So, recently I got the idea for a short story in my mind. Now, unfortunately for all you folks, I'm not going to be putting it up here yet. It's currently only a page and a quarter of handwritten words in a college ruled spiral notebook, so it's most definitely just a work in progress.
I will give a short idea of what it's about.
Now, those of you who've read my stuff know I'm really not one for kitchen sink realism, or anything even slightly resembling that type of writing.
I'm making an exception.
Now, I won't tell you why I'm making an exception, but I'll give you a hint of what's different about this type: how do you describe color to somebody who can't perceive it?
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
First part of a short story.
Yes. You heard me right. I'm actually writing a short story. Not a short story turned novel. But an actual short story.
Hope you enjoy it. It's very dark, moody and depressing.
“Get in there. And don’t complain or you’ll go without food.”
She was thrown roughly into the cell, its iron door slamming sharply and the dead bolt on the other side slipping into place. The man’s footsteps echoed down the hall until the opening and closing of another door, showing that he was no longer there.
She let herself breathe in harshly, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. Day in and day out, she was subjected to this torture. Hours upon hours of experimental injections, medical tests, physical trials… and the pain. The pain if the men failed to receive the results they wanted. The pain they subjected her to if she collapsed from exhaustion, took sick, performed inadequately… that terrifying pain kept her sane, but only just barely.
She pushed herself up and stood on both feet, taking in the usual sparse, worse-than-minimalist quarters she had lived in since they had taken her. A stainless steel bucket in the corner served as her toilet, forcing her to endure the scent as it festered until the bucket could not hold any more. That took about a week. Her eyes fell upon the inch-thin cushion that served as her “mattress”, the grimy foam pillow crusted with tears, the threadbare sheet she had used the whole time she was there. The cinderblock walls of the facility got dreadfully cold in the winter, but this was all she had. A single window up near the top, maybe half the size of a sheet of paper let in a sparse amount of light and the barest amount of fresh air.
Her eyes fell upon the wall that the door was set into. On the reverse side of the hinges, hidden by the door as it opened, several hundreds of small lines lay. Dozens of sets of four vertical lines with a single diagonal line through them, each completed set marking off every five days she had spent here. Hundreds of those lines covered that wall.
The grating of iron on iron, the squeaking of rusty hinges stole her attention back to the door. A gloved hand slid a small tray through a cutout in the iron door, a flap large enough for her three daily “meals” to go through, yet far too small for her to escape from. The tray contained her usual: a single piece of stale bread, two glasses of water and five large pills. Inside those pills were the remaining daily nutrients that the bread did not give her, optimized so that she would appear to be in perfect health, yet would not expend the same cost for food as the other humans in the facility.
She moved herself over to the tray, picking it up and seating it upon her pillow. She took the pills first, using as little water as possible and ending up with a cup and a half. She took the stale bread and broke it into various pieces, dipping them in the water to soften it up. She ate the bread slowly, trying to savor what little solid food she received each day and the bland, yet existent flavor it held. But all too soon she had finished it, and so she sipped on the water slowly, trying to make that last as long as possible, but eventually the cup ran dry as well. She put the tray on the floor, knowing the flap was only one way and that the scientists would take it in the morning.
Looking up through the window, her eyes fell upon the full moon, its complete image barely captured by the minute portcullis. It enraptured her, that lone white sphere hovering full in the sky, its milky rays falling to the world beholden to it. Was it as lonely as she? Did it long for company as she did? Somebody, anybody to talk to?
She sighed and lay down on the bed, her head falling down onto the pillow and messy blond locks splaying around her. She drew the sheet over herself and cast one more glance at the wall. There were currently seven hundred and twenty nine lines on the wall.
Tomorrow would be two years to the day since she had been abducted and brought here.
Tomorrow was her seventeenth birthday.
* * * * *
“Wake up, honey! It’s your big day!”
Bleary eyes opened to the world, and her hand came up to push her blond hair back from in front of her face. The clock on her bedside table read 9:47, and below the time, Saturday. She let a soft smile cover her face. Today was her fifteenth birthday, and she would be seeing all of her friends.
