Flash Stories & Poetry Day 25: Legend "The Author"

 

Hey, everyone.

I don't have anything clever to say today other than I hope I get legend or something unique when I spin the wheel as I can't imagine writing a legitimate short story about how important it is to write earnestly. Right.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Legend!

Hey! Look at that! What do you know? No, I didn't get legend. I got drama. But I'm going to choose to ignore that and write a legend anyway. I'm also starting to think that maybe weekly themes is a bad idea if they cause me to just ignore the decision of the wheel, unless the weekly theme is sort of generic. But anyway, a legend about writing.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

When the universe was young and the planet still fresh, long before the time of man, the Creator made a being called the Author. The Author was charged with the responsibility of writing the fates of men, empires, and the path of history. Any time someone was born, died, went to war, rose to greatness, or fell, it was because the Author had written it to be so. Everyday, all day, he wrote in a castle on an island far out in the ocean so no one could interfere with the proper course of events.

One day, there was a farmer who had a son. According to the farmer, it was his son's duty to grow up and inherit the farm, but the son didn't want to inherit the farm. He wanted to be a hero. The farmer told his son that he couldn't be a hero, that every man was predestined to a fate by the Author. The son listened to his father when he was young, but as he grew, so too did his determination.

When he was still a young man and working out in the fields, he left his home without saying a word to his parents and began travelling. He came across a town where he found a mystic and demanded to know where he might find the Author. The mystic told him of a ship in the harbor that was headed out to sea, and that if the young man climbed aboard the ship and survived the storm it would pass through, he would find his way to the Author.

The young man went off and found the ship. He joined its crew and it carried him across the great sea. One night, the sailors were telling lies and talking about their broken dreams. When it came time for the young man to speak, he said he was on a journey to find the Author so he might become a hero. Some of the sailors laughed, others shouted at him, but they all told him the same thing: no man could change his fate. The young man persisted in his desire, and some of the men became angry. Some said they were now cursed for the young man had deserted his fate and had now put them all on a dangerous path from which there was no escape. They planned to throw him overboard to appease the gods, but a storm was suddenly upon them.

The sailors did what they could to control the ship and keep it together, but the men were thrown overboard. When things looked their most dire, the young man hid himself below deck and waited out the storm. When it came to an end, the young man came back up to the deck to find he was the only one aboard, and that the sails and wheel were irrevocably damaged. He had no way of fixing them and so he found himself at the mercy of the currents.

For five days and five nights he drifted out to sea. Several times he renounced his desire and prayed for death, prayed to be released from the curse he had cast upon himself. But after the five days and five nights, on the sixth morning, the ship ran aground on an island where a huge castle stood. The young man left the ship and entered the castle. He searched its great cavernous halls, but found no one there. He searched the rooms and still no one was there. He sat on the throne and thought himself a fool along with the whole world for believing in the legend of the Author. But as he quieted his mind, he faintly heard a scratching.

The young man followed the sound deep into the bowels of the castle. At the end of a hall, he found a small room where upon a desk was an old man, hunched over a scroll that was as long as time. The young man approached and said, "Are you the Author?" But the old man didn't respond. The young man asked his question again, but again there came no answer. The young man stepped closer to the scroll and suddenly saw the old man's hand change from writing action to dialogue.

"I am the Author," he said as he wrote. "I am the one who writes the fates of men."

"I want to change my fate," said the young man as he saw the Author scribble those words.

"I know," said the Author. "I'm the one who has made it so that you may change your fate by writing your path here."

"I wouldn't have made it here if you hadn't written it?" asked the young man.

"That's correct."

"But why did you allow me to make it here? Why do you allow me to choose my fate rather than write it yourself? Why did you kill those on the ship?"

"I have sympathy for all the characters in life, but some are foolish. Some I choose to let die for they are mundane, but for those in whom I see true greatness, I let them write their own story. It only seems right; your life, your story. Your story, your life."

"I can become a hero because I have chosen it?"

"And because I allow it. But, you won't be the hero you think you will be. You will go out from here and tell the people what I have told you. Some of them will choose to live as heroes and as great men, and some will continue to follow the path set before them. But better it is that some should have what they want than none of them."

"What sort of hero is that?" asked the young man.

"The sort of hero that allows for the birth of other heroes. The hero that sets the path for those to follow. You are the first cause in a great movement. Now, go. You and I both have work to do."

And so, the young man left the castle and boarded the ship. The current took him back to land and he told his tale about what the Author. Some people listened, others did not. But for those who did, they found their paths cleared and they became the heroes they longed to be.

***

 

Stop the clock! A minute twenty left. That took longer than I thought it would. I also didn't have the clearest idea about where this story was headed, but I think I made my point. I'm sure many other writers will be able to see the parallel between this legend and the way they write themselves occasionally. And hopefully the lesson of this legend isn't lost those writers who can't see the parallel.
 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 24: Creative Non-fiction "How I Became A Writer"

 

Hey, everyone.

I'm still writing about the importance of writing earnestly and for whatever reason, I'm still procrastinating. Oh, boy. Anyway, today will be a creative non-fiction day where I shall regale you of stories from my creative past and what experiences led to me becoming a writer. So...

Today's topic is... Creative Non-Fiction.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

I don't remember entirely how it happened, but I do know that there were a few experiences that led to me becoming serious as a writer. There are events and stories going back to my grade school and middle school days, but those are paltry compared to what happened when I made it into high school. Now, when I was in high school, I was still under the impression I would become an engineer like my Old Man. Not because that's what I wanted to do, but because I was good in science and math. My future looked bright in both subjects. But then, something happened my Sophomore year.

In my second year of high school, which was much easier than my first, I took Honors Literature. The funny thing about this class was that the two main things we learned about were short stories and poetry. One of our big assignments for the first semester was to write a short story about something that happened to us but from the perspective of somebody other than ourselves. I wrote about the time I thought I was being clever and told my parents that my grandparents had agreed to take me to the church festival when actually they hadn't. See, the church festival was just down the street, but my parents wouldn't let me go alone. They eventually found out about my little lie when they thought it was getting late and called my grandparents. I was grounded for a month. Anyway, I also want to say that there was another short story I wrote then, but I don't remember what it was about. All I remember is that it had to be less than 750 words which was difficult for me at the time.

Later that year, we had to write poetry and I came up with some banging pieces and put it together in a volume called Poetry that Rocks!!!!! I was getting big into Rock and Heavy Metal at the time. Anyway, the experience showed me how good of a writer I could be, and I learned to love literature. This was also the year I started to really get into history. I was still good in math and science, but now I was equally competent in English and history.

