A History of Hope

We live in a day and age that many would call uncertain, tense, and terrifying. Much of what we once took for granted seems to be slipping from our grasp, like a foundation made of sand. Each day, hundreds of men and women swell the ranks of the unemployed. Prices shoot towards the ceiling as debt and inflation pull this country deeper and deeper into the mire of economic collapse. Morality seems to be a thing of the past, abandoned by a generation that lives to waste their lives. The education system has been choked by its own rabid desire for impressive statistics. Even the government, the one institution that should stay solid during a crises, has been corrupted, bloated, and grown into a tyrannical monstrosity it was never meant to be.

Honestly, in our day and age, there's little to BE thankful for. Most of what the future would seem to hold is bleak, full of tension and pain.

But as you celebrate this uniquely American tradition of Thanksgiving, remember those pilgrims who began this holiday: they had just come through one of the coldest, harshest winters they've ever experienced. So many of them had died or been permanently injured by the deadly freezes. In fact, less than a quarter of them had survived the vicious season.

As they came out into spring, however, they were filled with new purpose. They had conquered the continent, and now nothing could stand in their way. So, even though their numbers had thinned to almost non-existence; even though their houses were nowhere ready for another winter; even though there was no guarantee they would survive for another day, they decided to celebrate. The harvest came in, and they gave their laughter, joy, and peace as an offering to the God to whom they owed their souls.

They found something to be thankful for. In a maelstrom of hurt, uncertainty, and despair, they clung to the hope that the next warm season would bring peace. So rather than give up, let us too dig deep within ourselves, to the inextinguishable flame of hope buried in the core of humanity, and forge on to a brighter tomorrow. 

Dialing - Reality??

Greetings from the world of life, liberty, and leeks. I bring salutation and solids. I wish only peace and pears. Take me to your leader and liver.

I don't know why I wrote that. Or why I am writing this. Is it because my sociopathy demands that I impress my thoughts and feelings upon others? Is it a selfish desire for acceptance and fulfillment? Or do I simply enjoy words, and the beauty they create?
I don't know the answer to these questions. I could say that I "know," but I would have no proof that my statement is anything more than my own deluded opinion. So, in this way, is it possible to really "know" anything at all?
These and other such questions have been plaguing me for the past few minutes. How quaint.

In this same vein, how do I "know" that I am actually awake right now? For all I know, this could be a dream, a projection my mind creates to protect me from some sort of physical trauma I've experienced. I could actually be lying in a hospital bed, deep in a cerebral coma.
But even that may not be what it seems! That may be the world I call "reality," but is it really the basis of the universe? Is this dimension what is truly the foundation of all others? Or are we just a backwards, incomplete framework, like our own first dimension?
These are heavy thoughts, I know. Perhaps once I begin my soccer game, such confusing musings will mosey out of my mind. If that soccer game is actually happening...

Sometimes

Sometimes, life seems like little more than a movie. You stand there, powerless as powers outside your vision move about whole sections of your life. Yet you can do nothing. Your hands are too small, your reach too short; no matter how hard you strain, events remain just beyond your control.
"Come on, come on. You know this isn't what we planned on. Come on, come on. Tell me we'll be okay."
Sometimes, those closest to you are those who are the farthest away. They seem so kind, so helpful, so well-intentioned. Not even they fully understand the damage their "assistance" causes. The scars that lace the soul, burning with resentment and determination to leave their rotting affection far behind.
"Where were you, when my walls came falling down? You turned away - you stood close by - but didn't make a sound. Where were you, when it all came back around? The reasons why you passed me by will always hold you down."
Sometimes, comfort comes from the most unlikely places. A acquaintance becomes a brother; a neighbor a sister. A random song suddenly puts air beneath your wings; a simple story moves you to tears. You're taking out the trash, and a sunset blows your mind; hours with a ball at your feet, and suddenly the world's problems seem to fade into the grass.
"Let's leave no words unspoken, and save our regrets for the broken. Will they even look back when they think of me?? All I want is a place to call my own, to mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone. You know to keep your hopes up high and your head down low."
Sometimes, there is a person who becomes so much more than a friend. They laugh, they smile, they flirt around the borders - but to you, they're right in the center. They are a memory to cling to, as the corrosive waters of loneliness threaten to pull you under.
"Forget everything just for tonight; we'll sing like everyone when they're alone. Cause I've been waiting for tonight to sing this song. Let's move in; if we all stand together, we're a force that can change the whole world. For once, we're doing something right when we sing this, our song."
Sometimes, people will tell you life is nothing more than pain, and loss, and conflict, and futile dreams, all without end. They tell you that there's nothing for it, except to squeeze every day for all the pleasure it can give; that's your right, eh?
...
Those people couldn't. Be. More. Dead. Wrong. Life is joyful, because friendship gives you laughter. Life is full, because the things that we treasure never truly leave us. Life is peaceful, because you can't fight what isn't worth your time. Life is meaningful, because love gives it meaning.
For all those doubters out there, I want you to know I have found my purpose. My purpose is prove you wrong by living a life ruled by love, a love that is bottomless, a love that no man can take from me.
"I'm making a difference. I'm taking a chance. You can say what you want about me, but no one can tell me I can't."

Patience, Pride, and Devilish Bananas

One of the most exciting, hilarious, and yet utterly frustrating experiences a person can have is the anticipation of an event. Humans love looking forward to things, regardless of how annoying the wait becomes. The suspense, promise of reward, and all-around electric feeling surrounds everything from Call of Duty Black Spec Ghost Ops releases (or whatever game Activision is making now), birthday presents, or even a simple night out with friends. However seat-of-your-pants impatient you may become, the wait is a key part of the whole experience.

Many events in American culture have this same "time tag" slapped on the packaging. It tells you that, for best results, you should _______. The blank can be filled with anything, from waiting a set amount of time or completing some type of action.
For instance, if you want to become CEO of a company, you must first: get a job in said company, work to get promoted, schmooze up to your boss, make a breaking deal - and then you'll be made CEO. If you want to drive a car, you must first: get a learner's permit, drive safely for two years, complete Joshua's Law - and then you can get a driver's license. If you want to eat that banana, you must first wait until it's ripe - then you can eat it.
Now, I grant you that these formulas may not actually work like this in the real world (Bananas can be tricky blighters). But I'm sure you get the idea. Whether it's a tasty treat or a life-altering promotion, the wait is most definitely worth it.

Sadly, this rule has all but been ignored in our present society.
It is no longer the shrewd, competent businessman who is made CEO. Rather, it is the man or women who is perfectly ready to do whatever it takes to make it to the top. These individuals don't care who they crush on the way there, as long as they reach their destination. As a result, they don't have half the knowledge and experience that is gained by the young desk clerk on the first floor office, who does his best to preform his job - whatever that may be - with excellence and diligence. Who do you think is more admirable in this situation?
Closer to home for us teens is the area of dating. There used to be a time where it was unheard of for two people to start "romantic" relationships at thirteen, fifteen, or even seventeen. It was just kind of ludicrous to most folks. Why? Because they knew that those kids - yes, we're still kids, deal with it - couldn't possibly be ready for that kind of relationship. Not just because of their age (That's a debate topic I won't approach right now), but because of the simple reason that their lives hadn't progressed far enough to make that sort of commitment feasible. It was just illogical to them!
Now, the idea of dating is less of a "I'm looking for a lifelong partner", and more of a "I'm looking for companionship". When most teens think they're looking for a date, they're really just looking for an honest friend, some one who will understand them and whom they can understand. But ninety-nine percent of these teens aren't aware of that line, and so they assume that the hole in their heart needs to be filled with romance. The ensuing "relationships" are nothing more than a breeding place for hurt, betrayal, and emotional scarring. And when the pair of jilted lovers shake off their sorrow, nothing has changed. So they start the process again, with the same inevitable result.
That's not to say there are no exceptions to this sad rule. I've seen many wonderful young couples in my time that lit up a room with their honest, pure, self-sacrificing love. They don't throw themselves all over each other, like actors trying to convince you of their affection. Rather, their love shines trough the little things they do: a small smile, a warm hug, a gentle laugh. They don't need showy displays of adoration, because the two of them know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, where they stand. They are more than just a couple; they are two sides of the same coin. It is a truly wonderful sight to see, a reminder that a joy such as theirs can exist in our broken world.

