kill.
Today was the last day however, He served his time in County, but he would commit another crime to go back. He pushed these thoughts back, pondering how he should kill this person. Should he do it slowly with nail clippers like last time? Nah, that was slow. Ben always loved slow things and thought. It gave him time, and every second he savored it.
Ah…he thought, a wicked smile crept on his pale face. With a dirty and blood soaked hand, he reached in his pocket of his overalls, and produces a mask. It was a medieval thing that mask, one that could always be seen in comics and cartoons. It was black and covered the head; two holes were made to see through the veil. It was also pointed. Yes…the traditional executioners’ mask.
The door in front of him was made of iron. The other side would soon be in blood. He opened it, and an ancient sound crept out as the door was pushed further and further, and he was their.
The man, Robert Milton that is, was blindfolded and naked. He was fat and disgusting, his hair almost seemed like second skin. A yellow puddle was beneath the molded wooden chair he was strapped to. The room was comforting however. All the tools he needed were right on that table. Brass knuckles, knives, screwdrivers, chainsaws…Ben laughed, who uses chainsaws anymore?
He shut the door, Robert turning his head this way and that.
“Who’s there?” He screamed in fear. “Where am I?”
“You’re in County, Robert, you’re in County.” Ben replied
“L-l-l-look…I did nothing wrong! Nothing you hear? Please, just-“
“You’re not getting out” Ben interrupted. He wanted to make this point clear, and it worked. Robert thrashed…or attempted to. His screams were heard throughout, something Ben hated. Screams were music to others, but to him…they were just annoying. He walked over with his butcher knife slowly. Ben enjoyably slashed at Robert’s mouth. In return’ the naked man screamed in gurgling horror, blood filling his mouth, but it did not choke him.
“Please…I’m begging you…please…”Robert pleaded
“How’d she feel? Young and untouched…like a little girl huh? You had ultimate control over her. She feel good right? You feel good knowing that you killed her?”
The blind fold moved upwards, Robert’s eyes has widened
“Uh-what are you talking about?” Robert exclaimed. “I did no such thing!”
Ben laughed. Liars get extra treatment.
“Well then, let’s get something clear: you raped her Robert. You killed her as well. Your own daughter”
“What the fuck are you-gah!” The knife penetrated Robert’s knee and he screamed a scream that that sounded like a sharp squall. The nest penetration went to his ear, but not all the way. Ben was not finished.
“I hate screams…reminds me to much of how I screamed when I was just a runt. Daddy shoulda never came at me like he did. So bear with me’ alright?” Ben walked over towards the stone table and grabbed a pair of p.v.c. cutters. They were like pliers, but a short thin blade replaced the locking part, leaving only the handles. Immediately the cold from the metal was gone. Ben walked back and removed the blindfold, ripping it. He grabbed Robert’s penis and placed it between blade and handle.
“Don’t scream alright?”
Ben squeezed the cutters once; the blade did not touch the penis…yet. Another squeeze cut into the meat, a Robert disobeyed. The next squeeze ended it, Robert’s manhood taken from him.
“Now then…how about those eyes? Jesus always said to cut out your eyes if did adultery. Oh yeah…didn’t he say something about hands?”
The scream rose sharply, and lasted into the night.
* * * * *
The Boss was standing outside the door with a gun. Ben was surprised when he saw this. His joy was stolen. Six hours of nothing but skin peeling, bone pulling, hair pulling, eye plucking, and finally decapitation through his torso was all stolen with that gun. The Boss shot, was Ben faltered.
“What the…what the…hell…” Ben trailed as the puddle of blood was being formed. The Boss, with his ebony face and graying hair answered.
“You know not to kill anyone innocent Ben, so I should be the one asking that question.”
“Uh-what are you talking about?” Robert exclaimed in memory. “I did no such thing!”
Shit…Ben thought. Before he drifted of to his death, there was Robert. His final moments were enjoyable, though he did tell the truth. In fact, Ben knew that Robert did not commit such a crime. Things were so slow around County, even for Robert. He laughed in the face of death in the end. Also, for the fun of it, he let out a weak scream

Towers of Midnight Trailer

*I DO NOT OWN THIS!!!! I only posted this up here as a major WoT fan.*

The Last Battle has started. The seals on the Dark One’s prison are crumbling. The Pattern itself is unraveling, and the armies of the Shadow have begun to boil out of the Blight.

