Afternoons of writing

Categories My Own Stories, Personal

In between working and studying Chinese, I’m trying to keep up my writing.  While I was writing this afternoon, I noticed that I have yet to actually share something of quality that I have written.  So here is something I wrote the other day, just exploring some different ways of saying things, different ways of writing out fantasy and some stuff I’d never tried before.  Although it’s a bit rough around the edge, it is along the lines of what I prefer to write and read.  Here it is!



Doran the Conqueror had destroyed it all.  The mages and witches, the werewolves and demons.  Angels of light and darkness.  Doran killed them all.  His anger manifested as the sky grew red and the earth shook.  He hurtled through the air, his footmen and armies racing after him below, slaughtering all those who stood against them.  The unfortunate ones who had descended from the kings and queens, magicians and warlocks of renown, wives who practiced healing arts, and children who knew nothing of magic.  They all fell before him, evil and hate filling the world.

Death followed Doran as he soared over the earth.  Those who survived buried the dead, salvaged what remained of magic, and hid it away.  They carefully stowed it in caverns far underground and in ruins of castles.  They left bits and pieces in the bottom of wells and at the top of mountains.  For hundreds of years, no one saw or heard of anything magical, and it became a myth.  A select few who had escaped the culling passed down stories and knowledge as if it were gold.  And it was gold, for these stories were in fact the rarest commodity that could be shared.  Even in this golden age of men, good stories were few and far between.  These old stories were treasured and few were lost.  One by one, the few descendants of the great bloodlines found where the magic had been hidden away, and began to collect it.

The rescuers of magic passed down the heritage from generation to generation.  They spent over two hundred years putting it all together.  A bit here.  A piece there.

Once they swore they could find no more, they put it together into a thick and dusty book.  The book was filled with what stories they remembered, and what magic they knew.  What little was known, they packed away, hidden within an old chest.  Using what power they had, they entrapped a willing spirit within.

And one by one, the old men and women died.  With their deaths, the location of the old book passed from knowledge.  For another hundred years, the spirit lived with the book, reading its contents and whiling away the weeks and months with the tales written within.  He learned spells and magical treatments, and histories from hundreds of years before.  When there was no more to learn, he slept.  He rested for decades within the trunk, a peaceful ghost, willing to wait for the return of magic to the world.

All thoughts of magicians had passed beyond memory, and even the children’s stories were long gone.  The machines that ran on steam powered the world.  Men wore tiny little mechanisms on their hands and feet with intricate parts that required nothing to power them.  Flying ships, and wagons that rolled by themselves.  This was the magic now.  The skies were grey,

As time passed, old castles were torn down, making way for the sprawling metropolis.  A man found the trunk deep within an ancient castle dungeon, and took it to the city.  The spirit slowly awoke as the cart bumped its way along the road.  He felt old and worn out, years of sleep slowly fading.  The sounds of voices and machines grew louder as they drew nearer to the city.  He clung to the book, holding it fast as the cart jolted to sudden stops and rocketed forward.

A young girl noticed an old chest upon an old man’s cart.  The little thief promptly stole it, although it wasn’t thievery as it belonged to no one.  The young girl was set on bringing it back to her family.  She managed to carry it through the busy streets to her home beneath the massive city library.

Together, they attempted to open it, throwing it against the walls and beating it with hammers and rocks.  The spirit clung to the book, holding the lock tight as they beat it.  The children quit eventually, sitting beside it pondering the problem.

 The spirit heard their voices discussing the prospect of what was inside, and what they may find once they opened it.  And the old spirit trusted these children, if for no reason but that they were the first to show interest in him in a millenia.  Without hesitation, he released the lock, and after a thousand years of absence, magic was re-introduced to the world.



Although this isn’t by any means perfect, and this isn’t the whole thing, it gives a good idea of what I like to write, and the discovery I love to explore in the realm of fantasy and magic.  I also write a lot of science fiction thriller type material as well, and I’ll be sure to post more as I continue to write!  This isn’t something that necessarily needs criticism, it’s simply to get an idea of what I like out onto the site.


Thanks!  Mark

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