"Patience is a virtue." This proverb is often quoted in our world. Wisdom of the ages is greatly valued... Right? Or are we too busy listening to our fickle hearts to hear the whispers of those who have gone before, who have made our mistakes and dealt with the consequences. Why can't we pay heed? Why can't we slow down enough to let them carry us along? Why does our pride rule our minds, eater than the other way around?

These are only some of the unanswerable questions that life seems so fond of.
~
Walter J. Scott

The Paladin

Strength. Determination. Courage. Such are the words used to describe the paladin of good, protector of the weak. He stands resolute in the face of danger, shining sword held high in defiance of the darkness around him. He is kind, noble, and selfless.
In short, he is everything we aspire to be. He is the target to aim for, the standard to shoot for. Utterly desirable, and yet utterly unattainable.

But what makes him... Well... Him? We've identified these qualities, but what do they mean? What is it about him that is so fascinating, so captivating? What makes him the idol that he is?
Many have tried to answer these questions, with varying amounts of success. Some were philosophers, some writers. Some were kings, others peasants. Some were wise, others... Not so much.
In my experience, the most knowledgable of these are who would seem to be the least so. Songwriters tend to take an entirely different view on pretty much anything, offering a refreshing new outlook that's often more than a little philosophical. So, to discuss this question with us, I've enlisted the help of several good friends of mine. You may recognize them, as I dearly hope you do.
Now, onward!

"Though they may surround me like lions, and crush me on all sides. I may fall, but I will rise. Not by my might or my power or by the strength of swords. Only through your love my Lord." ~ Josh Garrels

The paladin is strong, resolute in the face of danger. His will is iron, refusing to bow before any other.
Now, Josh isn't talking about physical strength here. Any lunkhead can go to a gym and get bulked up. Rather, he's talking about strength of character. The true paladin knows where his strength lies, and it is not in his own arms. His sword is not his weapon, nor his shield his protection. Instead he trusts in the power of his Savior, his Lord, his Captain.

"I'm not going down that easy! It takes more than this just to break me. I'm not going down without bleeding. I'm not going down without a fight!" ~ Pillar

The paladin is a defender, a warrior. He fights the holy war, conquering the forces of darkness wherever they are found. He never gives up, never gives in. He gives his all all the time, refusing to settle for less.
The truly good things in this life are the things worth fighting for, worth waiting for. The paladin knows what is worth the effort, what's worth sacrificing for. The blessings of God far outweigh those gifts of the world, and that is what the paladin shoots for. And he won't give it up easily.

"Go ahead, you're never gonna take me! You can bend but you're never gonna break me. I was yours, I'm not yours anymore. You don't own me!" ~ Disciple

Courage. Pure, unadulterated courage. The paladin quakes at nothing, fears no one. Hopeless situations? I'm ready. Invincible enemies? I can take 'em. Impossible odds? Bring it on.
But this confidence doesn't come from within him. No, that would be arrogance. Instead, the paladin has complete faith in his Commander. He know that he's never alone, he'll never be forsaken. And in that comforting thought, he finds the ability to conquer an obstacle.

So the paladin's power lies not in his sword. Not in his armor, nor in his steed. It lies in his Lord, his King. The paladin seeks out His strength and courage and determination, and finds rest in it. And therein lies the true power of the Paladin.

The Competitor's Creed

I am a Christian first and last.
I am created in the likeness of God Almighty to bring Him glory.
I am a member of Team Jesus Christ.
I wear the colors of the cross.

I am a Competitor now and forever.
I am made to strive, to strain, to stretch and to succeed in the arena of competition.
I am a Christian competitor, and as such I face my challenger with the face of Christ.

I do not trust in myself.
I do not boast in my abilities or believe in my own strength.
I rely solely on the power of God.
I compete for the pleasure of my Heavenly Father, the honor of Christ, and the reputation of the Holy Spirit.

My attitude on and off the field is above reproach - my conduct beyond criticism.
Whether I am preparing, practicing, or playing, I submit to God's authority and those He has put over me. I respect my coaches, officials, teammates and competitors out of respect for the Lord.

My body is the temple of Jesus Christ.
I protect it from within and without.
Nothing enters my body that does not honor the Living God.
My sweat is an offering to my Master.
My soreness is a sacrifice to my Savior.

I give my all - all the time.
I do not give up. I do not give in.
I do not give out. I am the Lord's warrior - a competitor by convictions and a disciple of determination.
I am confident beyond reason because my confidence lies in Christ.
The results of my efforts must result in His glory.

LET THE COMPETITION BEGIN.
LET THE GLORY BE GOD'S.

Dark Horses

Expectations. It's a big word, isn't it? Scares some people, invigorates others.
In every situation, every circumstance, every experience, people expect things. They go into something with a prearranged opinion of how it's going to turn out, or how someone else is going to act, or what a certain group of people is like.

It's hard to try and sort out all the different standards set by the world. Some say you should act one way, and then contradict themselves five minutes down the road. The easiest thing to do us just follow the crowd. Find a model, make like a monkey and do what they do. Then at least you're protected by the power of mass opinion.

This is certainly the most logical, safe course of action. Nothing gets messy, no one gets confused. And no one gets uncomfortable.
But is this really what we want? Do we want a generation of happy, preppy drones that only know how to keep the status quote? Or do we want unpopular dreamers that can see past their own horizons? Adventurous nobodies that dare to try?! Are we content with mere proficiency, or will we dare to do strive for excellence? Because that's the true question that faces our generation today.

As much as I'd love to, I can't give you an answer to this question. You have to make a choice for yourself: that's the entire point of this discussion.

"And we're singing HEY! You can't count us out! We've been running up against the crowd. Yeah, we are the dark horses." ~ Jon Foreman

Most horses are led tamely by a tiny bit of metal fit between their teeth. They trot along because that's all they know to do. But dark horses? They're too wild to submit. They know their true master, and they won't accept being bridled by anyone except Him.
Who is your master? Is it a world that seeks to turn you into a mass-produced consumer content with an average? Or is it a God who made you an individual, who loves you exactly the way you are, and has an amazing destiny in mind that's tailor-fit just for YOU?
I know who I've chosen. The dark horses won't settle for just any rider. They want exactly one: the master who'd raised them since the beginning, who cares for them and treats them with kindness.

Which one are you?

Fearless Tears

You can't take away my strength
Fix these broken things
There's nothing left to hide
Live free or let me die

And so goes the chorus of my latest musical obsession. It's a raw, powerful rhythm that makes you want to jump up and down, punch through metal, and take on an army. All at the same time.
These words inspire me. Because now, my strength can no longer be stolen from me. I have nothing to hide, and I'm not afraid to die. This new power is not my own, nor is this life mine to live. I have no fear, only a future.
You can't kill someone who's already dead.

The confusion and pain that haunted me has disappeared like the night, fleeing before the rising sun. New purpose has flooded in, sunlight warming the inner recesses of my soul.

Dear Reader
I'd expect you're somewhat befuddled. My apologies. Evidently this new clarity is hampering my manners. Please, allow me to explain. And so we shall journey back to the troubled young man, as he lay in a painful, restless slumber...