A quick shower and a change of clothes later, and she was wearing the blouse she had just bought the other day, a pair of jeans and a cute pair of flats. She looked at herself in the mirror, nodding in approval before she went down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to trip over her dog. As she arrived in the kitchen, she saw her mother working over the stove, cooking up pancakes for the family.
“Dear, would you mind going outside and grabbing the paper really fast?”
She nodded, smiled and went out the front door, looking down the driveway to where the paper was. But as soon as she bent down to pick up the paper, something rustled the bush behind her, and a heavy, strong hand placed a wet cloth over her mouth while another pulled her back. She tried to scream out, she really did. But the more she tried, the more tired she became. As consciousness escaped her, she couldn’t help but notice the cloth smelled and tasted funny, almost like it had been soaked in something…
She awoke with a start.
The morning sun streamed into her cell in a tiny beam, shining off of the dark iron door and directly into her eyes. She pulled herself out of the bed and lifted up the mattress, revealing a tiny fragment of iron. She took the fragment in hand and went over to the wall, making a slash through the last set of four lines on the wall.
Seven hundred and thirty days.
Two years.
And yet still she remained here.
She laid back down onto her bed, curled up in the fetal position, shivering and praying that somebody would come and help her.
That somebody would come and save her.
Hope you enjoy it. It's very dark, moody and depressing.
“Get in there. And don’t complain or you’ll go without food.”
She was thrown roughly into the cell, its iron door slamming sharply and the dead bolt on the other side slipping into place. The man’s footsteps echoed down the hall until the opening and closing of another door, showing that he was no longer there.
She let herself breathe in harshly, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks. Day in and day out, she was subjected to this torture. Hours upon hours of experimental injections, medical tests, physical trials… and the pain. The pain if the men failed to receive the results they wanted. The pain they subjected her to if she collapsed from exhaustion, took sick, performed inadequately… that terrifying pain kept her sane, but only just barely.
She pushed herself up and stood on both feet, taking in the usual sparse, worse-than-minimalist quarters she had lived in since they had taken her. A stainless steel bucket in the corner served as her toilet, forcing her to endure the scent as it festered until the bucket could not hold any more. That took about a week. Her eyes fell upon the inch-thin cushion that served as her “mattress”, the grimy foam pillow crusted with tears, the threadbare sheet she had used the whole time she was there. The cinderblock walls of the facility got dreadfully cold in the winter, but this was all she had. A single window up near the top, maybe half the size of a sheet of paper let in a sparse amount of light and the barest amount of fresh air.
Her eyes fell upon the wall that the door was set into. On the reverse side of the hinges, hidden by the door as it opened, several hundreds of small lines lay. Dozens of sets of four vertical lines with a single diagonal line through them, each completed set marking off every five days she had spent here. Hundreds of those lines covered that wall.
The grating of iron on iron, the squeaking of rusty hinges stole her attention back to the door. A gloved hand slid a small tray through a cutout in the iron door, a flap large enough for her three daily “meals” to go through, yet far too small for her to escape from. The tray contained her usual: a single piece of stale bread, two glasses of water and five large pills. Inside those pills were the remaining daily nutrients that the bread did not give her, optimized so that she would appear to be in perfect health, yet would not expend the same cost for food as the other humans in the facility.
She moved herself over to the tray, picking it up and seating it upon her pillow. She took the pills first, using as little water as possible and ending up with a cup and a half. She took the stale bread and broke it into various pieces, dipping them in the water to soften it up. She ate the bread slowly, trying to savor what little solid food she received each day and the bland, yet existent flavor it held. But all too soon she had finished it, and so she sipped on the water slowly, trying to make that last as long as possible, but eventually the cup ran dry as well. She put the tray on the floor, knowing the flap was only one way and that the scientists would take it in the morning.
Looking up through the window, her eyes fell upon the full moon, its complete image barely captured by the minute portcullis. It enraptured her, that lone white sphere hovering full in the sky, its milky rays falling to the world beholden to it. Was it as lonely as she? Did it long for company as she did? Somebody, anybody to talk to?
