Monday, December 28, 2015

Apricot Jones

This is a random story that has a lot more details than I put in the first paragraph. It's super weird and space-timey.

Apricot Jones had a paper sail. It got salty, and he made it a hat. He made many hats. A man named Indu Thyme ran into him, a short bearded fellow. Indu took Apricot’s paper, folded it, used some weird spinny glass metal device and put it in a trash can and zapped it. Then Apricot’s hat shop disappeared. He told the police, and when he returned, so did his shop, but it was a tad ascue. He went inside, telephoned the police, and they told him to leave the building, because similar things were happening to other buildings, so he should be careful. He gathered some stuff, and on his way out he saw nothing but white outside the door and windows. Then uniform black dots in the distance. As the dots got closer and bigger, he saw they were a bunch of copies of his hat shop. They all got bigger and closer it seemed like he would crash, but he didn’t. Suddenly his hat shop was in the middle of the woods. Idu Thyme met him there, his beard was more gray. Indu gave Jones a lens to read the paper, but told him not to look through it while looking up. The paper was a magic map. They wrote the words “sword” and “SWORD” on the paper, and got swords from the sky. Indu’s was better. The ran through the woods, met Latr the Native. They sent other natives who were chasing them into the void (including Latr), but had a way to get them back. Jones passed out and woke up in a big igloo with Indu and Latr. Indu cut the paper in half, splitting the world, and they got shot into the sea. An octo shrimp chased them onto the shore, where they met Santa-man. They got the beached octoshrimp back into the sea, which was angry and headed toward another ship.

“Oh no,” said Santa-man. “It’s going to take out its anger on Captain Afro’s ship. That will put them back weeks, if they don’t have enough waffle batter.”
“Uugh...what?” said Jones.
Indu looked at Jones with squinted eyes. Jones felt like opening his mouth again, even though he didn’t know what to say until he started making noise.
“The Library of Aquarius-” Indu Thyme cut him off by jumping up and covering his mouth.
“NO!!! Stop! You’re figuring out too much! Your brain can’t handle it all!”
“Wait,” said Santa-man, “How do YOU know about the Library of Aquarius? Were you in the Breakfast Wizard Guild?”
“AAAAAAAHHHH. SHUSH!!!!!” yelled Indu, “Stop giving him clues! His mind will depload, then our Universe AND yours will invert on themselves, making a continuous loop of-”
Jones kept moving his mouth and made muffled noises trying to finish the sentence before Indu.
“No NO NO!!” Yelled Indu again, “Now I’M saying too much!”
Indu turned to Latr and said, “Give me the arrowhead!”
Once again, Latr handed Indu the arrowhead. Indu put the arrowhead inches in front of Apricot’s face, repeatedly telling him to widen his eyes. Apricot suddenly felt sleepy. “Don’t close those lids, Jones, don’t close those lids!”
Latr turned to shake Santa-man’s hand.
“We have to get going. Thank you for all of your help, Santa-man.”
“I have a feeling that this will be the last time we will ever see each other.” said Santa-man, “Are you exiting this realm?”
Latr turned to Indu, “It looks like it.”
“Hopefully your departure will put this shaken plane in balance.” Santa-man bent down and picked up some seaweed in the sand, “Take this to insure its stability.”
Latr turned to Indu once more. Without breaking his concentration on Apricot, Indu said, “Take it Latr, it’s ok. Santa-man knows his stuff.”
Latr took the seaweed and put it in his pocket. Santa-man put his hand on Latr’s shoulder.
“Farewell, friend.” said Santa-man
“Goodbye, good sir,” said Latr.
Indu’s voice was getting louder. “Open those eyes wider, Jones! Look at the arrowhead, keep them wide! Wider! Wider! WIDER!!!”
Apricot suppressed the strong urge to close his eyes. He fought harder and harder until he took a deep breath, widened his eyes and saw everything behind the arrowhead expand out of sight. Suddenly he was staring at a Jack of Spades he was already holding in his hand. He looked around and saw three fellows in a dark room, sitting at a round table with him, with cards in their hands.

“What’s it gonna be, kid?” said one of them. “Call, or bust?”