I awoke with a start, a strangled scream tearing itself from my throat. My heart thudding like a hammer, I sat up and looked about. The wasted landscape I had been trapped in so long was gone! Instead, white mist swirled about me, caressing my face with a blessed cool. Smiling, I closed my eyes, simply enjoying this alien feeling some might call happiness.
Soon, I felt a presence approaching through the fog. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I leaped to my feet. Sure enough, someone stood there.
I couldn't see it's face for some reason. I guess it was obscured by the mist? I still don't remember. Or maybe... It just didn't matter. Anyway, I could tell it was human, and female at that. Curious, I lowered my fists a fraction. "Hello?" I called, trying not to sound afraid.
She raised a hand in greeting, and began to speak. I listened, and it didn't take long for me to realize who she was. She wasn't a person: she was an idea! She was everything I'd been trying so desperately to hold onto, all that I simply could not - would not! - let go of.
A bubble of elation floated up into my chest and burst just as quickly. Try as I might, I simply couldn't make myself feel... Happy. And that scared me.
But as she continued talking, something else began to peek up from my heart. Something so foreign, she had finished talking by the time
I'd figured it out. Something that took me completely by surprise. Something that I never would've associated with the being in front of me.

It was peace. But not just any peace. It was the peace that comes from total surrender to your circumstances. An abandonment, a surrender to that which you've always fought against. It wasn't contentment, but an absence of conflict.

For an instant, I was terrified. But then I kept listening, and gradually my arms began to lower. My jaw unclenched, and my shoulders slacked. Deep in my stomach, a furious knot of tension began to unwind.
As her sweet voice soothed the aches of my soul, I noticed something I hadn't before. A thin line of black trailed from her neck, down her gown, and across the floor, where it connected to my still-tightened fists.
She stopped speaking as I stared in horror at this thing that was undoubtedly a chain. I looked back up at her, apologies about to burst from my mouth. How could I have done this?! I had trapped us both in this terrible prison!
But before I could utter a word, her cool finger pressed against my lips and shut them tight. Then she began to tell me about the chain, and the peace blossoming in my chest grew.
I had put it there, a very long time ago. She had accepted this bond of trust and love willingly, and we had been happy, each lost in the joy of the other's company.
But as the weeks grew into months, the distance between us increased. Soon there came a time when a change was called for. And I simply couldn't see!! Couldn't tell that it was time to let go, to move on. To release out old bonds, making way for stronger, purer ties.
When she had finished, tears poured silently down my face. The peace had spread from my chest down and out to the rest of me. I could feel the unearthly force soothing my tense muscles, relaxing my frantic mind.
She smiled at me, a kind smile full of forgiveness. And after a moment, I wiped away my tears and smiled back.
I knew what I had to do.
Looking down, I smiled sadly at my fist. It was still clenched tightly around the chain, untouched by the brightening glow of peace in my mind. But that changed as I forced my frozen, resisting digits to move. Gradually, they opened, the links of the chain slipping through my cold fingers. Each link felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, each hitting the floor with all the authority of an anchor. But with every resounding crash, the next link was a little lighter, slipping faster and faster across my warming skin.
When the final piece dropped to the floor, the entire chain shattered into razor sharp shards of night. I caught a glimpse of her face, and she was smiling. Then the mist began to swirl, and everything around me disappeared.
But I wasn't scared this time. Instead, as I felt myself being swept away, I just smiled. Because all I felt, for the first, blessed time... Was peace.
~
Sir Walter Joshua Scott

Shards of Oblivion

Hello All!
Well, I'm finally back. Fire and brimstone, wind and water, storm and earthquake, all I have braved on my journey.
Danger has lurked at every turn, and many times I've been forced to fight for my vitam, my very existence. Battles won, battles lost. Companions gained, companions taken away.
Despite this, the ebb and flow of life continues on undisturbed by the chaos it harbors. Life, death, love, war - all are meaningless to the ever-advancing hands of time. And so we must move on. Dwelling on the moment is simply not an option.

As such, confusion and pain run rampant in our lives. The only thing that's certain is that nothing is certain! "Come now, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit"— yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes." (James 4:13-14 ESV)
We don't know what will happen come the morrow. In fact, we don't even truly know whether we'll be alive or not! Certainty is a valuable commodity in a world of shifting shadows and dark deceptions. So hard to find, and even harder to hold.
But we've just entered a new year! The entire world rejoices together as we take yet another step in humanity's journey through time.
For many, this is a time of conviction, of deciding to do better, and to outdo yourself. Such resolutions, as we call them, are comforting. It's nice to know something in the coming year is assured.
However, yours truly is unable to share in their joy. Bit by aching bit, my world has slipped away. Granite is sand, steel is water as the defining ideals of my world pour out of the cracks.
It's quite distressing really: watching everything you thought to be unchangeable disappear, and being unable to make yourself care.
Part of me is frantic, grasping at straws and trying desperately to pull it all back together. The other man just sits there, calmly watching me scramble about for a shred of security. He already knows what to do. He just won't tell me yet. So I'm forced to try as make some sense of all this, while he just sits there and smiles sadly.
At one point, I get so fed up with his strong and silent act that I yell at him. "What are you SMIRKING at? Why don't you just help me?"
He shakes his head slowly. His ageless eyes seem to stare right into my soul as he whispers, "Only the fire can teach a boy to fear its flame."
I turn away in disgust, sick of his superior attitude. He has no right to call me boy, I think angrily. I've done and seen more than that weak coward could ever dream.
So that boy continued to search for his answer as the river of time flowed ever onward. Each day, the emptiness grew, filling his soul with an all-consuming void. Soon came the day when he could no longer tell the difference between what was and what is. Nothing is certain in this shattered corner of his mind, where love and joy turn feral and prey upon their hapless masters.
So now he sits in a corner, bruised and bloodied, scarred and wounded. He can't tell what his love was, is, or will be anymore. Tremors wrack his broken body as he cries out for help. He knows he must have faith, but blind eyes cannot direct his path. He knows he must trust, but the future of his Leader is so far away. He knows he is safe, but invisible arms offer little comfort.
He curls up to ward off the night, but the chaos invades even his dreams. And so he tosses and turns, pursued by nothing more deadly than his own fears.
The other man is still nearby, watching him sleep. When he screams, the man puts a weathered hand gently on his shoulder. "Do not be afraid, my son. Only the chaff shall burn. All will be made clear in its own time." Then he stands, steps forward, and the whole world shatters into a billion fiery shards of Oblivion.

Dear Reader: I do hope reading this was somewhat confusing. Perhaps then you'll be able to have a taste of my own confusion.
Signing off
~
Walter J. Scott

A Word From the Editor... Again

Hello All
In the words of the immortal Jar-Jar Binks, "Meesa back!"
In a fashion at least.
Unfortunately, I have nothing to say for myself. In those tiny snatches of time where I can actually write, my attention has been diverted from blogging to a project of a much more personal nature. So, to keep you all from deserting me in disgust, I have yet another peice from the editor. Mr. Megran's schoolwork, coupled with his until-recently-busy schedule has kept him hopping from event to event. But no one ever said there is nothing to be gained from honest labor! Here is his latest project. Please enjoy.
~
Walter J. Scott

There are a lot of things I wish I could change about myself. Some are physical, some mental, some emotional, and some spiritual. Each one is a veritable mountain in my mind, a horrific scar that refuses to be ignored.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a thin switch of a boy, or that my acne wasn’t so bad. I wish I had more muscle, or at least something to put on this bony frame.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t perverted my mind with all the crap I used to. I wish I was strong enough to banish my addictions forever.
Sometimes I wish I was more tactful, or understanding. I wish I could teach myself to care less about me, and more about those around me.
And sometimes I wish I didn’t have such a desire for complete and utter control over my life. I wish I could sit back and trust that God can take care of anything in my path, no matter how big or small.
And yet, I am created in the image of God. He formed me from the foundations of the universe, before the earth was even imagined. I am precious to Him exactly the way I am.
God loves my ridiculous physique that allows me to dance across the soccer field.
God loves my testimony that I can use to lead others to him.
God loves my awkwardness, and my protective instincts.
And God loves my elevator-style faith: sometimes up, sometimes down, but always in the shaft.
All my quirks, all my faults, all my flaws and petty struggles: He loves them all. He made me this way, and He obviously has a purpose for me, despite these imperfections. For in my weakness, He is made strong. And in my shame, He is given glory.
In this perfect truth, I am content.