She sighed and lay down on the bed, her head falling down onto the pillow and messy blond locks splaying around her. She drew the sheet over herself and cast one more glance at the wall. There were currently seven hundred and twenty nine lines on the wall.
Tomorrow would be two years to the day since she had been abducted and brought here.
Tomorrow was her seventeenth birthday.
* * * * *
“Wake up, honey! It’s your big day!”
Bleary eyes opened to the world, and her hand came up to push her blond hair back from in front of her face. The clock on her bedside table read 9:47, and below the time, Saturday. She let a soft smile cover her face. Today was her fifteenth birthday, and she would be seeing all of her friends.
A quick shower and a change of clothes later, and she was wearing the blouse she had just bought the other day, a pair of jeans and a cute pair of flats. She looked at herself in the mirror, nodding in approval before she went down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to trip over her dog. As she arrived in the kitchen, she saw her mother working over the stove, cooking up pancakes for the family.
“Dear, would you mind going outside and grabbing the paper really fast?”
She nodded, smiled and went out the front door, looking down the driveway to where the paper was. But as soon as she bent down to pick up the paper, something rustled the bush behind her, and a heavy, strong hand placed a wet cloth over her mouth while another pulled her back. She tried to scream out, she really did. But the more she tried, the more tired she became. As consciousness escaped her, she couldn’t help but notice the cloth smelled and tasted funny, almost like it had been soaked in something…
She awoke with a start.
The morning sun streamed into her cell in a tiny beam, shining off of the dark iron door and directly into her eyes. She pulled herself out of the bed and lifted up the mattress, revealing a tiny fragment of iron. She took the fragment in hand and went over to the wall, making a slash through the last set of four lines on the wall.
Seven hundred and thirty days.
Two years.
And yet still she remained here.
She laid back down onto her bed, curled up in the fetal position, shivering and praying that somebody would come and help her.
That somebody would come and save her.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Finally... Another Post
People, people, people...
When you read my blog, you're supposed to leave comments. Yeah. You see that little button at the bottom of my post? With a pencil next to it?
Yeah. That's the button.
For the love of all that is good and (not) holy.... PRESS IT!
No matter what my opinion on the government is, there is one thing about any government that I can’t deny, and that is their remarkable ability to tie up loose ends.
And it was that remarkable ability that saw the three of us sprinting through the forests, desperately running away from lights, guns and helicopters.
I could hear Sam and Aurora’s strained panting beside me, the rasping sound of each other’s breathing being the only thing keeping any of us conscious. We ran for our freedom, our rights, our lives, ran as fast as we could, ignoring the painful and near-impassable terrain racing by underfoot.
The gashes on our legs and feet, tokens of the razor-sharp stones littering the ground didn’t matter to us.
We couldn’t have cared less about the splinters imbedded in our arms, leftovers from the debris-filled explosions of the forest’s trees.
The rain pelting us every second might as well have been a misting for all the attention we paid to it, despite our shivering and drenched bodies.
None of it mattered. At the moment, only one idea, one single ephemeral thought was important.
Escape.
A minute burst of light off in the distance.
A figure tackling me to the ground.
A bullet erupting through the stone that I had just been in front of the moment before.
And I realized that had it not been for Sam and her reflexes, my head would be nothing more than a spatter of red and grey gore on the landscape.
Phantom bullets. They were a new invention that had entered the scene not five years ago, revolutionizing the field of warfare. Nobody understood how they worked, not even the manufacturers. Only their creator—The Musician—understood the mechanics behind what made the projectiles act the way they did.
But as for what properties they had… that was plainly evident.
Phantom bullets phased through inorganic matter and dead matter, and only caused any physical damage to living creatures. One minute you’re sitting in a steel-walled room, sipping tea, safe and secure. The next? You’re dead in a pool of your own blood, a quarter-sized hole punched through your heart.
If those were being sent at us, the game had been taken to a whole new level. Despite that, we kept running.
