I've tried placing my story online, and then placing links to it through my Blog; however, with few responces, relating specificly about it. Then, just today I stumbled onto a fanfiction writer's site. Nice to see others, who admire the Master, as much as I do. I'm not trying to plagiarize Tolkien, just continuing in the vain of his legacy, with 'our' own stories. . .
I'm not a selfrighteous person, though I've been called that before; I just strive to be a better person than I was the day before.
I sometimes I play this head game, where I am a time traveler. "What if" I have returned back in time, to some critical point in my personal life; at the moment just before some grand event which alters everything forever? So, 'what if' today, I have been given that second change, (the one we all beg for), to actually relive that pivotal point, again? I strive to live the fullest experience of the moment; trying to live with no regrets. Obviously I've not always been successful. Yet, developing a positive attitude - though I fight off the negative ones, that creep in at times, is what I work towards.
I've always enjoyed such stories. Like John Titter in his Machine, warping time, Tunneling back to 1975 to retrieve an out-of-date IBM Computer, to repair his own equipment. If I were able to do so; "when" would I go?
Or would Frodo's Ring be better?
Gesssh! I look kinda scary here. LOL, like some kind of drug crazed Biker. I like the picture, but on a Driver's License you don't want to give the Cops added attention for yanking you out of the car and beating you to a bloody pulp. Myabe for my next picture I'll put my hair up in a pony tail, wear a light colored shirt, and give a clean shaved smile; with out my glasses on. Nah; I'll just blur the picture like TooKong. Yeah, that'll throw 'em off my trail.
I haven't done drugs in years, the bike's in the shop, and no one's made me crazed in awhile...
The Good Bood says, "We've all come short of the glory of God, for all have sinned; no not one is righteous..." But some "sins" are worse than others. Sometimes the desire to get out from under, and away from our skeletons manifest its self by sharing, acknoweldging those dark secerts with others; even be they complete strangers.
How should one react to another's sharing of their "sins"? Depends. To who, how dark, and how yours compares to theirs. Skeletons once served a purpose; lost their appeal, and are then discarded in hopes of being forgotten... they sometimes find a way of showing up again.
What are some of yours? -
Got to see an 'ol new friend for lunch, and discused encrypted conversations over Burgers and Onion Rings. It was like "hitting the nail straight on the head" the first time; a perfert lightening strike caught on film - you know, a conversation where the other individual knows exactly! where you're coming from... Thanks Dr. T-Rex, I needed that!
I usually sketch, or draw ideas from my story; yet with PS, the images seem to birth new details drawing me deeper into my tale than before. So, is my hope of drawing my readers, and surfers into actually reading The Nephilim Age. Please feel free to leave any comments or sugestions to better improve the story. . . . . .
". . . Long ago the United Realm of the Elves and Dwarves was destroyed by the Nephilim of Mithar. Later, the son of the fallen elven king leads a party in search for any surrivors of that onslaught; driven by relentless dreams and visions, he is compeled to march forward.
The once lush Greenleaf flurished with the sounds of birds, and teemed with a multitude of game. Upon their arrival, the king is confronted with an image not from his youth. For the woods have become overgrown, and its densness crowding them toward a single pathway..."
As they draw closer the pathway leads through entangling trunks that reek of foreboding shadows. The still air is dank, with the meldew of forgotten things. As the party of seven reluctenly enter, one by one they find themselves weaving beneath draped, moss covered vines. Whispering voices grow louder into mornful cries, and welling.
The party's sparce converstations fall silent. An errieness befalls them all, as bows are drawn, and swords unsheathed..."
". . . As they round a great trunk the moans fade. The silence is deafening. Even the dry leaves underfoot refuse to anounce the stranger's arrival.
One of the company points out to the king a carved face on the trees. Faces, almost frozen in grotesque screams. Like melted wax, they are etched from the bark's very flesh; yet, their hollowed eyes seem deathly alive with unblinking stares..."
". . . Knocking on wood would have evoked the spirits to your command, so it was said. But these trees were awake already, and with their demands. Fear griped even the heart of the king, as he and his party listened to their woeful betrayals...
Then a great oak creaked its wood-breaking words, "I am Darkroot, once called Malon`dir... I remember falling, as a sharp pain hit my back, and a shaft peirced my chest. I knew I wanted to live, but the pain was overwhelming. The corridor in which I ran through spun about, then all went black. When I awoke I saw the woods in which you now stand. We are the DeadWood, of the old forest. Beware, for our anger runds deep. Great is our dispare, and black our bitterness against those who slew us, and... against those who do not avenge!"
" I am Twisted-Keen; and we are the slain - all that remain of those who fled, but fell to Ipstha's new masters."
"Until our slaughter is avenged,"Darkroot continued,"we remain as you see us now; wicked in our bitterness to strangle those who come beneath our branches. Darker than we, are those of our dwarven kin. For, though they do not speak as we, the roots of their wrath is far greater."