Come Junior year, I found myself at Bishop Foley because Notre Dame was closed. One of the big differences between the two schools was that Foley was more difficult academically. I actually slipped a little in my science courses, that year I took Chemistry, and I almost failed my math class, Honors Geometry and Trig II; that was the first and last honors math course I ever took. Unfortunately, I only did marginally better in my AP Euro History course and Honors Brit. Lit, but I had fun in those classes versus Chemistry and Honors Geometry where I didn't. Chemistry eventually levelled out, but Honors Geometry continued to plague me. I have no idea why I struggled so much in that class, but I did. I took regular Pre-Calc. the next year and was the second best in all classes across the board. I was almost the best in fact, but that's a different story.

Going back to Honors Brit Lit, I had a little meeting with my teacher Ms. Welicko after our first little writing homework assignment. She told me I was a strong writer and had a talent for the "craft." I was also one of the few boys from ND that she liked. Apparently, the rest of them pissed her off. Anyway, Ms. Welicko was the moderator for an after school club called Rhapsody which was the school's literary/art/photography publication. We would collect people's works as well as add our own, and then make a magazine of sorts out of it and sell it at the end of the year, sort of like the school's paper, but we only came out with a single issue every year. I wrote a few pieces for that and that gave me more of a taste for writing, not to mention all the good Brit lit I read in class.

Senior year I took AP English and in my second semester, I took Creative Writing where I really got to cut my teeth on writing. My teacher, whose name I can't spell so I'll just call her Mrs. S., was really impressed with my writing. Like, really, really impressed. One of the best compliments I've ever gotten on my writing came from her, "If I had known a student of your skill was in the school, I would've hunted you down and made you join the paper." Mrs. S. was the moderator for our school's paper. But I mean, talk about a feather in your cap. I didn't win "Best Writer" award in the Senior elections, but recognition from Mrs. S. is probably better. I even won an award, which surprised me, for my creative writing. There was an awards/honors dinner at the end of the year, and I was named the winner for my work. Suck on that, Pat Higgins. (No, but Pat was a cool guy.)

Skipping ahead into college, I took the Fall semester off so I could try to sell Cutco professionally--didn't work out, but I was back in school my Winter semester. Unfortunately, I hadn't been to see my counselor and didn't know what classes I needed to take, so I registered for them all blindly on the spot. One of the classes was a Creative Writing class. My professor, Dr. Brooks, was my first encounter with a real writer in the wide open world. She was a bit weird, but I enjoyed the hell out of her class. She loved my writing, especially the creative non-fiction I wrote talking about my high school crush. I hadn't re-read it before I submitted it and I thought it sounded whiny. I thought my classmates were going to tear me a new one when my piece was workshopped. They didn't; they thought it was hilarious, and my professor admitted that I had a unique perspective that lends itself well to writing: the perspective of being on the outside and looking in.

When the class came to a close, Dr. Brooks gave us all feedback on our writing over the semester and one of her pieces to me was she said she wouldn't be surprised if I ended up being published some day. That made me feel really good. And while it is true that I am published today, that is self-publishing which doesn't quite have the prestige of traditional which is probably what she was talking about. But regardless, because of that class, because of the three previous years I had in high school, I was "ruined." I was on the path to become a writer. Engineering and reliable careers be damned! So, what's all this got to do with you, dear reader?

I didn't write this piece to relive my glory days, but to impart a bit of advice. I graduated in 2007 and I took that creative writing class in '08. I only recently self-published my own books and I only recently started keeping a blog. I wasted 9 to 10 years of my life doing the easy thing rather than working on my talent and skill. Just think of how far I would be if I had given myself the beans and started writing as if it were a career and not just some thing that I'm going to do somewhere in the foggy future. And that's the point of this story: don't rest, don't sit, don't do the easy thing; for the love of God, write. Write, damn you! Everyday is an opportunity for greatness; use it!

***

 

Stop the clock. Little less than a minute left. I must admit, that isn't the glorious ending I wanted, but it does get my point across. Hopefully, you've learned something from my story.

 

But anyway, that's it for today. If you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 23: Elegy "Aborted Opera"

Hey, everyone.

Alright, then. I'm continuing with the theme of the importance of writing earnestly. Today is a poetry day and the poetry tends to be rather popular. I may have to make it it's own series, or specialize in poetry which would be frankly awesome. But anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Elegy! Huh, that's an interesting one. Aren't elegies usually said in remembrance of something like someone's death? A quick Wikipedia search seems to confirm that, but also admits that elegies aren't really pinned down all that well. Usually their content is just melancholic and reflective, and have only one limit on style: something called an elegiac couplet which I don't think I have the skill to write in. Other than that, everything's free game.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go.

Nightmares of words' deaths haunt the mind,
And show the dreamers they are blind;
Pieces and poems, harvests of the heart,
Flash behind the eyes and then depart.

Wanton writers waste their gift and commit to doom
Like a child cozened from the womb;
Succumbing to their creator's strife,
Written pieces are cheated a chance at life.

What beauty, what sorrow,
What of the mysteries of tomorrow;
Countless are the losses like sufferings on the Cross,
Words of passion and change become dross.

--Beware apathy's curse and the writer's abyss,
--For our words are meant to herald mankind's bliss.

***

 

Stop the clock. Almost six minutes left. Wow, that took longer that I would've imagined. RhymeZone for some reason gave me a bunch of Protuguese sh*t when I was looking for rhymes for morrow and sorrow. They were a part of one line, but I made them two because I couldn't find a suitable rhyme. And, as you can tell, I didn't stick to a uniform line length; some of the lines wrote themselves, but it's alright, makes the poem more contemporary. Unfortunately, I'm having issues with my Internet so I was in a rush to get the poem done so I just accepted the lines as they came. And I have other stuff I need to do.

So, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 22: Suspense/Thriller "Literary Hysteria"

Hey, everyone.

So, I'm one to talk. Here I am saying this week's theme is going to be about the earnest endeavor of writing or whatever and I'm procrastinating till almost four in the afternoon to start. Geez. Well, writing about writing in poetry and non-fiction is easy. Writing about writing in fiction, not as easy. Not to mention, how many of us have written a story where the main character is a frustrated author of some sort? We've all done it. Anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Science Fiction! That's a bit of a bust. I was hoping for something like horror or a psychological thriller because I did think of a way to write about writing and make it interesting, but it needs to be a horror story or thriller. Fantasy would work, too. Maybe I should ignore the wheel and run with my idea. Yeah, I think I will. Geez, what a monster I've become. I can't even follow my own rules. Anyway, I'm going to try to make this one actually flash fiction and keep it less than 1000 words, maybe shorter. Get in, get out.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Darrell had been at it for weeks. He had locked himself in his room and hadn't come out since who knew when. All the words were up there in his mind, but he had trouble getting them out. He would sit at his desk before his typewriter and freeze. His fingers would touch the keys, but he couldn't make them move. In frustration, he's stand up again and start pacing. He had worn a track in his floor from the route he walked.