We had no other choice.
The dense woodland that had sheltered us from aerial assault was thinning fast. I looked over to Sam and Aurora on my right, only to see the latter with a hand over her left eye and mumbling to herself.
She was the only reason we hadn’t been captured or killed yet.
We erupted from the woods and were greeted by the sight of a suspension bridge spanning a hundred yard long canyon that would be the death of any who fell in. We had only just begun crossing when I heard a bullet skim past my left ear and graze Sam’s shoulder.
They’d caught us.
I turned around to face our pursuers, my arms spread wide in a feeble attempt to protect the girls. An entire firing squad erupted from the trees, guns trained on me and laser sights tracing my thin frame. In vain, I focused on my right eye, only to be dismayed when nothing happened. The drugs may have worn off on Sam and Aurora, but they had probably given me a double dose.
“Kai Boudreau,” a voice boomed from the sky. The droning sound of helicopter blades heralded the metal behemoth’s descent from the sky. The glare of spotlights blinded me, forcing me to shield my eyes with my arm. “Surrender yourself and your companions now and no harm shall come to you.”
I glared defiantly into the light; I hadn’t lost the will to resist yet.
“No.”
“So be it. On my mark!”
A final laser sight appeared on my chest. But they wouldn’t see me cower. I would never give them the satisfaction.
“Fire!”
I shifted slightly to the left.
A bright flare erupted from the side of the helicopter.
And the bullet ripped through my torso, a spray of blood following its trail from my body.
I coughed once, my lifeblood oozing from my throat. And as I felt a tugging on my arms, the world went dark once more.
When you read my blog, you're supposed to leave comments. Yeah. You see that little button at the bottom of my post? With a pencil next to it?
Yeah. That's the button.
For the love of all that is good and (not) holy.... PRESS IT!
No matter what my opinion on the government is, there is one thing about any government that I can’t deny, and that is their remarkable ability to tie up loose ends.
And it was that remarkable ability that saw the three of us sprinting through the forests, desperately running away from lights, guns and helicopters.
I could hear Sam and Aurora’s strained panting beside me, the rasping sound of each other’s breathing being the only thing keeping any of us conscious. We ran for our freedom, our rights, our lives, ran as fast as we could, ignoring the painful and near-impassable terrain racing by underfoot.
The gashes on our legs and feet, tokens of the razor-sharp stones littering the ground didn’t matter to us.
We couldn’t have cared less about the splinters imbedded in our arms, leftovers from the debris-filled explosions of the forest’s trees.
The rain pelting us every second might as well have been a misting for all the attention we paid to it, despite our shivering and drenched bodies.
None of it mattered. At the moment, only one idea, one single ephemeral thought was important.
Escape.
A minute burst of light off in the distance.
A figure tackling me to the ground.
A bullet erupting through the stone that I had just been in front of the moment before.
And I realized that had it not been for Sam and her reflexes, my head would be nothing more than a spatter of red and grey gore on the landscape.
Phantom bullets. They were a new invention that had entered the scene not five years ago, revolutionizing the field of warfare. Nobody understood how they worked, not even the manufacturers. Only their creator—The Musician—understood the mechanics behind what made the projectiles act the way they did.
But as for what properties they had… that was plainly evident.
Phantom bullets phased through inorganic matter and dead matter, and only caused any physical damage to living creatures. One minute you’re sitting in a steel-walled room, sipping tea, safe and secure. The next? You’re dead in a pool of your own blood, a quarter-sized hole punched through your heart.
If those were being sent at us, the game had been taken to a whole new level. Despite that, we kept running.
We had no other choice.
The dense woodland that had sheltered us from aerial assault was thinning fast. I looked over to Sam and Aurora on my right, only to see the latter with a hand over her left eye and mumbling to herself.
She was the only reason we hadn’t been captured or killed yet.
We erupted from the woods and were greeted by the sight of a suspension bridge spanning a hundred yard long canyon that would be the death of any who fell in. We had only just begun crossing when I heard a bullet skim past my left ear and graze Sam’s shoulder.