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Chums Thrice (continued intro)

Griffgroff continued to follow the higher ups. Why had he asked such a dumb question? He knew how the system worked. Maybe his nervousness got the best of him, or maybe the system changed within the time he left and returned to work, which was like, 12 or so hours I guess. Despite his developing judgement, he decided to ask another question as they passed people digging and polmering hidges. "So you're Mervin, and you're-" The fat man cut him off, "You better not be asking what my name is,  boy! That's a personal question. I've been working in the South Admatten Yewsih hidge minefields for more than 30 years. That's longer than Mervin's been alive, and that's all you need to know about me." "I'm 34" said Mervin. The fat man face looked up at him. The fat man's face also looked kind of like it was about to sneeze. "You count the first four years of your life as 'living?' You can't even remember those times for jumpumpfrump sake!" Mervin shrugged his shoulders, "I don't even remember what I had for breakfast this morning!" The fat man looked away stared blankly toward the trail they were walking upon. "You didn't eat breakfast this morning, Mervin," said the fat man, "breakfast is an idea you've yet to grasp." "Breakfast is hard," said Mervin, looking down, suboptimistically. The fat man grumbled, "You gotta let the milk soak into the zeros to synthesize the nutrients." Mervin's head popped up, "Oh, NOW I remember! I had corn-oats in a sogbowl with brabsberries." The fat man closed his eyes and sighed, "That's not breakfast, Mervin. That's a track bum's expedition. And I know you can't afford brabsberries." Griffgroff was pretending to understand what they were talking about, but it was evident in his eyes that they were looking for something in his mind to make sense of it all. Mervin turned around and half whispered, "You'll have to excuse my friend here. He's gets a bit fishfrothy." The fat man immediately stopped and grabbed Mervin by the collar. "What did I say about using 'fishfroth!?'" Mervin's blood started pumping slightly faster, as was Griffgroff's. "Please, Hurmpitcz! I didn't mean it! I forgot! I'm so sorry!" The fat man released him and mumbled something inaudible as they continued on their way in silence. "Wait," thought Griffgroff, "Is his name Helmpitx? Or was it Khrumpitch? Anyway, no wonder he didn't want him to know what his name was."  

Monday, October 19, 2015

The Chums Thrice (intro)

This was Griffgroff's 2nd day of hidge-polmering, so he basically knew pretty much all there was to know about it. Hidge-polmering was the kind of thing that didn't require a great load of background knowledge or even a V scrap ingot class education. Sure, some people were naturally better than others at ancient art of hidge-polmery, but the skill curve leveled out speedily. Still, those who had worked in this field for long lengths of time had to show their superiority somehow. This was usually evident with how "experienced" hidge-polmerers would argue with each other about the hidge-polmering history, the best place to find hidges, where to buy the best polmering tools, etc. Any never-before-employed (NBE) bum could polmer any type of hidge without any instruction at all. Sure, it might take them a bit longer to figure it out and get the hang of it, but sooner than not as sooner could they get three or four hidges polmered to a point where the passing floorman could be proud of the work ethic of his new employee. Well, as proud as anyone could get in this low-skill-field (LSF). The process was so easy that some people would haphazardly polmer a hidge on their way to work, without realizing it. There was one case where the Kiwi-lord's nephew-in-law was waiting for his driver, and decided to converse with a local enrodemph to pass the time. Eight minutes into this insightful exchange of words, he realized two things: One: That his driver had not yet arrived. Two: That he had spoken to this same exact enrodemph the day before. Three: (Oh, I guess he realized three things) There was quarter-polmered hinge three feet in front of him that definitely was not polmered whatsoever when he got there. This anecdote was well known around the village. It reflects the culture and stereotype of easy hidge-polmering, as well as the citizens' popular assumption of the Kiwi-lord's nephew-in-law's apparently low intellect. What were we discussing, again? Oh, yes, right. Our good friend Griffgroff.