Darrell then thought that if he could get some of it out, he might be able to make more sense of his problem. Fragments of sentences and images came to him. He jotted them down as he went about his day, but they were barely anything; they were just words strung together. "As immobile as a drunken mist", "given to the placidity of a pale moon", "as passive as a crow's stare". Most of them he barely understood himself.

He soon ran out of paper, but he still had plenty of pens. He started writing things on the walls, on his tables, and on the floor. Once while eating toast, he carved a phrase into his kitchen counter, "April devoured brings May's coward". He stabbed the knife into counter and wandered back to his office. He was careful not to tread on any of the words he scribbled on the floor which outlined a crooked path for him. He turned on the light ever so gently so as not to smear the delicate inscriptions that littered the walls and mocked him with their very presence.

Every sentence tormented him; every image was like slow death. The only place he saw the story clearly was in his dreams which he always forgot upon awakening, and maddened at the incompetence of his own memory, he felt like the story would burst from his own head, ending him rightly.

He felt the madness take hold and soon he only thought and spoke in garbled language which not even the great Bard could have comprehended. He forgot how to keep himself, and would bash his head into the walls, walking around, trying to make his way to his desk. He never tread on his precious words, but he soon realized they didn't belong to him, he belonged to them. He was servant to them. He muddled through nonsensical prayers under his breath begging for release but they never would. They couldn't. He had never been able to release them, so they wouldn't release him.

Months passed and a terrible smell came from Darrell's room. When it reached its climax, they broke in and found him long dead, sitting at his desk in front of his typewriter. Stale blood soaked into the hardwood and left sticky stains on his legs, clothes, and arms. They leaned his body back and found that he had carved more words and phrases into his very flesh and face with a fountain pen. They covered up his ghastly appearance and sent him to the morgue. A great shame it was too, because then the only person who experienced the true rapture of Darrell's magnum opus and understood the mystery of his torture and how his death was the price he paid for his release was the mortician. What would a lord of the dead do with the secret to life?

***

 

Stop the clock. Alright, I have seven-and-a-half minutes left. So, that wasn't as good as I was hoping. When the idea came to me, I thought it was great, but trying to get it out--it just wouldn't come. I felt like Darrell myself toward the end. But as I wrote, I was kind of like, how many other people know exactly what this feels like? I'm betting a lot of us do. As for the length of this piece, about 536. I went back and edited it, so I don't know for sure.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 21: Reflection "High School Reunion"

Hey, everyone.

So, last night was my high school reunion. It was... interesting, to say the least, for good and disappointing reasons alike. So today, I'm going to write a reflection on how it went and what happened. Unfortunately, I fear I may paint a bad picture of it. I left two hours after it was supposed to end, most of us did because nobody told us to GTFO, but to be honest, three hours is far too short for a high school reunion, so I got home sometime after one, and didn't get to bed till three. Then I had to get up this morning at 9:30 for church, so I'm sleep deprived, and when I get like this, I get very melancholy. But to be honest, again, I think I may just be an angsty teenager at heart. Anyway...

Today's topic is... Reflection.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go.

At first, I wasn't going to write about my reunion because I was afraid of writing something that was incorrect. I wanted to process last night a little bit more, but the best method for me to process something is to write about it, allora (Italian for "so"), I must process it by processing it. So, first question: did I learn the lesson that I feel like I'm missing from ten years ago? Maybe, it's hard to say. I did learn a lesson from last night and that is that a high school reunion isn't high school, which is a weird thing to say because it's so obvious, but when you haven't seen certain people in a decade, you don't expect them to have changed. Time moves for you, but not for them. So when people look different, sound different, act different, or talk about things like being married and having children, it's a very strange phenomenon. You just don't expect any one to ever actually change. Some people don't. There was a guy or two who looked and sounded just like they did back in HS, but most people were different in some way or another.

Another thing that "got" to me was that I thought I had a handle on what certain people were like, and either I clearly didn't, or they get a couple of beers in them and they just act like a bunch of rowdy college students, which is possible, but most of us have graduated already. That time in our lives is over. So, it was super weird for me to see people I thought I knew act in a way contrary to my "knowledge", but it was also unusual because it wasn't that dissimilar from a Laesch family party--there was something oddly familiar about it. It felt at home, but not quite.

So, besides being disoriented and learning that time has passed for everyone else, was there anything good that happened to me? Well, I explained to like four or five different people that I was writing now. They all seemed pretty impressed, but I don't know if I made any sales. My Old Man told me that people at a 10 year reunion are most likely going to want to brag about all the great things they've done. That wasn't my experience. Rarely ever did I get the other side of the conversation and find out what the person opposite me is doing now because conversations would be disrupted and my piece was just so damn long. So, I felt like I did a lot of talking, but didn't get to find out anything other than a lot of people live in and around Ann Arbor. Apparently, that place is jumping. But, there was one thing about the evening that was wholly unexpected.

For starters, I had two guests; we were allowed to bring a "guest" which was either actually a guest or a date. My two were actually friends from the year behind us, and I thought I was going to be the only one who did that; I wasn't. Someone from my class actually married a girl from the year behind us and brought her with him. For a long time, I didn't recognize her. I just thought she was loud, drunk, and obnoxious. Eventually I recognized her and I had a whole new impression of who she was... as loud, drunk, and obnoxious. But, not quite.

See, I started playing that bean bag version of horse shoes with my two guests and I played both teams. Later, the one girl joined in, and it was fun. But then, while we're playing, she starts talking to me about what she did in college, how she went from Vet Tech to hospitality, which is a weird change. But, she talked to me at such length about it that I couldn't help but think, "Has she forgotten about the game?" The other thing I thought was that she wasn't nearly as loud, drunk, and as obnoxious as I thought. She could be quite normal when she wanted to, and I was very surprised at how easily she just carried a conversation with me, much more so than some of my classmates. Perhaps it was the booze.