Influences

Greetings
As you may possibly already have ascertained from the numerous other posts on this site, my name is Walter Joshua Scott.
I live in a certain state that is much too hot for my liking (Although that heat has decreased greatly since a certain unique flower was removed from my presence).
I write for a living, despite the fact this blog is a non-profit.
I have chosen not to tell you my age, so as to avoid embarrassment.
I am considered naive by most of my friends, and for good reason.
I have an addiction to literature.
And I dance to the music in my head.

All of these things are an integral part of who I am. To take away one of these traits or any of the others would result in an incomplete creation. That is to say, without all of these pieces, I am less than myself. I am little more than a shadow, having animation but lacking purpose.

Everything about me combines to make (I fervently hope) a completely unique human being. And yet I cannot take the credit for who I am. Ultimately of course, that honor belongs to my Savior and Creator. But on a much more personal level. it our friends and family that influence us most. Those who are close to us have an incredibly powerful effect on us, greater than any else you can find.
God has placed every single person I know in my life for a reason. Some affect me positively: others do not. But each encounter and every friendship has helped me to move forward along this great road we call life, to better myself in the eyes of both God and men.

So tonight, this post is for every friend I've ever had, every family memeber I've got, and everyone else that has played a part in making me who I am today. To those that don't have a place in this post, please don't feel slighted. "For those who come last will be first, and the first shall surely be last."
So, in effect I'm really cursing the persons I'm about to thank. Intriguing.
(All names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individual, blah blah blah.)

First off, there's the brother and sister team, Falamor and Booky. Despite the miles that separate us, they've never seemed to have a problem with being the oldest friends I've got. These kids are never scared to talk, ready to laugh with you one minute and hold you while you cry the next. Their patience and love is unbounding, coupled with a great sense of humor and (Even thought they'll never admit it) the lion's share of intellectual abilities. No matter where my life takes me, this pair'll never be but a phone call away.

Next, there's PnkStrings. I'm not going to lie to you: our relationship has been rocky at times. But I'll guarantee you, you'll never find a guy more devoted to what he truly loves. Although he's no pushover, his greatest weapon has always been his razor-sharp wit: there's not a thing you can say without him having a snappy comeback. And even though he cultivates an exterior of cool, collected toughness, when it really gets down to it he's compassionate and understanding, always willing to offer advice.

And last but not least, there's Rosie Cotton. (Yes, I used a character from Lord of the Rings: my apologies John.) Full to the brim with joyful exuberance, this exotic flower radiates peace like a generator. She's always ready to share her wisdom with those ready to listen, and never fails to love the unlovable. No matter what the circumstances, I know I can talk to her about anything, with no fear of ridicule or judgement. And she always has something encouraging to say, bolstering the faint-hearted and lifting up the fallen. But besides all those amazing traits, she's just plain fun to be around.

The list could go on forever, but I'll stop here. And so comes my final word:
Friends: I love all of you more than words can express. Some people (PnkStrings) may cringe at my use of that word, but it's true. I would sacrifice anything for any of you, and I'll never leave your side. I might let you down, but I won't let you go.

I shall now take my leave, before I start to cry. Farewell.
~
Walter J. Scott

Real Men - Part One: The Cheeky Truth

Hello All,

            Well, the world’s most controversial author is back! Mr. Scott asked me not to apologize for his absence. Apparently, he wishes to reconcile himself in person. I can only shudder at how that will turn out.

            Before I turn the mike over to our cosmopolitan friend, I wish to make one of my boring administrative announcements: At the end of September, the http:/ address for this blog will change from http:/squireandknight.blogspot.com/ to http:/penandink.journey.blogspot.com/. Most likely, the infinitely wise and powerful owners of this server have a contingency for such a thing, but I felt I should let everybody know.

            That is all from my corner! Now, on to our mutual friend.

            ~

            Corey L. Megran

            Editor-in-Chief

Hello Dear Reader

I hope you’ve all been doing well in my absence. Lately I’ve become quite lazy, content to sit about and waste my time on activities that have no real benefit or meaning. But no longer! I refuse to waste my, if nothing else, interesting life on trivialities and nonsense.

            Now, that could be all I planned on lecturing you about tonight, dear reader, but that is not the case. Tonight I am calling out to every man on the face of this planet, young or old. To those who still feel a fire in their soul, and yet let it die when they find no reason to keep it lit. To those who feel a driving desire, no, a need to fight, to stand up for what they believe in, only to see their efforts ruthlessly crushed by those around you. 

If this is you, I believe you may want to listen to what I have to say tonight.

           

One of the most oft-quoted verses in the Bible is Matthew 5:39: “But whoever slaps you on the right cheek, turn the other to him also.” While this verse certainly has a powerful face value, most of us simply take that and move on. But there’s much more to it than meets the eye.

Apparently, this verse is telling us to never use violence, even if someone offends us. And yet, Jesus drove merchants and salesmen out of the Temple with a whip! I don’t know about you, but that’s pretty violent to me. And yet you want me to believe that Jesus wants us to be peaceful pushovers, a doormat for the rest of the world? I don’t think so.

Jesus was perfect: he never sinned. So obviously, what he did was right. “But… we’re supposed to turn the other cheek!” us believers splutter indignantly. And you’re right. We are supposed to turn the cheek. But you can’t turn a cheek you don’t have. The church today uses that verse to shape the lifestyles of the men that it influences. But then, when we give up our passionate ways, it mourns the loss of manhood! “I thought this is what you wanted from me!” we moan, no longer capable of even becoming indignant.

Which leads me to my final point: when God created men, He gifted us with the amazing qualities of strength, courage, and love. And with those came a responsibility: to use those qualities to protect, not attack. To give, not to take. To provide, not consume. To build up, not tear down. To have courage, not just bravado.

Men were created to be protectors, unmovable pillars of faith and love. Yes, we live in a fallen world, and sticking to these ideals is never going to easy, but do you drop something just because it’s hard? Certainly not! Rather you stick to the straight and narrow path. Jesus never promised it would be easy. John 16:33 says, “For in this world you will face adversity, but be of good cheer! I have overcome the world.” The path is narrow, but the way is straight and the destination perfect.

So, armed with this knowledge, let us march forth with renewed courage and faith into this spiritual battlefield before us. And let this be our resolution: that we shall fight our enemies, not with blows and thoughtless words, but with the wisdom and love of our Lord Jesus Christ, the greatest man that ever lived. Amen.

To some of you, this probably caused great indignation. To think, an immature teenager would dare speak to his elders like that! And maybe you’re right. Perhaps I was out of line. But this is something I am… he-hem… quite passionate about. I am proud that I can still be passionate, and I don’t plan on losing it.

To others, this is little more than an annoyance. Just another loud-mouth Christian forcing their opinion on others. But please, if you hear nothing else, hear this: if every man on the face of the planet followed these ideals, there would be almost no crime, no broken families, no teenage mothers, no girls forced into prostitution, no fatherless children, and no greedy consumer companies. You don’t have to believe in God for this to work: there aren’t any strings attached. Just think about it.

And finally, for some of you, something in your heart stirred as you read these words. If so, I ask only this: don’t waste what you’ve heard. God has a plan for you, and I highly doubt it includes you bending before the forces of the Devil. Don’t be ashamed of your desire to fight for what you love. We are warriors for a King, mighty and proud, reveling in His glory and majesty. And there is no shame in that.