Griffgroff was following two higher ups into the hidge pits. The higher-ups were mumbling back and forth to each other without paying their follower any notice. Griffgroff didn't have a shovel, and wasn't sure if he needed one. He was worried that by the time he got to the work site, he'd be useless, so he piped up and said, "Excuse me gentlemen, do I need shovel? I'm worried that by the time I get to the work site, I'll be useless." The higher ups stopped in their tracks and turned to face Griffgroff. The shorter, fatter, meaner looking one looked at the other higher up and said, "Did this kid just call us 'gentlemen?'" After three seconds of silence and awkward eye contact shared to all, the short, fat, mean looking man burst into uncontrollable laughter. Suddenly the mean man didn't look so mean. He was more like Santa with 5 o clock shadow, if Santa was an alcoholic. Smiling, the fat man responded, "2nd day on the job and you're still asking questions? If there are no shovels at the site, we'll just take one from another, my dear boy." The taller, lankier, stupider-looking higher up bent down and said, "Did you just call that kid a dear boy?" The fat man's smirk went away as he said, "Don't steal my jokes, Mervin, I paid a lot for 'em.")

Sunday, October 18, 2015

South Andmatten, USA

Jerrrthromz, though wonmst a haught mistro, has hithertwo comst donth the rain. It triveled and thrymed, yet somebody's getting grounded for eating my back handbasket's left of cheerios.

It all made perfect sense now.

Whoever made it all through, it was gonna break eventually. But the twist? Yes, a very of them. Saw it coming as a blur from a short distance away from peripheral senses. The dialog was thus:

"But how the heavens did it occur and what's the motive (as usual) G?"
"Probably some sewer device, it can read all the thumbs"
"Get this analyzed by electro-mayor, ASAPS-prompto."
"We figured it out"
"Yeah, we also figured it out. It was really easy, but it took some time."

Meanwhile: Grape-sauce was his usually mood, looking at and de-siphoning symbols for his briefcase lunch bucket.

Mondolauu, a bearded structure, waving a tree branch to make things look cool. Senile-ish, umsth he knows his lodgings. The grim-grime, in danger hole, and the wize-erd chimes a chee, safeleth hum frum the graspsps benethe. Tway twimes hee too, a brain indeed.

Chree thears, Made a pumbbwich. Rando- handmandmandmand. Careth and-bundents. Break a saw, trains trans trands.

Fizzle was not into that kind of pish madness. He considered himself to be the similar to the ones dabble-dabble, and made metal things from metal. It was cool, man. The iron core would gloweth bright like, when it got hot and stuff. As the smokey steam-smoke (smokesteam) ascended потому што я вобще не знаю почему ты был в американский континент севодня. Swords, trinkets, shields, small trinkets, arrows, daggers, medium-large trinkets, things that looked like grapes, canthrops, yo-yos, and an array of other array-type substances.

So apparently the color orange is named after the fruit, and not the other way around. Nothing rhymes with it because orange is the worst color for clothes. Also, it's acidic, which is bad for people with re-flux, Lake Muslelf. Though recently, I should blame that lemon drink more, is what it probably was it did to me. Yeah.

Making this was like popping bubble wrap. It gets kinda stressfull when you're not sure if you missed some of them.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

12 signs (continued)

6) He smells.
That isn't to say he's not fun to be around most of the time, or that there is a gross odor which lingers about him. That's not what I'm talking about at all. What I refer to is his ability to smell, as in detecting various aromas via his nostrils. Do you really want to be around a man with such a dangerous capability? Imagine walking around a corner and out of nowhere he says "is that pizza?" You ask him "how can you tell?" And he responds something about how he can "smell" it. That's some messed up crap right there. Sure, it might not seem like a big deal then, but think about all the dark magic he could conjure with such supernatural abilities. He probably interrupted something important you were saying when he referred to his pizza senses anyway, which is totally rude.

7) He doesn't know what bacon is.
If he ever asks you "what is bacon?" just drop him immediately. No exceptions. Even if he knows what bacon is and he's asking questions like that, it shows his lack of maturity. Such an inquisition may be the start of a joke which I can already tell is not funny, and you don't need a man who isn't hilarious and perfect.

8) Bird stool on his pants.
Or dog stool. Any type of stool, really. If it's on his shirt or shoes, that's not great either. Basically if you're around him and the word "stool" pops into your head, that's a deal breaker. Your subconscious knows more than you ever will, so trust it. Also, if intuition tells you "diaper" or "diapers, diapers," that means his dumb brainwaves are getting all up in your zen. That's an invasion of mental privacy. In fact you should get a restraining order.