Anyway, at the end of the night as I'm leaving with my guests, she was our last stop for goodbyes, and she gave all three of us a hug; it surprised me because why would you give someone you barely knew a hug? None of my former classmates gave me a hug, but alright, we can do that. And since I don't believe in giving wimpy hugs, I squeezed her as I am wont to do--I accidentally spilled her wine. But she was completely fine with it saying that she liked the "tightness." She probably meant that she liked be hugged so tightly; she was a little spiffed. So she put her wine down, and came back for a second hug, and she let me have it, so I likewise had to give her the beans. It was definitely one of the best hugs I've had in a while. And as we parted, I told her she was the surprise of the night, which she thought was very sweet, although I didn't specify whether or not the surprise was pleasant. I mean, it was and it wasn't. It was more so pleasing than not.

Unfortunately, I didn't get any of the things done I had planned for the evening. I wanted to ask for a new alumni card, completely forgot. There was someone I wanted to apologize to, Amanda S. (from her maiden name), she wasn't there, so Amanda if you ever read this, I'm sorry for being a douche in high school. And the one person I wanted to see wasn't there, so that was a major bummer. Lastly, I wanted to have fun; did I? I don't know. It doesn't feel like I did, but the party was definitely off the hook and I felt like it was worth it. However, after months of staying home on Saturday night, watching Ghost Adventures, I was pretty desperate to do anything else with my Saturday night. I also don't feel like I made the impression I was hoping to make, that it got lost or ignored or never had the opportunity to come out, but with my sort of reserved energy, the kind where you can only get to know it one-on-one, it gets lost among all the people and booze and partying. Which means that if I ever hope to make the impression I want to, I'm going to need a venue that favors my energy. Oh, wait a minute; you're looking at it! There's nothing for it, then; I'm just going to have to keep writing.

I'm still left with a lingering thought or meditation, and that is the "implied importance of high school." We're told high school is a big deal in our culture, we have hundreds of movies that center around it, and we even feel the need to memorialize our experience by having reunions every so many years. My question is, is high school actually that important to us, or do we just think it is because we're told that, hence becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy? It's hard to say for a lot of reasons, but for one unexpected reason for me and my classmates is that it's because our class was so small, 110 or less. So, we all knew each other more or less. We all knew about the great things we had done, the great things we wanted to do, and the great things we hoped to achieve, and amongst that aura of potential is an unhinged, immature spirit of invincibility and inevitable victory--our collective will manifested as an unstoppable force and immovable object. Did we fall victim to the implied importance of high school and fail at the climax of life, or did we meet it and not only succeed, but exceed, the climax?

That question is going to drive me nuts for years, not because I don't have an answer, but because I want to do my part in making sure I fulfill my end of it.

***

 

Alright, that's enough. I would say stop the clock, but I paused my timer at some point and I didn't hit resume, so it's possible I wrote over time or I'm stopping in time. And then I went back and added some stuff.

 



I'm going to try distancing myself from the high school theme for a while. I mean, I did get some good intel regarding a few projects I have in the works, but that intel is for my books, not my blog. So, I think this week's theme will be the importance of writing earnestly. Seeing everybody at the reunion and telling them what I was up to, it's kind of like, oh sh*t, now I have to deliver on the writing goods. They'll be expecting it. It's time to get some stuff done. Plus, it's just where I belong.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar 

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 20: Lyric "High School Crush"

Hey, everyone.

I did have a witty introduction for this post today, but I've completely forgotten what it was. Probably just had something to do with my high school reunion being today. Seriously, wish me luck and stuff. I'm pretty nervous. I didn't sleep well last night. But I have been thinking more about the weekly themes and I think that it would be a good idea, but how would I pick them and how would I keep track? Does it even matter? Questions for later. Anyway, today I am using the poetry wheel, so let's give this sucker a spin.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's style is... Lyric! Huh, have I written a lyric before? I want to say I have, but for the life of me, I can't remember. To make matters worse, I looked up lyric, and Wikipedia was no help at all. I looked up a few examples of a lyric, and those barely helped as well. Turns out, there's no one poetic form, line length, or rhythm; the only restriction is that the topic has to be about personal feelings. I thought about doing my feelings of regret again, but lyrics tend to be a little more romantic than all that, so instead I think I will write about my high school crush.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

This is to my darling, my high school crush,
That one girl who made me nervous and flush;
But who was that lass that held such power
Under whose gaze I did shake and cower?

Was she not a girl from my middle school,
'Pon whom for many a year I did drool?
Nay, I think not; I did not know her well,
And for her I would not suffer the bell.

Was she of my grade, a dame who I once
Hated, with whose humors I thought a dunce?
But that relates to many girls in the class,
There were many I mistook for an ass.

Then was it an underclassman for whom
I would have wanted to be her groom?
Aye! That seems right. But which of the three
Did I truly think was the girl for me?

Was she a slender brunette who drives me
Crazy like no one else with all her glee?
Or, was she a buxom brunette
With a temper that made her quite a threat?

Nay, I believe she was the buxom blonde;
Aye, of her charm and wit I was most fond,
But to be fair, I was not into her hair,
Rather I wanted to see her laid bare!

It was her body that did me in,
With her butt and breast, I wanted to sin.
Alas, my desires came to naught,
I did not pursue her as one ought.

Ten years past, and I have forgotten her.
In sooth, that is what I truly prefer.
'Tis true, nothing so romantic as a high school sweetheart,
But without indelible love, we are all forced to part.

***

 

Stop the clock! Phew! One minute left. I didn't think that would take so long. And before you ask, it's pretty true hence why I didn't use names. And other things I did simplify quite a bit; poetic license and all that. But for the most part, it's pretty accurate. And I'm sure you noticed that some lines are not the right lengths. Yeah, I was running out of time and wanted to finish, so I rushed it a bit. And I really wanted to work in those last two lines, so... yeah.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 19: Fantasy "Travelers"

Hey, everyone.

Well, yesterday was Thanksgiving and it was pretty good for me. I hope it went well for you as well. Before we continue, I must tell you that I injured my finger today, so my typing is a little off.  Excuse any mistakes I make. Anyway, back to business.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Fantasy! Hey, how 'bout them apples. I've actually written some fantasy. My book Heroes of Majestia: The Company of Flight is fantasy. I'm also putting together some short stories currently to help fill out the lore, so I am no stranger to fantasy. The trick though is can I tie my a fantasy story in with my high school reunion/days? I know some of you are probably sick of it, but I'm going to go ahead with it. Hmm, maybe I should weekly themes on top of the daily exercises.