I hope I haven’t bored you, dear reader. My next post shall, I think, be directed more towards my peers, but all should find it, if nothing else, interesting.

Until then, dear reader, I remain,

Your humble servant,

~

Walter J. Scott

P.O. Box 1. Heaven's Gate, the New Jerusalem Warning: Contents are fragile

Hello Dear Reader
Walter Scott here. 
This has been quite the week. Problem after problem have piled up in a massive wreck of pain, worry, anguish, and overall depression. Each morning, I get up, renewed by my friends, ready to face the day. But as the day goes by, the hopelessness of the world crushes me in it's iron fist, until my joy and optimism are nothing more than a facade, an act to fool people into thinking I'm strong.
You ask what's making me so unbearably miserable? Here it is in a cracked, rotting nutshell.
A longing for that which I could never deserve, and anguish that it is being taken away from my outstretched arms.
Grief at the loss of friends that I want, but at the same time have to get away from.
Frustration with the inexplicable decisions of others.
And above all, an irrational, uncontrollable urge to lash out and FIGHT!! To let go of all reason and destroy everything around me, until I'm surrounded by nothing but fire, ash, and devastation.
I want to defend the ones that I love more then I love myself, but they are the ones telling me to stand down.
I want to make things right with someone, but every fiber of my being is telling me no. 
I want to act on my emotions, but I know I have to wait.
I want to take control, but I know the only way to live a happy life is to relinquish control to the Creator.
All this came to a head this morning. Ever since I woke up, I've like a zombie, half dead, stumbling uncontrollably through this insane, twisted labyrinth that people call "life".
But God, in his infinite wisdom and love, had a little surprise for me. And it came from a truly unexpected source.
Today, I ran some errands around town, and one of them was dropping some stuff off at the post office.
Once there, I'd just walked into the door when I... Ah... Let's just say nature gave me an urgent call. But the post office, in the typical federal unhelpfulness, had no facilities to support such an emergency! So, putting the call on hold for a moment, I jogged across the street to the Ford dealership.
Now all morning, I'd had my iPod blasting music into my ears, desperately trying to distract me from my bleak mood. Unfortunately, it had done me not a whit of good. But as I was leaving the dealership, the song I was listening to entered the refrain, and my whole brain stopped. These were the words I heard.

Take it all, cause I can't take it any longer. All I have, I can't make it on my own. Take the first, take the last, take the good and take the rest. Here I am, all I have, take it all.

These words struck a chord deep within the melancholy surrounding me. For the first time in weeks, I finally had a release.
You see, I'm not nearly strong, wise, or good enough to manage my own life. I'm human: I mess up, make mistakes, say the wrong thing, take the wrong path, and fall on my arrogant face. But there is a better way than constant failure. You can relinquish control of your life to more capable hands: the blood-stained hands of Jesus. 
By giving your life to Christ, you are entrusting everything you are to the one who created you. I mean, if you broke your cell phone, you'd want a cell technician to look at it, not a car mechanic right? In the same way, giving over control to God is the only way to fix our broken lives. We certainly can't do it on our own. 
I'm not naive enough to think that I'm wiser and better equipped to handle my life than the creator of the heavens. So Lord, please take my burden away, and give me your peace to make it through the day.
That's all I've got for tonight. Farewell, dear reader. Until we meet again.
~
Walter J. Scott

Chapter 12: The Outlands

Hello All

Well, the illustrious and elusive Mr. Scott is back! He asked me to apologize for how long this post took in coming: writer's block is such a pain. But enough! Enjoy!

Chapter 12: Beneath the Desert Sky

The sun beat down mercilessly the following morning, scorching the landscape with its withering heat. After a quick breakfast, the travelers boarded the wagons and set off down the road.

            The road, which was little more than a dirt path, took them down the hill and through the town. Several people ambled about the streets, but for the most part they saw no one. Spirit feelings of foreboding returned, stronger than ever.

            Gradually, the buildings thinned, until they ended abruptly. Spirit was so surprised he caught his breath, glancing frantically about him. “Where did the village go?” he wondered aloud.

Bellirn chuckled. “Startling, isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder if those crazy old ranchers built the town that way on purpose. But the village is still right behind us. It’s what’s ahead you need to be worrying about.” He nodded forward.

Spirit twisted back to the front and his breath caught in his throat.

After barely five minutes of riding, the tough bushes and trees that had characterized the landscape for the past week were gone, stripped away as if they had never existed. Instead, withered tufts of sorry-looking scrub poked up from dusty earth, almost seeming to crackle in the relentless heat. Here and there cacti stood motionless, gazing sternly across their dry domain. High overhead, a bird circled, scanning the earth below for signs of prey. Occasionally it loosed a blood-curdling screech, as if frustrated by its work. In the distance, waves of heat rolled off the bleached sand, giving the impression that they were deep underwater.

All in all, it was the most forbidding, miserable place Spirit had ever set his eyes upon.

Aghast, he stared over at Bellirn. Already sweat was beginning to pour down his face. “We have to travel for two weeks— through this?” he asked incredulously.

Bellirn nodded grimly. “The worst part of the journey. And this isn’t nearly as bad as it’s going to get.”

Spirit shook his head, amazed. “How much worse can it get?”

Bellirn glanced over at the boy leaning back against the wall of the wagon and smiled. But there was no humor in his smile. “Trust me; it’ll get worse.”

                                    *                      *                      *

By the time Bellirn had ordered the caravan to a halt long after sunset, Spirit was covered in sand and sweat and totally miserable. He had expected the flies to be horrendous, but evidently the tiny insects were smart enough to stay away from the killing temperatures of the desert. Most of the other animals stayed in the relative cool of their burrows, coming out only once the sun had set.

The minute the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, Spirit had felt the air begin to cool. With a grin, he’d leaned back against the wall of the wagon, feeling much more at ease. But after several minutes, Bellirn had begun rubbing his arms briskly.

Spirit looked at him in surprise. “Are you cold,” he asked.

Bellirn looked over, astonished. “Aren’t you?”

Spirit shook his head. “No. Actually I’m quite comfortable.”

Frowning, Bellirn reached over and laid a hand across Spirit’s arm. The minute Bellirn touched him, he broke into an astonished grin. “You’re so warm! How are you doing that?”

Spirit shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never really had a problem with being cold.”

A momentary frown had crossed Bellirn’s face. “Funny. I’ve never heard of a fire elemental that could do that.” He looked at Spirit closely for a moment, then turned back forward with a quiet ‘hmm’.

Later that evening, after they had eaten their dinner of leftover pigeon, Spirit was sitting cross-legged behind Bellirn’s wagon, munching on a bit of bread and staring out into the prairie around them. They had agreed to stop on a small rise, affording them a panoramic view of the miles of dead grassland surrounding them.

Spirit was trying not to be scared, but a combination of the eerily rustling stalks and Bellirn’s tales of ferocious creatures had left him jumpy and nervous. Already he had nearly fainted when a slight breeze had rustled the grass in front of him. Despite the cool night air, his nerves were nearly shot, and it was all he could do to just stay still, trying to calm down.

Suddenly, something cold and wet touched his elbow. With a stifled yell, he leapt up and twisted about frantically, his bit of bread falling to the ground. An indignant chatter rose from beside his feet, and when he knelt down to investigate, he burst out laughing.

A small brown-and-white field mouse stood behind the wagon wheel had been leaning against, squeaking crossly at him. Evidently he had touched Spirit’s elbow with his nose, causing the boy to jump.

Spirit grinned at the sight of the tiny mouse glaring up at him, unafraid. Slowly, he reached a hand out towards him. “Hello there little fellow. Sorry about that, you just scared me a bit. It’s alright, come here. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The mouse sniffed Spirit’s outstretched hand for a moment, then scurried around it and out towards the prairie. “No, wait,” Spirit started to say, then stopped as he saw where the little rascal was really going. Stopping short in front of the last crumbs of Spirit’s loaf, the mouse grabbed a chunk of bread and began to eat.