9) He's a jerk.
Jerks are jerks.

10) He says he loves you.
Scientific research shows that males only talk to themselves unless speaking in third person. So if your boyfriend's name is Frodo (guys named Frodo is sign number 17 [not in this list]) and your name is Genevirfathena. If he doesn't explicitly say "Frodo loves Genevirfathena" or "Genevirfathena is beautiful," then he is talking to himself, so usually what he's really meaning to say is "I (Frodo) am beautiful" or "I (Frodo) love me (Frodo)." Saying "your beautiful" could mean anything. He should know better than to send mixed signals like that. Talking in third person is the only solution. But if he's talking in third person a lot, dump him, because talking in third person sounds weird and gets annoying real quick. Silence is best. That means he's listening.

11) He wears corrective lenses.
For the love of General Stu's chicken, why did I say twelve? Sure, his spectacles make him look intelligent and sophisticated, but think about it. He's not seeing you for who you really are! He's intentionally warping his perspective about you. And I hate to break it to you, but his crappy eyesight is only going to get worse until he goes blind. You don't want to be around a guy who doesn't literally see you for who you really are on the outside.

12) This last one is disappointing.
(It always is) If you are ever disappointed for any reason, break up with him, because that means he can't keep you constantly satisfied. While you were reading this, he may have jumped all the hurdles until the point, but just do yourself a favor and tell him it's over right now, because I can tell you're disappointed. He's stupid enough to let you read this article and find out the truth about him and get all bummed out, so just get it over with. You need someone who can keep you happy 24/7. That's the definition of a perfect relationship, anyway.

Monday, May 18, 2015

12 signs you should dump your boyfriend right now

He saws your legs off in your sleep.
Sure, there might be a reasonable explanation for this, but if he didn’t ask you if he could take a hand-saw to your kneecaps during a snooze, he obviously has communication problems. Plus, he sounds like the kind of person who’d get mad at you for staining his hand-saw because “it’s YOUR knee blood!” Yeah, dump that turd (Also, can you imagine waking up to your boyfriend sawing off your legs and making eye contact in that moment? That’s awkward, and nobody wants to be in an awkward relationship).
He writes crappy buzzfeed style articles
This guy obviously has no life. Has he ever taken you out for pizza? Will he even watch Netflix with you? No, of course not! He’s too busy laughing at his own jokes writing Onion News fan fiction!
He is a catfish
I don’t mean those online or mobile predators who text you pretending to be someone who doesn't exists, I’m talking about actual catfish. What does that dude have to offer you? All he does is swim around in his own filth until YOU clean up his mess! Does he even have clothes? Next time you see him, really, ask him if he has any clothes. I want to know what crap excuse he comes up with. Trust me, he is NOT a catch (zzzZING!). In all serious, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal own catfish, you salty pirate you.
(Side note: During my research I found a Wikipedia article on “noodling,” which is a method of fishing for catfish with your bare hands. Interesting read, I recommend it)
He’s not good looking, rich, OR famous.
Actually, you should really replace that “OR” with “AND” right there, because why settle for anything less than the perfect man, amirite? Keep your standards up. Sheesh, don’t embarrass yourself, girl. You read this far, might as well get the best advice.
He’s good with kids and knows how to cook
Not many know about this one. Girls are naturally attracted to guys who are good with kids, but don’t let your biological instincts deceive you. The reason he is so good with kids is because he is immature, and he always will be. And you don’t want your natural wife-and-mother-type skills to be inferior to his, now, do you?

Monday, February 16, 2015


Skip to the paragraph that says "Santa-man" for some hardcore adventure stereotypes!!!

I've been thinking about brickwizards a bit, and I want to take it more seriously.  So that might mean writing some drafts before publishing them on this blog.  I'm still open to talk about what I have in mind for it if you want to message me or something, or talk to me in person.  Whatever.