Anyway, believe it or not, I totally can tie in my HS days. Here's an idea that's struck me a few days, but I never really thought of developing it. This will be it's trial area.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Margaret ran through the citadel. She had seen that guy in the hood all over the place. He was following her, but why? And why did she feel like she knew him?

Margaret rounded a corner and almost ran into Anne. "Ah! Anne!"

"Margaret! What're you doing here?"

"I was chasing a man in a hood."

"Was he really tall and wearing a brown cloak?"

"Yeah!"

"He just passed me in the last street."

"Damn! I'll never be able to catch him."

"I don't know about that. That street is a dead end."

The fires of hope were rekindled in Margaret's eyes. "Now's my chance!" she said before running off.

"Wait!" called Anne after her. "He could be dangerous," said Anne, trotting after her.

"If he wanted to kill me, he would've done so already. He's had plenty of chances, and in more than enough of them, he and I were alone together."

"Alone?!"

"Last time I saw him, he looked like he was going to say something to me, but he fled when he saw the Court Mage."

"Master Den?"

Margaret rounded the next brick wall and came to the street Anne had mentioned. The walls on either side of her shot up into the darkness. The stalls on either side of the street were abandoned, the merchants weren't allowed to sell their good and wares at this time of night. That would give the mystery man plenty of hiding places.

Margaret took off down one side, walking behind the stalls. "Check that side, Anne."

Anne tentatively walked over to the other side of the street but stopped. Margaret looked back at her sharply.

"I don't like this," said Anne.

"Then you can leave if you want, but I'm getting my answers and I'm getting them today."

"Or you'll get a knife in the belly."

Margaret hesitated. Her heart beat quickened as she turned and said, "At least I'll have my answers then." She turned back to her path and felt her heart hammer inside her chest. She didn't know what she was saying and she was scared, but to tell someone off just for warning her, that was a new step for her. She couldn't remember a time when she had ever done so before.

"You know," began Anne, "Master Den has been teaching me a few spells. I bet we could lure him out."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"

Anne shrugged. "I'm not very good at them, but if it'll stop you from killing yourself, I'll try it."

Margaret walked back to Anne as she began to chant in the middle of the street. The words and syllables she used were foreign to Margaret's ears and occasionally a few sparks or waves of light would manifest from Anne's mouth.

Anne lifted her hand to her mouth as if she was about to cough something up. She became quiet, held her hand out down the street, and then snapped her fingers. The snap echoed, and not just because of the closed in street, but also due to some mystical means. As the sound reverberated against the walls and reverberated back, a screaming could be heard as it grew louder. Suddenly, there was a pop and a flash, and a tall man in brown cloak and hood appeared out of thin air right in the middle of the street.

"Um...?" he said. "Bye!" He started moving toward the back of the street, but Anne shot her other hand forward and issued another word of power. Blue circles shot from her hand and they hit the man, bounding him within them. He fell to the ground.

"Got you, now!" said Margaret triumphantly, standing over him.

"Yes," replied the man.

Margaret's vision blurred for a second. His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't remember from where.

"Bully for you, Margaret. And well done, Annie."

"Annie?" repeated Anne. "No one's ever called me that before."

"You'd be wrong about that."

"Time to fess up!" said Margaret, striking him in the back. "Who are you and why have you been following me?"

The man struggled to roll over so he could face them. His hood fell off in doing so. Both Margaret and Anne gasped. "Michael!" they said together.

"Yep," said Michael with a sigh. "But I prefer Mike."

"That's so weird!" said Anne. "I suddenly remember you."

"Me, too," said Margaret. "But how?"

"Well, I would've preferred to tell you two under different circumstances, but these are as good a time as any. We are all from a different world."

Margaret and Anne blinked.

"What do you mean?" asked Anne.

"We're not from here. None of us live in the citadel. We're not even from his country! We're from a different world altogether."

Margaret's lip quivered. "I don't believe you!"

"Spoken in denial I see," said Mike. "You both know, deep down, that there's something wrong with this place. That's the reason why it's never felt like home," he said forcefully to Margaret. She jumped. How long had he been following her?

"Where are we from then?" asked Anne.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?! You know we don't belong here but you don't know where we're from?!"

"Yes. All I remember is being in a high school hallway, and I remember seeing you two, standing there next to me, right before we were sucked up into a portal of some sort."

Images flashed through both girls' heads. Anne placed a hand on a stall for balance, while Margaret almost hit the pavement. Both saw the same image as if it were a dream, but realer, in their heads of standing next to Mike and being drawn through a black portal. Margaret remembered she'd been wearing her uniform at the time. That's why her clothes were so different and strange when she woke up at the citadel. And when she thought about it, where had those clothes gone?

"I remember..." said Anne, shaking. She closed her fist and the blue rings holding Mike disbanded.

"That's better," he said, standing up. "Glad to see you both have your memories back. Margaret. Annie."

"But," said Annie, "I can't remember where we're from."

"Me, neither," said Margaret. "How did you remember?"

"I used to be one of the castle's servants. I was cleaning the Court Magician's chambers when I knocked over an orb. It hit the ground and I was bathed in a pale blue light. That's when I remembered the portal, and from there I started to remember everything else, but not until I saw everyone first."

"Everyone?" said Margaret.

"That's right. There are more of us here from our world."

Margaret looked off into the distance. Who else did she know from her high school days?

"Why did Master Den's orb give you your memory back?" asked Annie.

"I don't know, but I bet he knows something we don't."

***

 

And that's it. I actually went over time writing that. And before you ask, yes, there was a Margaret, Annie, and Mike in my class at high school. There were a few Mike's, and at least two Anne's, but there was only one Margaret. Anyway, when I started writing that, I was worried it would be too short so some of the intro stuff is filler, but then it ended up being too much. I wanted to get to the point where I implicated the Court Mage is some shady goings-on because otherwise there wouldn't have been a complete story.

But anyway, that's it for today. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 18: Reflection "Lesson to Learn"

Hey, everyone, and Happy Thanksgiving.

Now, for today's writing exercise, I'm going to be doing something a bit different. Typically I spin the wheel and write as whatever genre I've been given, but since today is a non-fiction day, I'm actually going to do a reflection. On what? Well, my high school days, yet again. I really hope I don't sound like a broken record, but again, they do say your high school years are some of the most formative in your life and I do feel like something larger happened to me than the average high schooler, but there's a point beyond that. So, let's get started, and since I do tend to wax philosophic occasionally, I'll still be timing myself so I can stay on task.

So, today's topic is... Reflection "Lesson to Learn."

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go.