They’d caught us.
I turned around to face our pursuers, my arms spread wide in a feeble attempt to protect the girls. An entire firing squad erupted from the trees, guns trained on me and laser sights tracing my thin frame. In vain, I focused on my right eye, only to be dismayed when nothing happened. The drugs may have worn off on Sam and Aurora, but they had probably given me a double dose.
“Kai Boudreau,” a voice boomed from the sky. The droning sound of helicopter blades heralded the metal behemoth’s descent from the sky. The glare of spotlights blinded me, forcing me to shield my eyes with my arm. “Surrender yourself and your companions now and no harm shall come to you.”
I glared defiantly into the light; I hadn’t lost the will to resist yet.
“No.”
“So be it. On my mark!”
A final laser sight appeared on my chest. But they wouldn’t see me cower. I would never give them the satisfaction.
“Fire!”
I shifted slightly to the left.
A bright flare erupted from the side of the helicopter.
And the bullet ripped through my torso, a spray of blood following its trail from my body.
I coughed once, my lifeblood oozing from my throat. And as I felt a tugging on my arms, the world went dark once more.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Not Quite Creative Writing... This Time...
Ah, I have returned. For those who read my first post, thank you very much; for those who didn't, the grass may be greener on the other side, but that's really quite subjective.
Anyways, today I will be giving you something a little... different... you might say. Not creative writing.
This time, it is a piece on morality. Or, more specifically, my own views on good and evil.
I hope you enjoy it.
—The JP
So often I hear people talking about what I like to refer to as “cosmic allegiances” whenever they discuss the topics of morality and choice. But was Ghandi truly “good”? Can Hitler be considered as being “evil”? Did Anakin Skywalker betray the “good” and join the “evil”? Was Snape pretending to be “evil” so that he could serve the “good”? All of this leads to the question: what are “good” and “evil” anyways?
I like to refer to “good” and “evil” as ‘cosmic allegiances’ for the very reason that they seem to lack any form of substantial definition and are often used in a metaphysical sense, and thus carry no real substance that makes them truly exist. Good and evil are referred to in various ways: light and dark, God and the Devil, Aesir and Vanir (not that anybody will know this last example…), so on and so forth. But the big problem with all of this is that the terms good and evil are completely and utterly ambiguous!
Think about it for a minute. Ever heard the sayings “a means to an end” or “the ends justify the means”? These sayings basically state the following: “it’s okay to do something ‘evil’ so long as it serves the ‘greater good’ in the end”. Now, this raises a problem: what means to the end are justifiable and what means are considered evil? That is where the true ambiguity arrives.
Everybody on this planet has his or her own definition of what is morally right and what is morally wrong. One who followed the Ten Commandments to the letter would believe that murder, no matter what the reason, is wrong, but an Islamic Jihadist (for lack of a better example; sorry to any Muslims that I hope I haven’t offended) may view the murder of heathens as a means to an end, and justified by his or her holy war. The blurred lines between good and evil appear in American laws as well. Don’t believe me? Here’s your proof!
In America, we have various degrees of punishment for killing a person: involuntary manslaughter, manslaughter, 2nd degree murder, 1st degree murder, and probably others; I’m no law student so I don’t know all of them. Now, a person can be punished for all of these, which are essentially the killing of another human being. But… one of the punishments for 1st degree murder is… well? It’s the death penalty. I smell hypocrisy: we’re punishing somebody for murdering a human being by… well, murdering the convict in return. Is anbody else reminded of “an eye for an eye”?
My own ideology on good and evil is not quite so black and white as “this is good, this is evil”, and it doesn’t have many shades of gray such that “this evil is justifiable if it’s for the greater good, but this evil act isn’t”. In fact, my ideology on good and evil doesn’t even include the cosmic allegiances of good and evil at all? Here’s what it is:
In this world, there is nothing but power, choice, free will, intent, and what we do with it.
Let me explain.
Power: This is what allows us to make our decisions and influence our surroundings. Then again… it’s rather self-explanatory.