It's also pretty obvious that I've been pretty lazy with this resolution here.  I'm thinking I could fix that by being accountable to basically everyone I know, instead of a select few.  To be more exact, I think it would be a cool idea to write short stories or whatever and dedicate them to specific people I know.  Once they start expecting it, I'll be more likely to be writing on a regular basis.  I'm more prone to let myself down more than letting others down.  I let myself down all the time.  It's kind of like when I was in the MTC, and I started making little tongue-and-cheek drawings of "inspirational" animal puns in attempt to help people get through the day.  It didn't take long before everyone in the district was demanding a new goofy drawing every minute of every day.  I'm hoping the same thing will happen with my writing goal.  I hope friends will come up to me on a regular basis and say "when are you going to write me another story?"  That 'twould be the best case scenario.

Anyway, I'm not sure what other plans I have for this blog post specifically.  It's just been on my mind the past few days to write something cool.  So the following is pretty much on the spot:

Santa-man sat on his shack bench, staring into the sea, his mind going in and out of a state of philosophical mysteries, to feeling of blankness.   Way too much time on his hands, now.   It was as if he had done all that he needed to do.  Sure, there were some menial chores as usual, like cleaning barn, organizing tools, fixing metal prosthetic limbs.  Come to think of it, that was all he had to do.  Ever.  He could really put it off for as long as he wanted, because after that, there'd be nothing else to do.  What's the hurry?  There was more than enough time left in the day.  Even when he finishes organizing the tools, it's not like he's gonna use them for anything immediate or urgent.  He could just use those tools without organizing them anyway!  I guess, it was just the principle of being organized, which appealed to Santa-man's thoughts at this time.  Although, and this menial thinking was beginning to wear on him.  He'd try taking a nap, but that wouldn't do any good.  He'd been awake for three hours anyway.  Santa-man fumbled with his beard, which he usually did to calm himself down after getting so worked up.  If he was more worked up about something worth getting worked-up over, he wouldn't stroke his beard.  Not for the purpose of calming himself down, anyway.  But this was the kind of working-up that he didn't like, and it was this type of anxiousness which kept him from taking it easy for longer than a few days.  He hoped one day a ship would come to shore and somehow give him something to do, as long as he didn't have to work around people.  As uncomfortable as he was around himself, it was heaven compared to being surrounded by unfamiliar souls he didn't know.  Sure, he could make friends, if friend was the word. But then what if they started relying on him?  What if -

The middle of this thought was interrupted when Santa-man heard the faint sound of tapping across the porch, accompanied with intermittent metallic clanking.

"What are you doing up at this hour? "asked Santa-man, "Can't sleep?"
The sand crab looked up, far from amused at the bearded man's joke.
"You know you're the reason I don't have friends, right?"
"You're a crab, Klasper, you wouldn't have friends either way."
"Well, I'd have a chance if it weren't for these metal limbs you attached to me" Klasper made pathetic metallic pinching sounds, though to himself they sounded quite intimidating.
"You and I both know you can get rid of those whenever you want," said Santa-man, "It's not like you've lost most of them already, anyway."
"Hey, you know I'm just messing with you," Klasper raised his smaller, iron claw, "I'm lucky to be alive!"
"Yes, Klasper, we've had this conversation before"
"So what's the next big thing for good old Santa-man?"
Santa-man sat silently.
Klasper sighed, "Are you seriously waiting for something to happen again?  Why do you always do this to yourself?"
"The universe is big enough to provide something for me.  Why do I always have to searching for something?"
"It's not like you never find things to do."
"I always find it.  Whatever it is I always find it.  It shouldn't be too much to just have something fall on my lap once in a while." Santa-man sighed got up from his chair "Yeah, you're right.  I better get going"
"Do you even know where you're going this time?
"I hear there's been some trouble in the Graveline Mountains"
"You're going NOW? Those mountains are in the middle of the Snowy Solstice.  Have you ever even been cold before?"
"I'll be fine."

This may not be the best first impression of Santa-man, but he's a character I'm quite fond of, and I don't think he'd be complaining as much as he is now over something so vague and menial.  I was just clawing at anything he and Klasper could talk about.  I'll probably fix it later, but thanks for being a part of this writing exercise, whoever you may be.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Brickwizard part III

This one's gonna be a bit shorter today.  I'm still thinking about how I want the Brickwizard story to turn out.  I want to get it figured out correctly before I go and make something cannon.  I dunno.  Maybe I'm worried about it too much.  Hopefully you get a kick out of this anyway.  