The sun has begun to set upon the Third Age.

Perrin Aybara is now hunted by specters from his past: Whitecloaks, a slayer of wolves, and the responsibilities of leadership. All the while, an unseen foe is slowly pulling a noose tight around his neck. To prevail, he must seek answers in Tel’aran’rhiod and find a way--at long last--to master the wolf within him or lose himself to it forever.

Meanwhile, Matrim Cauthon prepares for the most difficult challenge of his life. The creatures beyond the stone gateways--the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn--have confused him, taunted him, and left him hanged, his memory stuffed with bits and pieces of other men’s lives. He had hoped that his last confrontation with them would be the end of it, but the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. The time is coming when he will again have to dance with the Snakes and the Foxes, playing a game that cannot be won. The Tower of Ghenjei awaits, and its secrets will reveal the fate of a friend long lost.

This penultimate novel of Robert Jordan’s #1 New York Times bestselling series--the second of three based on materials he left behind when he died in 2007--brings dramatic and compelling developments to many threads in the Pattern. The end draws near.

Dovie’andi se tovya sagain. It’s time to toss the dice.

First Draft of Stormwizard

Now that I look at this story, it IS character driven, but the plot is too vague. Orginally, it was going to be 1500 words, but because I was too afriad to expand upon it, I wrote it in less than 600. Needless to say, I must re-edit this story, but because of the lack of material on this site, I'll put it on here. =)

By Brandon Markham

Arash P’vonik, stopped believing in the Great One when he became Stormwizard of the ark, the Hopechaser. His dreams of having a happy life with his family drowned with the coming rain, just like the hopes and lives of countless others. The ark treaded furious waters, wave after buffeting wave threatening to rip the ark asunder.
Then their were the storms.
They roll from nowhere on the sea like hills, lightning whipping indiscriminately from their black battlements. One such storm came this night, like every night; the storm of someone rapping on the Stormwizard’s door.
“Master Stormwizard! Master! It’s huge!”
Arash rose from the bed apathetically, wondering if this night would be his last. He hoped so. Routinely, he threw on his marble colored cloak and held his storm-repel ivory staff. It wasn’t odd, the staff. It drew in electricity like a rod, and with proper form-since anyone can do it-throw a lightning bolt right back at the clouds. The people gazed at the storm battles like a mythic war.
Arash lost his family, to one such storm, and lost friends when the flood rushed over them. Why had he continued living on? What connections did he have with these people? Why not throw himself of the ship like countless others did? A tempting thought that was. Nonetheless, Arash moved forward.

The hallway before him was filled with the same lost and empty hopes that he once reserved.
“Help us!”
“The Great One save us all.”
That last one stabbed his heart. No…he won’t save us. But he moved on, on onto the bridge where he faced the storm.
Rain pelted on his once-dry face and clothes, and drummed on the wooden planks. The storm surged forth, a whip of silver electricity lashing out Arash’s way. He countered by drawing the lightning into his upraised staff and repelling it back.
Bolt after bolt Arash repeated desperately. The past twenty years weren’t tiring as a Stormwizard, but it was still desperate. They say that in times of need, a simple prayer to the Great One answered all needs. Where was his need when Arash needed his family? Where-
A lone bolt struck out at him. He raised his staff, but the power was too much for him. The staff broke into pieces. Arash flew backwards.
That was it. With the staff broken, the Hopechaser’s chase died. Arash slowly rose up, knelt.
And prayed.
The storm seemed to be giving the Stormwizard one last request. He prayed for salvation and forgiveness, for aid and hope for all. For the world. His head pounded; he prayed. His heart tightened; he prayed. His body felt cold, tired, and uncaring. He prayed.
As the storm began to move again, a power filled Arash, waiting to rise up like a geyser. A bolt came.
Arash stood, understanding that the Great One had entered him. His spirit raged like the storm in front of him, such fury and might engulfed him in a silvery light. The bolt bounced of him, but something was different. He held the bolt.
With every pound, ounce, and pint of strength he could muster, he threw the bolt back. The cloud sent back more in return. The two fought but never backed away, but with one bolt to the cloud, the black thing fled.
When the people rushed out to thank Arash, and gaze on his glory, he spoke. “Glory to the Great One. He’s just on time.”