Choice: The options that we’re given when confronted with a situation. For example, if you see somebody cheating, you could cheat off them in return, make your own paper more easily able to be cheated off of while feeding them the wrong answers, turn the cheater in for cheating, or many other options.
Free Will: This is what allows us to make the choice that best suits us out of what options are available before us, such as choosing the right fork in the road to take. Each “choice” is a fork, and free will is what lets us pick our path.
Intent: This is the motivation behind the action, such as good intent or ill intent.
Right now, somebody is saying “Hah! But you said you don’t believe in good and evil!” Let me explain for a minute what I mean by intent and why it factors in here, because good and ill intent are not the same as good and evil (in my mind anyways):
Here’s an example of ill intent used for good purposes: imagine you’re a doctor in a hospital. You’ve just diagnosed your patient with a terminal illness for which there is no known cure and that will eventually kill your patient after several long, agonizing months of never-ending pain and, due to the nature of the disease, there is no way to ease this pain. You have two options: either let your patient die a long, agonizing death or give him the option to have himself die now so that he isn’t in agonizing suffering for long months before his body finally gives out; in effect, kill him out of mercy. This would be physician-assisted suicide. The ill intent is the killing of the patient, but the good purpose is keeping him from suffering endlessly for many months before finally giving out.
Now, here’s an example of good intent used for ill purposes. You’re an army medic, and your troupe has brought in a prisoner of war. They’ve decided to interrogate him for information by using decidedly less-than-legal methods, a.k.a torture. They’ve just finished torturing the prisoner for the day, but he hasn’t given them all of his information… or so they think. You’re told to keep him alive and tend to his wounds. In this case, the good intent is healing the wounded… but the ill purpose is that he’s being kept alive just enough so that he won’t die from the torture.
Morality is an endless question. There is no black and white. There are no shades of grey. In a question of morality, there is never a clear-cut answer that can be pointed at from a textbook. Everybody has to have his or her own set of morals in order to determine how they will act in a situation. I have mine. Do you have yours?
Anyways, today I will be giving you something a little... different... you might say. Not creative writing.
This time, it is a piece on morality. Or, more specifically, my own views on good and evil.
I hope you enjoy it.
—The JP
So often I hear people talking about what I like to refer to as “cosmic allegiances” whenever they discuss the topics of morality and choice. But was Ghandi truly “good”? Can Hitler be considered as being “evil”? Did Anakin Skywalker betray the “good” and join the “evil”? Was Snape pretending to be “evil” so that he could serve the “good”? All of this leads to the question: what are “good” and “evil” anyways?
I like to refer to “good” and “evil” as ‘cosmic allegiances’ for the very reason that they seem to lack any form of substantial definition and are often used in a metaphysical sense, and thus carry no real substance that makes them truly exist. Good and evil are referred to in various ways: light and dark, God and the Devil, Aesir and Vanir (not that anybody will know this last example…), so on and so forth. But the big problem with all of this is that the terms good and evil are completely and utterly ambiguous!
Think about it for a minute. Ever heard the sayings “a means to an end” or “the ends justify the means”? These sayings basically state the following: “it’s okay to do something ‘evil’ so long as it serves the ‘greater good’ in the end”. Now, this raises a problem: what means to the end are justifiable and what means are considered evil? That is where the true ambiguity arrives.
Everybody on this planet has his or her own definition of what is morally right and what is morally wrong. One who followed the Ten Commandments to the letter would believe that murder, no matter what the reason, is wrong, but an Islamic Jihadist (for lack of a better example; sorry to any Muslims that I hope I haven’t offended) may view the murder of heathens as a means to an end, and justified by his or her holy war. The blurred lines between good and evil appear in American laws as well. Don’t believe me? Here’s your proof!
In America, we have various degrees of punishment for killing a person: involuntary manslaughter, manslaughter, 2nd degree murder, 1st degree murder, and probably others; I’m no law student so I don’t know all of them. Now, a person can be punished for all of these, which are essentially the killing of another human being. But… one of the punishments for 1st degree murder is… well? It’s the death penalty. I smell hypocrisy: we’re punishing somebody for murdering a human being by… well, murdering the convict in return. Is anbody else reminded of “an eye for an eye”?