Reaching over, Spirit picked up the remaining bread crumbs and placed them in his hand. “Come here, come here,” he whispered, waggling his hand invitingly.

After finishing his morsel, the mouse trotted over to Spirit’s outstretched hand. After cursory sniff, he twitched his whiskers and hopped up into the boy’s palm. Spirit giggled as the mouse’s tiny feet tickled his hand.

Once he reached the rest of the bread crumbs, the little mouse plopped himself down and began munching. With another quiet chuckle, Spirit leaned back against the wheel, enjoying the cool night air with his new friend.

After several minutes, Spirit felt rather than heard someone come and sit beside him. He looked over and there was Elissay, her knees pulled to her chest, gazing out over the prairie. She had a jacket on to ward off the cold, her cheeks and nose rosy from the chill. But somehow that made her even more beautiful.

Spirit cleared his throat, suddenly tongue-tied. “Hey,” he managed to say.

She looked down at his hand and smiled. “I see you’ve found a new friend.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I honestly don’t think he’s afraid of anything. Even after I nearly clubbed him with my elbow, he didn’t run off. He seems quite happy.” He held out his hand to her. The little mouse peeked up from his meal, twitched his nose derisively, and continued eating.

Elissay reached out a slim finger and petted him softly. “He’s so sweet,” she crooned.

After a moment, she sat back, her features serene. “I love the desert at night,” she sighed. “It’s always so peaceful. Nothing clamoring for your attention, no noise, just… peace.” She tilted back her head, admiring the stars.

Spirit followed her lead, letting his gaze wander the heavens. Each star twinkled with its own individual light, shining like the lamps of a city. A smile played across Spirit’s mouth as he stared in wonder at the landscape of the heavens.

Elissay’s arm came into his vision, pointing at a bright red star hovering over the heart of the desert. “See that star? The elves named it Balainon, which is ‘cursed’ in the old tongue.” Her arm fell back to her side, and Spirit noticed she was laying her back, hands behind her head. Shrugging, he lowered himself onto his back, pleased when he found it was a much more comfortable resting place than the wagon wheel.

Elissay glanced over at him and smiled, then pointed to another group of stars. “See those? That is Haldas the Warrior, the bravest elf who ever lived.”

Spirit frowned for a moment, then realized what she was telling him to do and broadened his focus. Immediately the warrior leapt out at him, and Spirit laughed in amazement. The stars the elves had chosen were perfect for the warrior, standing there, sword in hand. Spirit’s mind filled the outline with detail, until Haldas was clad in a shining cloak of starlight, a stern frown upon his noble face.

He laughed again, and Elissay laughed along with him. The she began to show him others, happy and sad, noble and wretched. He knew several from his childhood as well, and they lay trading tales hours into the night. Eventually though, they both fell silent, admiring the carpet of light.

After several minutes, Spirit became aware of just how close to each other they had drifted, caught up in the wonder of the heavens. Her hand lay only inches from his, and he had to suppress the urge to cover it with his own. She’s an elf for crying out loud! A bit old for me, he told himself harshly. She probably didn’t even love him. How could she?

He bit his lip. But the way she’s been looking at me… he thought slowly. Confusion ran rampant through his mind, throwing his convictions into disarray. What if she wouldn’t be so revolted if he touched her? Held her hand even?

Better not, he thought. Just to be safe. But happiness rode up inside his chest, inflating him like a balloon. With a cheerful sigh, he stretched and placed his arms behind his head, content to relax there for the rest of the evening.

Absentmindedly, he stroked the tiny mouse in his palm. The teeny fellow, having devoured every last morsel of bread, now sat curled up inside the calloused hollow of Spirit’s hand. Ever so often, his whiskers twitched, tickling the boy’s hand with the feathery tips.

After what seemed like hours, Elissay took a deep breath and rose up onto her elbows. “It’s late. We’d best get to bed.”

“Right.” Careful not to disturb his furry passenger, Spirit stood and brushed himself off.

She stood as well, sweeping the sand off her dress in one clean movement. “Thank you for staying with me. None of the others have ever done that before.” She smiled.

Spirit smiled back. “My pleasure.” Then he turned and crawled into the wagon, the mouse still in hand. By now, the tiny fellow had woken up and was looking about in interest, eyes shining in the darkness. Trying not to disturb Bellirn, Spirit searched about for one of the small boxes the elf kept all his books in. Finding one, he lined it with a small blanket and gently placed the mouse in its fluffy confines. Once free of the boy’s clutches, the small fellow trundled about his new home, pink nose twitching at everything. Spirit looked on with interest.

After several minutes of thorough examination, the little rodent spun about three times, shook his whiskers decisively, and curled up in a corner. Sighing contentedly, Spirit followed suite and lay back on his own bedroll. Wild, half-formed pictures ran past Spirit’s mind’s eye: Kelken drilling him with the proper ‘flick’ of the wrist needed to throw a curved blade; Conor laughing uncontrollably as they sprinted away from an enraged and sopping wet merchant; Elissay blushing as they stood alone in the clearing; aunt Keira smiling at him over a steaming pot of soup.

He sighed again. I may not like to admit it, but… I still miss them. With a small sniff, he rubbed his tired eyes and rolled over. I’ll see them again. Someday. And with that thought, he drifted off into a peaceful slumber, where he drifted among the stars for an eternity.

The following day was exactly like the first, if not hotter. Spirit dozed beside Bellirn, a straw hat pulled down over his eyes to protect his face from the merciless sun. During his occasional moments of consciousness, he noticed that the grass around them was thinning out, replaced by mounds of glaring white sand. Small animals scampered to a fro across the dunes, kicking up little clouds of white. Occasionally, Spirit would hear a faint roar off in the distance. Whenever this happened, Bellirn would tense up and stare across the sand, watchful as a hawk. It took him hours to calm down.

They made camp in the shadow of a skeletal tree. It looked so lost and forlorn, standing in the middle of the waterless wasteland, that Spirit felt sad for it. You’re just like me friend, he thought. Both thrust in an alien world. The boy shook his head, feeling suddenly overcome by weariness.

They had come across an oasis earlier in the day. At least, that’s what Bellirn had called it. To Spirit it was little more than a dirty little puddle. But the elves used what little water there was to replenish their water supply, cleaning the brown water with a spell.

“There are oasis scattered across the desert like pebbles,” Bellirn had explained, “Some of which lie along our route.” He marked these on Spirit’s map while the boy looked on in interest. “But there aren’t any in the heart of the desert, so we’ll have to ration the water while traversing that leg of the journey.” Spirit nodded, already queasy at the thought of drinking even less water than he was allowed to now.

Several minutes after they had stopped for the evening, Elissay approached Spirit and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to face her with a determinedly nonchalant “Hey.”

She was wearing a set of clothes like the ones she had worn back in the clearing; close-fitting shirt and pants, cut off at the knees and shoulders to allow her more freedom of movement. A rough band kept her golden hair out of her eyes, which sparkled in the noon-day sun. Strapped to her back were two large poles, each as long as she was.

“How have you been?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Okay. The heat is hard to get used to.”

She laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound. “I have traveled this route for many years, and I am not sure if I will ever get used to it.”

Spirit smiled. “Does it ever let up?”

She shook her head. “No. Except for when the sun goes down, and then it turns deathly cold.”

“That’s funny, because Bellirn said the exact same thing. But I’ve never felt the cold.”

Elissay frowned. “Interesting… do you think it’s because of your powers?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. Regardless, it seems to be pretty useful.”

“Yes. Useful…” she murmured slowly, as if to herself. Then she shrugged slightly and refocused on him. “So, do you still want to learn the art of staff-fighting?” Her tone became stern.