Now, like I said, some say your high school days are some of the most formative of your life, and I feel like mine were no exception. See, I attended Notre Dame High School in Harper Woods, and I loved it there. Sure, there were one or two people I had problems with, but for the most part, I relished my time at ND. I never used to like school until I went to ND. I wouldn't say it felt like home, but it did feel right and good in a way I can't explain.

Now, in March of my Sophomore year, right in the middle of our spirit week which we called Irish Week and celebrated during the week of St. Patrick's Day, a news story broke that wasn't supposed to yet where Cardinal Maida, the archbishop of Detroit at the time, would be closing 15 Catholic schools throughout the Archdiocese of Detroit due to money problems, and the schools that were closed included grade schools and high schools alike.

When my mother told me the news in the morning, I refused to believe it. But when I got to school that day, it was the only thing on everybody's lips. Nobody knew anything except for rumors, but at about 8:00 when our first class was supposed to start, Mr. Kuhn, one of our advisors, walked the halls and told everyone to gather in the gym. We were supposed to have some sort of spirit week activity in there, I don't remember what it was, but we were separated by class. Fr. Sadjak, who was principal the year before and my Latin teacher for the two years I was there, led us off in prayer where the emotions of the situation did overwhelm some of us. Course though, no one actually broke down because we were an all guys school. But the next few hours descended into a spirit week activity/bonding session as we all pledged to do what we could to prevent the school from closing. It was extremely heart-warming. Unfortunately, as can be guessed, we failed and were forced to disperse.

Angry at the world and wanting some form of retribution for what we lost, we took our anger out on others leading to a not-so-positive reputation at the school that most of us would go on to attend, Bishop Foley Catholic High School in Madison Heights. One teacher, upon finding out that a student she didn't know at the time was from ND was from ND, asked him, "Are you bitter, too?" Course when we all heard that, we wanted to slap the sh*t out of her. But, it was true; we were bitter. Some of us did assimilate into Foley, but most of us were loathed the experience. By Senior year, we had settled down, but Foley never met our expectations and was always worse than ND in practically every way. Attending Foley at the time felt like insult to injury. The world had curb stomped us, and then kicked us in the nuts while we lay in the gutter.

But as I look back, I can now see that things weren't that bad, and I do greatly regret my actions at the time. Foley welcomed us with open arms; some of the administration was pretentious as hell, but the student body and a good number of the teachers were fantastic and understanding. Looking at my year book, a number of people mentioning that they were glad I chose Foley after ND closed. What's funny about that is that I didn't choose Foley, my parents did. But as my Senior year was coming to a close, even then I began to regret who I was and what I had done. It was at that time that I could feel a change, and part of me didn't want to leave.

In the animated web series RWBY, a character loses the lower half of her arm in battle. A prosthetic arm is supplied to her, but she doesn't try it on. Everyone wants to see her return to "normal," but as she says, having lost her arm, that was her new "normal." At which point, her father says "Normal is what you make of it." He goes on to explain that just because something terrible has happened to you, that doesn't have to stop you from being who you want to become. It would've been great to have that piece of advice back then, but as a headstrong kid in my teens, all I wanted was revenge or to just surrender to life. I wanted Notre Dame back, and I would've done anything, no matter how impossible, to get it back. But, I never would, so I grieved.

Ten years after the fact, I am left with a pile of regret, but my reunion offers me a chance to set things right. That's one of the reasons why I'm going. Some people I do need to apologize to, and others I just have to show them that I'm not just a hardass and that I would take something valuable away from my experience there. But there's something else.

As you can tell, losing ND and going to Foley has had a great effect on me. I can't shut up about it and I can't stop thinking about it. I can't rest on it. Why? Is it just because I'm an INTJ and we think everything to death? Possibly. But, I have a feeling that the experience was meant to teach my something. I was supposed to learn something or do something, and I didn't and that bothers me. The whole experience was far too significant to just have been a random occurrence. What is it that I'm missing? I don't know, but I feel like I'll have a chance to accomplish whatever my task is at the reunion. Sure, I do get the feeling that it would've been easier ten years ago, but I think there's still a chance. That's another reason why I'm going.

Some of the people from Foley have been on my mind lately; one of them has been up there for longer than I care to admit. The psychics say there could be a connection between me and them, or that something important happened to them in their lives, but regardless, I want to know. I want to be enlightened. What is it about them that I can't forget them, that makes me miss them when I barely knew them, and that makes me want to see them so badly? I have a task to complete. I just have to make sure I don't fall back into my old habits when I get there and start acting the wallflower.

***

 

Alright. Can't say stop the clock as I did go over time. Not a lot though, maybe just a minute.

Anyway, I've got stuff to do during this holiday. Wish me luck at my reunion and pray that I find the answers I'm looking for or that I can finally find peace on this matter.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:
Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 17: Shakespearean Sonnet "Humors"

Hey, everyone.

So, today's Thanksgiving Eve and marks three days until my HS reunion, so as you can imagine, I have a hard time focusing and I have bunch of stuff to do, but because today is also a work out day and I've been pushing myself past 11 on a scale that only goes up to 10, it's better I get today's writing exercise out of way ASAP. Let's crack on.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Sonnet! Oh, boy! A sonnet. Now, I'm a student of Shakespeare and I was an English major so I've studied Petrarch (which is hilarious because he's Italian), but as you can imagine, I know all about the sonnet. I wrote my first one when I was Sophomore in HS, and I've written few others since due to the fact that I want to honor my main man Shakespeare every time I write one, hence I don't write many because of the effort and skill involved.

Now, there is a new movement these days in sonnet writing where the focus is to just write something fourteen lines long and there's no requirement on line length. I once took an avant-garde poetry class (by mistake!) and saw some really strange (and terrible!) sonnets. So, what am I going to do here? Do I take the lazy, modern way out, or do I try to do homage to my Mentore (Italian for "mentor")? Well, Shakespeare did once write a play in two weeks (The Merry Wives of Windsor), so the least I can do for the Bard is attempt to write a sonnet in a half hour.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Let me not deny what my heart desires
And be a betrayer to my passions.
Within my bosom, there burns awesome fires,
To chart a course of daring, new actions.

Regarding me, I am not just my past,
No, I also possess a future bright;
I shall write enduring works that shall last
And not go silently into the night.

But what of those humors that led me here?
They too are susceptible to great change.
Think me not mystic to search a new tier
To make comrades with those I did estrange.

--For in my past there is much to regret,
--A brighter future, I hope to beget.