My own ideology on good and evil is not quite so black and white as “this is good, this is evil”, and it doesn’t have many shades of gray such that “this evil is justifiable if it’s for the greater good, but this evil act isn’t”. In fact, my ideology on good and evil doesn’t even include the cosmic allegiances of good and evil at all? Here’s what it is:
In this world, there is nothing but power, choice, free will, intent, and what we do with it.
Let me explain.
Power: This is what allows us to make our decisions and influence our surroundings. Then again… it’s rather self-explanatory.
Choice: The options that we’re given when confronted with a situation. For example, if you see somebody cheating, you could cheat off them in return, make your own paper more easily able to be cheated off of while feeding them the wrong answers, turn the cheater in for cheating, or many other options.
Free Will: This is what allows us to make the choice that best suits us out of what options are available before us, such as choosing the right fork in the road to take. Each “choice” is a fork, and free will is what lets us pick our path.
Intent: This is the motivation behind the action, such as good intent or ill intent.
Right now, somebody is saying “Hah! But you said you don’t believe in good and evil!” Let me explain for a minute what I mean by intent and why it factors in here, because good and ill intent are not the same as good and evil (in my mind anyways):
Here’s an example of ill intent used for good purposes: imagine you’re a doctor in a hospital. You’ve just diagnosed your patient with a terminal illness for which there is no known cure and that will eventually kill your patient after several long, agonizing months of never-ending pain and, due to the nature of the disease, there is no way to ease this pain. You have two options: either let your patient die a long, agonizing death or give him the option to have himself die now so that he isn’t in agonizing suffering for long months before his body finally gives out; in effect, kill him out of mercy. This would be physician-assisted suicide. The ill intent is the killing of the patient, but the good purpose is keeping him from suffering endlessly for many months before finally giving out.
Now, here’s an example of good intent used for ill purposes. You’re an army medic, and your troupe has brought in a prisoner of war. They’ve decided to interrogate him for information by using decidedly less-than-legal methods, a.k.a torture. They’ve just finished torturing the prisoner for the day, but he hasn’t given them all of his information… or so they think. You’re told to keep him alive and tend to his wounds. In this case, the good intent is healing the wounded… but the ill purpose is that he’s being kept alive just enough so that he won’t die from the torture.
Morality is an endless question. There is no black and white. There are no shades of grey. In a question of morality, there is never a clear-cut answer that can be pointed at from a textbook. Everybody has to have his or her own set of morals in order to determine how they will act in a situation. I have mine. Do you have yours?
Monday, December 7, 2009
To all those who have stumbled upon my madness...
Let me be the first to welcome you to my internet location for my creative writing endeavors. Hopefully those of you who visit this site and read my work will find the time to comment, critique, and be overall jackasses in relation to my writing.
After all, if I don't have the comments/compliments/complaints of readers, how am I supposed to improve as a writer?
Currently, I have three projects in the works.
—The first of which, known as Pyroclasm, might as well be abandoned. It was my first foray into creative writing and was basically where I dumped all of my completely and utterly random ideas. It is currently sitting at roughly 42,000 words and I have run into a wall story-wise.
—The second piece is the first part of a planned series. The series name will be Chronicles of Ragnarok, and if any of you are versed in Norse mythology (unlikely, to be honest) you will recognize Ragnarok as being a mythological Apocalypse, pretty much. The first title in the series will be called Umberhowl and is currently sitting at 8500 words typed with another 2000-3000 handwritten and ready to be typed up.
I haven't gotten around to that. Yet.
—The third piece is also the first part of a planned series. The series name for this one will be Guild of Shadows, and will be very, VERY dark. The title for the first book will be Umbra, and I just started it yesterday. It is currently sitting at 800-1000 words.
Anyways, what I will show you now is the first part of the 7500-8000 word prologue for Umberhowl, which is, at the moment, my brainchild.