Spirit snapped to attention. “Yes ma’am!” he said teasingly.

A glint of laughter shone in her leaf green eyes, but her face was set in the same grim lines as before. “Well then, let us begin. Come,” she said imperiously. With soft, quick strides that carried her easily across the sand, she headed out into the desert.

“Wait a minute!” Spirit yelled after her, shock flooding his system. She turned to look back at him, but continued walking away.

What in the blazes was she doing, traipsing off into the desert like that? Who knows what fearsome beasts could be lurking, hidden in the brush? All traces of gaiety gone, Spirit trudged off after her, dragging his booted feet through the sand. Every step felt like he had Mr. Colin’s anvil attached to his feet, but he slogged doggedly onward.

Elissay, seeing him lagging so far behind her, stopped and regarded him with an exasperated expression.

When Spirit finally drew level with the elf maiden, he was doubled over, gasping for breath. Elissay said nothing, just stood there, hands on her hips. When he had finally quit gasping, she spoke.

“What was all the screaming about?”

Spirit looked up at her and said between breaths, “Bellirn said… we aren’t supposed to enter the desert… unless there’s someone with us.”

“Well it’s a good thing there’s two of us then, hmm?” she said curtly, the turned on her heel and started off again. Huffing and puffing, Spirit followed, desperately trying to copy the way she was walking. It was almost like she was sneaking, each footstep soft yet quick. Soon he was moving much easier, and he breathed a quick sigh of relief before hurrying to catch up.

Once they were walking side by side, Spirit continued their conversation as if nothing had happened. “But what if we run into a wild creature? Bellirn said that they are especially vicious—”

“No!” Elissay snapped suddenly, thrusting a hand into his chest. Startled, he stumbled back a step. Rubbing his aching ribs, Spirit glared angrily at his teacher.

“What in the name of gods was that for?” he yelled.

She spun to face him. “Whatever misguided tales you may have heard about this place, the animals are no more vicious and evil then you and I. Understand?” She glared back at him, her eyes hard.

“But Bellirn told me—”

“What does Bellirn know? Has he ever struck up a conversation with one of the beasts? Has he heard their deepest thought, their darkest fears?”

“They attacked him! What else does he need to know?” Spirit roared furiously.

A look of understanding passed over Elissay’s face. “Ah. So he told you the story.”

“And it was more than enough.”

The elf maiden shook her head. “Ah, but he did not tell you the whole story. You see, I was there that night. I was with Bellirn.”

Spirit stared at her, aghast. “What?”

“Let me tell you.” She sat down lightly on the sand, flicked a lock of golden hair over her shoulder, and began.

“It was at least three years ago, maybe more, and the five of us had just finished dinner…”

The fire was dying down to its last few embers, and the little group of travelers split off, each heading towards their own wagon to catch an early night’s rest. Elissay however, stayed in her seat beside the coals, gazing contently up at the blazing stars.

“Hey.”

She looked up. Bellirn was standing just a few feet behind her, his face hidden in her shadow. “Hello Bellirn,” she said, trying not to sound surprised. “What is it?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk. You know, to cool down after dinner.” The words came out very slow, each one enunciated carefully.

Her eyes narrowed to emerald slits. “Go for a walk? Bellirn, you’re terrified of the desert. Everyone here knows it.” She stood, and the shadows hiding his face fell away. Even in the dim light from the embers, he looked slightly embarrassed.

He shrugged, his stance shifting uncomfortably. “Well, mostly I just wanted to be with you.” 

Elissay stared at him. Just as he was about to turn tail and run to his wagon, she shrugged. “What harm could it do?” she muttered to herself. Aloud, she said, “Very well. Lead the way.”

All embarrassment forgotten, Bellirn turned and strode towards the boundaries of the camp. Smiling and shaking her head, Elissay followed.

The two walked for a while, chatting unconcernedly. The stars shone down brightly, illuminating their path. A cool wind blew across the plain, carrying with it tiny grains of sand that swirled about the pair like snowflakes. All about them, tiny nocturnal animals chirped and buzzed, their tiny voices joining together into a raucous chorus. But beneath the joyous noise, there hung a sinister layer of fear.

Distracted by their conversation, neither of the battle-hardened elves noticed the animals fall suddenly silent. The shadows drew in like predators, cloaking the pair in darkness.

From behind a massive dune, two eyes peered warily, glinting yellow in the night. Unblinking, they followed Elissay and Bellirn’s path across the sand as the pair drew closer and closer to the beast’s den. It shook its mane and growled quietly, hoping they would just leave. But they continued on, coming closer and closer.

Finally, he could not stand the invasion any longer. Quiet as a whisper, he crept onto the top of his dune and stared down at the intruders. His eyes narrowed, and a deep growl reverberated in his massive throat.

Elissay, laughing at a joke Bellirn had made, glanced over at sound. The laugh died in her throat, and she tapped Bellirn on the shoulder.

“Bellirn, don’t move a muscle,” she said as quietly as she could.

He turned slowly. Then he saw the creature perched atop the sand dune, and he froze, terrified.

The lion snarled at them, baring his razor-sharp teeth. Bellirn flinched, but Elissay heard him speak, his voice a low rumble.

Leave! He thundered. This is my territory.

Elissay nodded her understanding. Turning, she pulled Bellirn’s arm, encouraging him to leave.

But a strange fire had lit in his eyes, and he shook off her grip. “We can’t outrun it,” his whispered. “Stay back.”

“No, don’t!” she hissed. Desperate, she grabbed for his arm again, but he dodged her hand and started towards the lion, pulling his sword from its sheath.

“Bellirn!” she screamed at him, not daring to follow.

He ignored her and rushed the beast, yelling fiercely. Sword held high, he charged up the sandy slope. For an instant, the lion looked at him with what could almost have been pity. Then it was gone, replaced by a feral rage. Roaring savagely, the lion leapt forward, as if to meet him head on. Bellirn cut a deadly arc through the air in front of him, but the beast had jumped to his side. Whirling, the startled elf slashed at the lion. But the sand caved under his feet, and he lost his balance.

Quick as lightning, the lion pounced, plunging his claws deep into the thin elf’s back. Bellirn’s legs buckled, and he dropped without a sound.

The lion crouched next to him for a moment, the horrible rage already draining from his strong features. Gingerly, he opened his gaping maw and bit down on the elf’s torn shirt. Then he slunk down the slope until he stood in front of Elissay.

She swallowed, trembling, then knelt in the sand, her head bowed. With an almost human-sounding sigh, he set Bellirn’s body before her. I did not wish to hurt him, he growled. Raising his regal head, he looked out over the desert, towards the camp. Take your friend. Leave, and do not return.

Elissay nodded shakily, not trusting herself to speak. Gathering Bellirn into her arms, she stood and began to walk away.

Farewell, leaf-daughter, he rumbled after her.

“Farewell, lord of the desert,” she murmured. “And thank you.”

He dipped his noble head in acknowledgement, then trotted up the sand dune and disappeared into the shadows.

“So, after the lion had left, I bandaged Bellirn’s wounds as best I could and hauled him back to camp. After that, Bella and Lilten took over. While his muscles healed perfectly thanks to them, the experience left him scarred. In more ways than one.” The last was whispered almost as an afterthought.

Spirit rocked back on his heels, his head spinning. How could Bellirn have been such a blockhead? The lion hadn’t attacked until he did! And why didn’t he listen to Elissay? Spirit shook his head. Foolishness.

Sighing, he nodded to Elissay. “My apologies for my earlier behavior.” He smiled ruefully. “I guess I didn’t know the whole story.”

Elissay smiled at him and shook her head. “No apology necessary. You had no way of knowing. However, do not judge Bellirn too harshly. We all make mistakes, even our leaders.”

He nodded again, mind still abuzz. Then he looked up at her, curiosity burning in his eyes. “How do you do it? Is it magic?”