***

 

Stop the clock! I have a little more than eight minutes left. Booyah! Did you see that, Mentore?! Now, I just need to write a five act play in two weeks seeing as how I've already written a five act, Shakespearean play. I will admit that I did steal my opening from Shakespeare though, and my couplet isn't quite a twist like you're supposed to have in Shakespearean sonnet, but it does refer back to the beginning. And before you ask, yes, I did have my high school reunion on my mind. Hopefully I don't sound like a broken record.

But anyway, that's it for today. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:

My Works:

Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Stories & Poetry Day 16: Young Adult "Swing Dancing"

Hey, everyone.

So, I think by writing these posts later in the evening is a definite mistake. By the time I get around to them, I'm distracted and tired, and sometimes groggy if I've had a nap (which is always a bad idea in the evening). So, from here on out, I'm going to try to keep these in the morning. Hopefully, I'll have a little more pep. But I won't lie, I didn't sleep well last night. Just couldn't fall asleep and woke up super early this morning for no reason. Anyway...

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Young Adult! Now, I will be honest and tell you that I did spin the wheel twice. I know, I know; it's cheating, but it landed on comedy again and I'm trying to keep things varied. And, Young Adult goes so well with the amazing regret I felt last night while looking through my yearbook at all the opportunities I really missed out on. And I am cooking up ideas for a young adult series down the line, so...

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

Sarah and Tom walked through the hall at a less than enthusiastic pace to their public speaking class.
"Tom!" said Sarah sharply. "If we don't hurry, Mr. Smith is going to tan our hides."
"'Tan our hides'? What decade are you from?"
"I'm trying to cut back on swearing."
"Aw. Aren't you a good girl?"
"Fuck you. But seriously, Mr. Smith is having that guest speaker talk today."
"Oh, yeah. That is today. What was the topic again? 'Making the Most of Your High School Opportunities'? Are you really that interested?"
"Well... a little. Not to mention it's rude to just walk in and interrupt someone's speech."
"Why?"
"Because it makes them think you don't care about the effort they put into writing it."
"No! Why do you care about hearing the guest speaker?" demanded Tom.
"Well... I was looking though last year's yearbook, and our school has a lot of different clubs."
"So?"
"I didn't know half of them existed, and some of them sound like fun."
"Like what?"
"Like the swing dancing club."
"We have a swing dancing club?! You gotta be shittin' me."
"I shit you not. I went to join it this year, but there weren't enough people interested."
Tom turned on her. "You want to learn how to swing dance?! What with the bip-boppin', and the hip-hoppin', and the... and the... skip-skoppin'?"
"I don't think that's a thing."
"It could be, but you'll never know without the swingers club."
"Swing dancing."
"Whatever. But seriously, you really think you're missing out on something? What could you be missing out on?"
"I don't know, but I do know I don't want to go through life and miss out. When I showed my parents the yearbook, do you know what they said?"
"What?"
"They said they never did anything like that when they were in high school. At first, I didn't think anything of it, but then I started watching them over the summer and they're two of the most bland and boring people I've ever met. All they do is sit on their asses watching TV. I mean, how the hell did they even get together?"
"You think you'll become your parents?"
"I don't know if I will, but look at what we did all summer. We spent all our time sitting around in your dank basement watching TV and making dirty jokes and complaining about shit we don't know shit about! Meanwhile Kara Carpenter joined youth group and had a blast. Connie Springer took an art class at a community college and now she's the best artist in school. Your best friend, Tim Jones, went to band camp and became a rock star."
"Enh, only if you like the bass. I'm more of a guitar man, myself."
"That's funny coming from a guy who doesn't play."
Tom stared at Sarah for a minute. "You're that worried you'll turn into your parents?"
Sarah inhaled slowly and exhaled. "I don't want to take a chance on it. I just know I don't want to spend any more of my time sitting around and watching TV in a dank basement."
"It wasn't that bad. Well, I will admit that the summer did seem to favor me more than you. I got to second base," he said with a grin.
"Yeah," said Sarah unenthusiastically. "I know. I was there."
"'It still haunts my dreams every night'," Tom mocked.
"Well, not every night. But it wasn't my proudest moment."
"You were into it at the time."
"Yeah, but that was back before I could imagine something better."
"What's better than getting to second base?"
"Swing dancing, Tom! Swing dancing!"
"You're really hung up on this swing dancing thing."
Sarah sighed. "I just... just... I don't know," she said, defeated. She walked over to the lockers, put her back to them, and slid down to the floor. "I just want something more," she said, hugging her knees.
Tom watched her and couldn't help but feel like an ass. He couldn't imagine anything greater than what he had, but he and Sarah were friends, so it did pain him to see her this way, even if he couldn't understand where she was coming from. He sighed. "How many people would it take to get the swing dancing club up and running?"
"Huh?"
"How many people are you short?"
"Um, well. Not that many actually. We're actually just missing a couple of guys since the male teachers aren't allowed to dance with us."
"Just a couple of guys? What, there aren't any gay guys in this school?"
"Not as many as you would think."
"Alright," said Tom with as exasperated sigh. "I'll see who I can round up, and we'll join the swing dancing club."
"Do you really mean it?!" said Sarah, bounding up.
"Yes. Hmm, Tim might be interested."
"Oh, he'll definitely be interested. Erin Summer is a part of the club."
"Erin Summer? The Erin Summer?! Tim's crush since he was like seven?"
Sarah nodded. "Yep."
"Well, that'll make things easier."
"But you really mean it? You're really going to join the swing dancing club?"
"Yes."
"Can I ask why?"
"Because... you're my friend, and I... care about you."
Sarah wrapped her arms around Tom's neck and squeezed.
"Alright, alright" said Tom, stepping back. "If we get caught by Mrs. Steadfast, she'll put us both in the clink for PDA."
"'Clink'? What decade are you from?"
"Let's just get to class, smart ass. Let's see what wisdom this guest speaker has to impart on us youngsters," he said blandly.
Sarah smiled. "At the rate you're going, I might be interested in making this official."
"Don't get my hopes up," Tom joked.

***

 

Phew! That's it. I would say stop the clock, but I went past time. Not by much, but I did. There were some parts of this little story that I really got into so I wanted to develop them right. And in case you were wondering, yes, my high school did have a swing dancing club, and yes, that is one of the things I regret missing out on, although at the time I don't think I would've joined it. I had a carefully crafted image of a hardass to uphold, and hardasses don't swing. But it would've meant dancing with some of the quieter girls in my class and breaking the ice. That would've been nice.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

See you tomorrow.

Keep writing, my friends.