The king knelt with a bowed head, and swore to avenge them. As they turned toward the tunneled enterance, in the westren walls of the Twilight mountains, a new warning came..."
"From behind them the whispering moans began again; only now they shared of their passings and former lives never fulfilled.
Then just as mysteriously as he appeared, the vision faded like smoke before their eyes. Evenso, they pressed on past the darkened woods to the "Gates of Secrets"; but Khuzon'dul was no longer hidden...."
My Dad strived his whole life, as a father, to be the best example of a "man" that he could be. With all the weaknesses of a human being, he was the best hero a son could have hoped for. My dad taught me how to change a tire, go fish, paint a picture, plant a garden, wash a dog, laugh, love his family, be a hard worker, be hard and firm, compassionate and a friend; he was as complex, and diverse as they come. With many aspects wothy of emulation you could not find a better person; "Father Knows Best" had nothing on my dad. For he was the real deal. He wasn't worried about being the popular image of the time, but about doing the best at the time. I never understood, nor really apreciated him til I became a "dad" myself; by then I was no longer a kid. I think one of the greatest things my dad every taught me, as a man, was to never be afraid to say "I love you" - then back it up with actions.
After having become an adult, one of the most powerful tools my dad ever gave me was the gift of validation; when, in the back yard by a huge tree, he said, 'Son, I'm proud of you...' I never asked for that compliment; I only strived to earn it by being the best man I could be - an example to others, a friend, an honest man with integrity.
"Happy Father's Day, Dad, I love you, everyday..."
I served in the Army Texas National Guard during the "first" Gulf War; state side mind you - as a Chaplain's Assistant, and never experienced combat. I am not a supporter of the present occupation of Iraq; however, we're there now, and at least the men/ women who have been called up do deserve and require, our concerns, prayers, and thoughts of safe returns.
I have a friend who is a civilian contractor, (the individual at the far left in picture, all black); over in Iraq right now. Military or not, simply being an American they deserve our support; my friend and those protecting him - who are serving our country's interest.
You know, it's a funny how something as small as a photograph can really put a face on the cost to this post 911 world.
"Hurry home when you can, Barry; you're not forgotten!"
There is a PATH, a way of thinking that has been put aside; to make way for a more structured way of thinking, a modren, a less personal way. Fear, and stupidity have been given lables to that "Hidden" way; as a way of forgetting, and supressing the gems that once lay on that path - many are coming to reclaim that way. . .
My daughter has made me so proud to be a father. They say you don't know if you're a good parent utill you see your children with their own; I guess we didn't do too bad.
My daughter was born and raised in a south Texas town where the teen pregnancy, and high school dropout rate were extremely high; yet, she was neither. A friend of my daughter has children that she verbally, and physcially abuses. Liz scolds, and admonishes her to be a better mother; knowing that no amount of excuses, nor personal issuses is a good enough reason not to change history with your new beginning. The way Liz is with Savannah makes me cry with pride. It's not easy raising a child, but she's finding the way, and writing her own manuel. Her boyfriend, (the baby's father) James, came from a rough upbring; but I am very proud of him.
My wife and I were very much in the same place they are in now; James is proving himself to be a man and a father - earning his stripes. Though they're not married, he tried to put my daughter on his insurance; got a much larger apartment, fought and got a better job, and a promotion; he's striving to be a good provider.
It's not at all easy being a parent - in any times.
I tried. With all my faults; seeing how my granddaughter is being raised - I guess we didn't do too bad.
. . . When they first arrived, as refugees from the war torn lands of the east; the Great War had only been a rumor of coming doom. At its close, the other races rejoiced, as the dwarves became all the more reclusive; yet, only briefly had they tried their hand at an aliance with the elves. But that fleeting relationship evaporated as it begun.
After the colapse of the Great Tunnel, to the southren kingdom of Jebul; Mount Ipstha, in the Twilight Hills of the north, fell into the ruins of deciet. Its once grand halls were turned into dank dungeons, where death was lavishly metered out. Its once honored name become a loathsome utterance on the lips of all . . .
I hav got to give up my caffene addiction; gesssh!
Man I'm dragging along as though I've been running forever. I didn't really start drinking coffee til I went on the weekend shift, about a year ago. Sixteen hours arn't too bad, but followed up with another sixteen and you're looking for tooth picks to prop up the 'ol eye lids after awhile.
To me life is lived at home. I mean, most folks seem to be running about working themselves to death - work is everything. I've been in three religions, lived in various places, had several jobs, and my share of cars. At times it's very difficult to remember a time before my wife and daughter came along; they're my life, not the trapings and things to do. My hermit, hobbit hole under the hill of security, is where I find refuge and solace.
Sometimes ... the mind wanders, then I realize its just the coffee. Where is that nineth cup anyway?
This is one of the rare pictures I've actually set down and drew. The concept of the Ra`Morian Tree Shrine originally came from this map-color drawning, back in 1993; which included waterfalls, and the two dwarven towers.