Enjoy!
Let me be the first to welcome you to my internet location for my creative writing endeavors. Hopefully those of you who visit this site and read my work will find the time to comment, critique, and be overall jackasses in relation to my writing.
After all, if I don't have the comments/compliments/complaints of readers, how am I supposed to improve as a writer?
Currently, I have three projects in the works.
—The first of which, known as Pyroclasm, might as well be abandoned. It was my first foray into creative writing and was basically where I dumped all of my completely and utterly random ideas. It is currently sitting at roughly 42,000 words and I have run into a wall story-wise.
—The second piece is the first part of a planned series. The series name will be Chronicles of Ragnarok, and if any of you are versed in Norse mythology (unlikely, to be honest) you will recognize Ragnarok as being a mythological Apocalypse, pretty much. The first title in the series will be called Umberhowl and is currently sitting at 8500 words typed with another 2000-3000 handwritten and ready to be typed up.
I haven't gotten around to that. Yet.
—The third piece is also the first part of a planned series. The series name for this one will be Guild of Shadows, and will be very, VERY dark. The title for the first book will be Umbra, and I just started it yesterday. It is currently sitting at 800-1000 words.
Anyways, what I will show you now is the first part of the 7500-8000 word prologue for Umberhowl, which is, at the moment, my brainchild.
Enjoy!
A massive thundering filled the grand hall as a tall, crowned figure looked out from his position on his throne, the bored expression that had been playing across his face giving way to one of great interest. It was far too early in the morning for them to be having problems of any sort, and they were usually the source of any disruptions to his activities, which primarily included napping, daydreaming, and playing with the seams of his clothing, as he normally did during these peaceful times. His curiosity overtaking his need to sleep, the crowned man sat up straight in his solid gold and silver throne as the banging resounded through the hall once again.
“You may come in! Just cease that awful din!”
At the crowned man’s acknowledgement, the grand doors to the hall opened as a female form walked—nay, floated—into the hall. She was quite possibly the epitome of feminine beauty: She had long blonde hair cascading down her back that shone intensely in the sunlight, waving with every motion she made yet still remaining perfect. Her eyes were a brilliant sky-blue, beautiful and captivating sapphires that captured the gaze of any who would look upon them. Her features were perfect and delicate; her lips, a bold ruby red, were set in a placid expression. Her skin was fair, and seemed to glow faintly in the lighting of the hall. Small, golden runes were slightly visible on her upper arms and seemed to have light running up and down them every few seconds.
Her dress, which ended around her mid-thigh, was made of a fine, silken fabric that conformed tightly to the woman, accentuating her perfect curves and offering the slightest tantalizing peek at her cleavage, while also emphasizing a slightly more-than-modest bust. The dress itself was a startling emerald color reminiscent of verdant, never-ending fields of grass.
The woman floated into the hall, halting at the steps leading up to the throne and slowly lowered herself to the ground before settling down into a kneeling bow.
“My lord.” She pulled out of the bow and, standing back up, levitated herself to a height of roughly two feet above the rich carpet on the floor. “It will happen today.”
The man’s face twisted into a scowl; this upset all of his plans for the day. There went any possibility of a long, peaceful nap followed by watching the fighting tournaments. His scowl deepened into a full grimace as his mind ran through everything that was to take place.
He pulled out of his thoughts and slowly pulled himself up out of his throne so that he stood. He looked down at the woman floating in front of him, his face set in an expression of determination and frustration.
“If what you say is so, then we must prepare. Find your sister and tell Illena to go and observe the proceedings and step in once the time is right. Whether or not your sister will be needed depends on whether the proceedings go as predicted. In any case, prepare yourself: everything that we have been preparing for begins now.”
The woman visibly shuddered at the crowned figure’s words, and swiftly left the chamber, hair streaming behind her and reflecting the lighting. The man sat back down on his throne, pinching the bridge of his nose and murmuring to himself.
“And so it has begun… but will we be able to find the strength to weather the coming storm?”
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