"Bronze bricks are hexed with a special spell which allows them to grow walls only where you want them to." said Thrimfond Breadsaw. "Like I said before, they are very comparable to organic seeds."

"But why do you have to plant two of them in order to grow one wall?" asked the Highlord.

"You only need one brick," explained Breadsaw, "but first you need to split it into two pieces.  Then you plant them away from each other, just as long as you want the wall to be.  The half bricks each grow separate towers while simultaneously growing downward and outward until the roots on either side connect.  This is how the half-bricks establish each other's location, thus becoming one, again.  As soon as this connection is established, the wall starts growing in-between the towers."

"...Give me a minute" said the Highlord, furrowing his brow.

"I'll draw you a diagram." said Breadsaw.

Phase One

Phase Two

"Ok, yeah that makes sense." said the Highlord

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Free write / Steel-Arm

The frenzy fish of light-gime's phase, twas lift above another's curl.  Yetweems, gummerths, the grass, unshroken, but minds were never smart for the amber ways.

Why do men whither away at the screen of fantastic proportions?  Shooting their guns and casting spells?  It is because the company is sweeter that the lack thereof.

If you haven't noticed already, I'm just going off on randomness.  Not even sure why I'm pointing it out.  It's like that xkcd post where when you're alone you just randomly say "I know you're listening" in the hopes of freaking out some secret organization.  Anyway, here goes some more random stuff.  Free write.  Whatever randomness comes to me:

Those grapes, he was riots.  But nobody asked if his clues matched his blues.  Yet nother carries him home on his back.  His burley.  A hunched giant through and through the threw woods.  Give me a nine iron.

This is a lot easier to do with a pen, because it's slower.  Gives me more time to think.  I'm somewhat faster at typing.  Though apparently I hit the space-bar with the wrong thumb.  A teacher called me out on that in elementary school I believe.  I'm still pretty ticked about that.  Seriously?  The space- is big enough for all my fingers.  What difference does it make if I use a different thumb?  So stupid.  I could throw a bring through a window.  I could smash a bottle against a wall. Not really, though, it just sounds funny.

Here take a leaf of abby abby who dang throme bumb agome drome.  Shummy the dang hing the spikes they whirl and bumps.

This seemed like a good idea at the time, now I'm not so sure.  I think I'm realizing I'm just giving myself excuses for not writing something coherent and not wanting to use my brain.  I'm not sure if I phrased that the right way, but I'm still not going back to fix it.  Even though I'm wrong, I have my rights.

Alright fine.  Here is a story of a bacon that wanted his cheese to grow a beard.

No that's no good either.  I could continue that last story, but I have other stuff bouncing around in my head too.  How 'bout this one? Like most of how stories in my head begin, this one starts in the middle.


What was this?  Why was his skin going cold again.  The pain was so sharp.  Then dull.  And then gone.  It had been weeks since the bite, and now the infection had spread up to his collar-bone.  How long would it be until his whole body was turned to steel?  He could still control the infected limb.  In fact it was a lot stronger than it had been before.  Much, much stronger.  But he just couldn't feel with it like he used to, and that's what frightened him.  If the infection stopped, maybe he wouldn't mind.  Heck, anyone else would be happy to have an unbreakable steel arm.  Think of what one could do!  He probably would have even felt the same way.  But it's different once it happens to yourself.  Perception changes.  All changes have the bad, along with the good, but spread of this infection widened the lens of his anxiety enough to overshadow any optimism regarding this situation.

He sat down on a rock, grasping his metallic arm.  What dark magic was this?  How come nobody knew how to help him?  "I should have amputated it when it was still below my elbows."  He thought to himself.  "I would still have a shoulder at least, and I wouldn't have to worry about this situation anymore."  The pain returned with a jolt through his tendons.  He clenched his teeth, breathing more heavily.  He looked down at his cold, heavy metal hand, almost expecting to see his reflection.  He rested his forehead into his metal palm.  It was too much for him.  It was getting out of control.  It would be best to end it all before something bad happened.  He slowly started to clamp his metal fingers into his skull.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The boy didn't even look around to see who it was.  "Well, what else can I do?"