More About Bryan C. Laesch:
Amazon: My Author Page, My Influencer Page
Facebook: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar
Patreon: Bryan C. Laesch
Twitter: BryanofallTrade
Youtube: Bryan C. Laesch, Bawdy Scholar

Flash Fiction & Poetry Day 15: Sports "A Beginner's Guide to Archery"

Hey, everyone.

It's time for today's writing challenge and today, I'm using the non-fiction wheel, so this will be interesting. Let's see what happens.

Wheel of Genres, turn, turn, turn! Tell me the genre I will discern!





Today's topic is... Sports! You know, I just had a thought; what do I mean when I say "Sports?" Do I mean I'm going to talk sports like another man, or that I'm going to talk about the sports I do, or am I just going to talk about whatever I want about sports which I can do because it's so vague here? Well, I can't talk about sporting teams because I don't know anything, so that means I'm going to have to come up with something else. And to be perfectly honest, I do have an interest in some sports, such as archery and firearms which means I can talk about them. In fact, I had the idea of doing a beginner's guide to traditional archery and I wanted it done before Christmas, but I don't know if I will get it done. So, let's see if I can get a little abridged version out as a sort of test.

Thirty minutes on the clock: 30:00. And... go!

1. The Bow--The first thing you need to know all about in archery is the bow--the arch part in archery. Unfortunately, we can talk at length about bows, but for the sake of simplicity, when you're getting into archery, there are two main different kinds of bows you're going to come across: one if the longbow and the other is the recurve. What's the difference? Well, in terms of looks, the recurve's limb tips are curved away from the archer, although there are some longbows that do have this feature. What then is the difference? Well, the recurve limb tips curve away at sharper angle. Why do recurves have this feature? The argument is that because it puts more tension on the bow stave when strung and drawn meaning it will snap forward faster when the string is released and it will impart more energy to the arrow making it faster. In theory, if you have a recurve and longbow of comparative size, weight, material, and manufacturing, the recurve will be the "better" bow because of the curved limb tips.

1a. Now, with that settled, there's another two major different kinds of bows concept out there, and it's whether the bow you have is target bow or a hunting bow. Why does that matter? Generally, target bows will have lighter draw weights, the pressure required to pull the string back while pushing the bow stave forward, and target bows are more likely to be made from plastic or aluminum. Hunting bows almost always have higher draw weights and are made of wood, although they can be made from a composition of materials. One of my hunting recurves has a fiberglass backing on its limbs. The other major difference between hunting and target bows is that target bows are generally more inherently accurate, but hunting bows are generally cheaper. So, there are trade-offs with each kind of bow.

2. The Arrow--The second most important part of archery is the arrow, your ammunition. But how complicated can that be? Well, it can be very complicated. For starters, what kind of arrows do you get when you start shooting: aluminum, wood, or carbon fiber? Well again, each material has its pros and cons. Starting with wood, it's cheap and light weight which means it will fly faster and farther, but very few fletcher or even arrow making companies make arrows out of wood anywhere. True, it is a readily available material, but wood arrows break and snap, and believe me, as you shoot, you're going to miss so that means replacing your arrows quite often.

Aluminum arrows are cheap and readily available too, and bonus, they don't break, but aluminum arrows are heavy and will fly slower, and they do bend which means you'll have to straighten them as necessary, and once bent, an aluminum shaft will never be as strong as it once was. This brings us to carbon (fiber), what is widely regarded as the best material for arrows. It's strong, light weight, and doesn't bend. However, it does break, and carbon fiber is the most expensive option of the three, but you can find carbon arrows in a variety of prices. They can be had cheap.

2a. Now that you have a material chosen, how long do you make/cut your arrows? This is usually decided by how long your draw length is, the length from the arrow rest to your anchor point which is where you are going to draw your arrow back to every time you draw. The reason why is so that you create consistency between your shots and with practice, it will make you more accurate. Not to mention, it does help improve your aim. For most people, their anchor point is the tip of their middle finger in the corner of their mouth. Once you have that spot, now all you have to do is measure it and there are various ways of doing that which I won't go into here.

2b. But there is another thing you have to consider and that is the spine, or stiffness, of your arrow's shaft. How do you know which spine you need? Well, first you need to know what the poundage of your bow is because that's how arrow makers sell their shafts. If your bow has a draw of 38 lbs at 28 inches, then you will most likely need an arrow with a spine that fits a bow drawing somewhere between 35 and 45 pounds at 28 inches. Don't worry about picking up the right shafts; they'll be marked.

2c. Now we get to the fletchings, or the little feathers at the end of the shaft. Sometimes they're not actually feathers and are instead plastic triangles called "vanes." What's the difference between vanes and feathers? Well, not much. They do the same job, but if you do a lot of indoor shooting as opposed to outdoor shooting, you can invest in vanes instead of feathers as feathers fight the wind better when it comes to keeping your arrow flying straight. The other thing you need to keep in mind is that the longer and heavier your arrow, along with the worse or more inclement weather you're shooting in, the longer and more natural your fletchings should be. To keep things simple, I just recommend you go with feathers.

2c-a. And speaking of feathers, when you get your arrows fletched, you can choose the colors and number of your fletchings. Most people have three fletchings, but you can have four. If you're hunting birds, it will behoove you to have six or more, but you'll also need a special arrow for that called a flu-flu arrow. But if you have only three fletchings, something you have to keep in mind is that you're going to have two hen feathers and one cock feather. The cock feather will always line up with your arrow's nock and will tell you which way to nock your arrow. Pro tip: your cock feather will always point away from your bow with the two hen feathers pointed towards it. So, for this reason, it isn't uncommon for archers to get their cock and hen feathers in different colors to make nocking their arrows easier.

***

 

Stop the clock! Geez, I barely scratched the service here. If you're wondering, I only have thirty seconds left, but that is not enough to go on to the next point. Also, I apologize for being all over the place. Unfortunately, I took a nap before I started writing this and I still feel very drowsy. I also feel very hot. I don't know what my deal is. But, I didn't think that went too badly. It did show me that there are a lot of things to talk about when writing a book about archery. In fact, it might behoove me to have a section per chapter on all the different vocab words a person will need to know as they learn about archery. That would definitely help.

But anyway, that's it for today. If you want to use the wheel I made, you should be able to access it here. And if you have the time, please check out my books for sale on Amazon which you can find through my author page. The link is below. Also, I reworked my Patreon page, so why not give it a look and consider becoming my patron. I would appreciate it.

See you tomorrow.

Keep writing, my friends.

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