"Frankly," said the cloaked man walking out from the clearing, "anything other that what you were about to do, is what you can do."

"But what if I hurt someone?"

"Are you saying that taking your life - like this - wouldn't hurt them?"

The boy's eyes began to swell. "Well, at least they'd be safe.  At least I wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't what?"

The boy wiped his eyes and pushed his teeth against his fist. "At least I wouldn't be able to kill them."

At this point the boy lost it.  He sobbed and made those pathetic groans nobody likes to hear.  The man walked over, sat down, and put his arm around the boy.

"Do you really believe that?  Do you really think you're a danger to your loved ones?"

The boy calmed down just enough to whimper, "I'm scared."

The old man spoke softly, "Just because something isn't in your control, doesn't mean you can't control yourself."

"What happens if it spreads to my mind?"

"How long do you think it will take to reach there?"

The boy sniffed, "I don't know.  A few days.  Maybe a week."

"Well, you have that much time to find a solution."  The old man smiled and rustled the boy's hair.  "Don't give up, my boy!"

The boy woke up before he could thank the old man.  He opened his shirt to see that the infection had spread past an inch or two past his collar-bone.  From the base of his neck and halfway down his torso to the end of his fingertips had become pure steel.

"Nobody can help me here," he said to himself, "I have to get out."


Sorry that got a little dark there.  I'm sure if I thought longer I would have been able to come up with something with a more lighthearted humorous tone, like I usually like to.  But I guess it's good to have stuff like that too.  Idunno.

Friday, January 2, 2015

The Brickwizard Part II

I understand I made a few spelling and grammatical errors in my last post.  I'm not gonna fix them.  At least for right now.  Without further ado, Brickwizard part two!

The brick started to glow red as it was fired in the kiln.

"Is that hot enough?" asked Swinefish Merryweather.

"Give it a bit longer, Figs" said Breadsaw.

"I've been a blacksmith longer than our Princeship's father has been dead.  That bronze isn't getting any hotter."

"I've studied brickmastery longer than our Princeship's MOTHER has been dead!" replied Breadsaw, "Believe me, you've never fired this type of bronze before."

The brick continued to glow red.

"Wait for it..."

The brick began to glow blue.

"Alright, as soon as the blue starts turning green, pull it out."

After just a few moments, the blue hue faded and Swinefish quickly pulled out the brick with tongs and headed toward the trough.

"NO!!! STOP!!!" Yelled Breadsaw, "Don't put that in the water trough, Figs, do you want to kill us all?"

"You better tell me where I should put this thing then, it's starting to melt my favorite tongs."

"Over there in that open box I placed on the table"

Swinefish did as he was told.

"That's a nice looking box.  Where did you get it?"

"I forged it out of discore, using speedwax."

"Discore?!" Swinefish was baffled, "Where in smells wells did you find discore?"

"The sailor who traded it to me said he owns a discore deposit in his private a sea-cave mine"

"Well, what in hade's spades do you need a box made of discore for?"

"You saw how hot that brick got, didn't you?" Said Breadsaw, "discore is the only mineral that can stabilize such heat without letting it cool down.  Not rapidly anyway.  That's why we brickmasters call it a lava-box."

The brick continued to glow green.

"Come over here, Festelton." said Breadsaw.

Highlord Grandsir Festelton was standing in the corner, quietly observing the procedure.

"This is the color you want it to be, "said the Brickmaster, "This shade of green means it is at it's hottest temperature.  The lava-box will stabilize it and keep it at this temperature and color for a few weeks.  If it goes back to blue, you have to fire it back up to green again.  If you let it cool completely, or even cool down to red, it will be rendered useless.  That's what we call a 'dead seed.' At that point it will disintegrate before heating back up to blue or green again."

The Highlord, with his arms folded, carefully leaned over to see the brick glow green in it's majestic cube thrown, and quickly felt the warmth radiating against his face.

"Quite extraordinary," said the Highlord.  He turned to look back at the Brickmaster. "So how do we plant it?"