Elissay laughed and shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps it is merely a manifestation of my inner power, or perhaps not. Why?”

Spirit looked down ay his hands, embarrassed. “I guess I wish I could do it too.”

Reaching forward, she tilted his head back up and gazed at him tenderly. “Maybe you can. You just don’t know it yet.”

He grinned and touched her hand. “Maybe.”

They sat there like this for several moments, then he stood and brushed himself off. “Shall we continue?” he asked, offering her his hand.

She took it and he pulled her to her feet. As she brushed off her tight-fitting practice jerkin, Spirit couldn’t help but grin at how light she had been to him. This working out thing really helps, he though happily.

They continued into the shadow of a large sand dune where the wind had blown away all the sand, revealing the hard-packed dirt underneath. Once there, Elissay turned to face him, her face carefully neutral.

“Spirit.”

He stood up straight, surprised at the seriousness of her tone. “Yes Elissay?” he asked warily.

“You wish to learn the ancient art of the staff, which has been practiced among my people since the dawning of the world?”

A grin slowly spread across his face. “Yes.”

“And are you prepared to do what ever you must to finish your training once it has begun, to see it through to the end?”

“Yes.”

The elf nodded once, pleased. “Good.”

Kneeling, she grabbed the two staffs she had brought and threw one across the dirt to Spirit. He caught it in one hand, the hard wood stinging his palm. After bending it slightly, he grasped it in both hands and looked expectantly at his teacher.

Smiling slightly, she gestured. “Come Spirit. Show me what you can do.”

He gaped at her. “I don’t know how to fight with a staff! I barely even know how to hold it!”

Elissay shook her head, still smiling. “Nevertheless, it will show me where I need to start and how capable you are.”

So it’s a test, he thought grimly. “Very well,” he said aloud, and grasped the length of wood firmly. After a deep breath, he sprinted across the circle towards Elissay, a raw yell bursting from his throat. Holding his staff high above his head, he brought it down hard at the elf’s head.

But she wasn’t there anymore. As his staff swung uselessly through the air, he glimpsed Elissay standing to his left. He saw the faintest hint of a smile before her blow sent him crashing to the ground.

“Impressive strength,” she said disinterestedly as he lay groaning and clutching his head. “But your strategy leaves much to be desired. Your strike must be fast, and your mind must be faster. Try again.” Stepping back, she twirled her staff around her head and waited.

Spirit sighed. I am going to be bruised tonight. Resignedly, he stood and faced her again.

And so they practiced, for hours, until shadow of the dune was cast far off to their left, and both were covered from head to foot in dirt. Wiping the sweat off her brow, Elissay stowed the staves on her back and turned to Spirit. “Not bad for your first day.”

Spirit nodded, unable to actually speak. His whole body ached with bruises and burns from the sand. One bruise lay flat across his chest, sending lines of fire lancing through his lungs whenever he attempted to breath.

Elissay frowned, apparently just now noticing his injuries. “Are you alright Spirit?” she asked hesitantly.

In spite of himself, Spirit began to laugh. It started out weak at first, barely more than a painful chuckle, but soon he was doubled over, hands on his knees, shaking with laughter. Elissay started giggling with him, until they were both lying side by side, clutching their ribs.

After the gales of laughter finally subsided, Elissay turned to look at Spirit. “What was so funny about what I said?”

The human boy shook his head, still grinning. “Just the fact that I’ve been getting whacked with sticks for the past two hours, in the hottest place in the entire kingdom, and you had to ask if I was alright?” He chuckled. “Although, I suppose my being incredibly tired may have had something to do with it.”

She smiled. “That may have been a small factor, yes.”

They lay there for a while longer, enjoying the cool breeze rushing across the desert floor. One by one, the stars began to appear in the inky black sky, and Spirit let his mind wander. Soon he was soaring among them, not thinking, just being, at peace for the first time in many days.

Eventually he noticed Elissay shivering slightly beside him. He sat up, wincing as his body protested his earlier treatment. “I’m so sorry Elissay! I forgot you can’t be out here after the sun sets.”

She shook her head defensively, her sandy hair enveloping them in a dusty cloud. “I’m fine, silly human,” she said. Then she began shivering even greater than before.

He glared at her in mock annoyance, but she just smiled wryly. Shaking his head, Spirit stood and once again offered her his hand. “Should we start making our way back?” he asked teasingly.

Eagerly, Elissay grasped his hand and he pulled her to her feet. Once she was on her feet, he started to let go, but she held him with both hands. A large smile spread across her face. “You’re so warm!” she sighed happily.

An idea suddenly came to Spirit. It was so outlandish he was sure Elissay would kill him if he even dared to think it, but he could no longer control himself. Gently, he pulled her towards him until their bodies were touching. She did not resist, and soon he had his arms around her. She sighed into his chest, and he grinned. “Better?” he asked.

She nodded into his shirt. “Very much so,” she murmured contentedly.

“Then let’s go.”

And together, master and pupil started back to the campsite.

Journal Excerpts: A Glimpse into the Life of Your Average Teenage Novelist

Hello Dear Reader

Walter J. Scott here. As you have most likely noticed if you are a follower of my blog, I have not posted anything. For over two weeks now.

Terribly sorry. This conspicuous lack of literary material is due to my currently underactive imagination.

In regular English? I've hit a writers block.

So, my solution to this problem is to share with you, my devoted reader, snippets and sections from my personal journal. I will, unfortunately, be having to clean up the pieces as I go along, seeing as all of journal entries are written around midnight. Also, all names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals and other politically correct mumbo-jumbo.

Enjoy!

July 30th, 2011

While me and my dad were driving through the Wal-Mart parking lot, we passed by a homeless man standing on the curb, holding a poorly scrawled cardboard sign. Now, this in itself did not faze me. I mean, as sad as it is, it's not like I didn't know poor people existed, right?
But as we were driving away, I looked down to turn on some music on my iPod. That seemingly simple act rocked me to my core, and I stopped, dumbfounded. That little piece of electronic magic costed enough money to feed and clothe this man for over a month. A whole month! And here I am, with a closet full of clothes and other junk that easily amounts to several hundred dollars. And it just sits there. Doing nothing. Benefiting no one.
It struck me then, not just how amazingly gracious God is to me, but also how incredibly selfish I am. Because that isn't all that's in my closet. No. On a small shelf in the corner, hidden in the shadows, covered in dust from hardly ever getting opened, is a little mason jar...

... marked Giving.

Quiet honestly? It broke my heart. Here I am, with all these innumerable blessings being literally poured over my ungrateful head, and still I cringe at the thought of giving it away. Sometimes, I sicken myself.
But now I know: I have to do something. I have to try and give back some of what the Lord has given me. It has to be for His glory, otherwise it's meaningless.And what better way than to do that then to pass them on to those who truly need them. It's not all for my consumption. So, from now on, I'm going to start carrying around my little jar, and the next homeless person I see, it's his.

End Journal entry

Well, that's it for today. I hope you enjoyed your short glimpse into my not-so-illustrious life.
Until next time, dear reader,
I remain your humble servant
~
Walter J. Scott

Chapter 11: A Rebellious Imagination

By the time Spirit and Elissay stepped into camp, the other elves were already gathered around the cheerfully blazing fire. The six pigeons lay on a spit over the fire, sizzling softly in the background. Spirit took a deep breath of the cool, dry air, savoring the smoky tinge of dinner.

The sun had all but disappeared beneath the horizon, throwing bright strips of red and orange high into the night sky like streamers on a festival day. The prairie grass shone orange in the dusky glow, and looked almost as if the entire plain was aflame. Shining like a pearly drop of silver, the moon rose to take its place in the heavens. As small creatures rustled through the reeds behind him, and far off into the growing darkness an owl hooted, Spirit smiled. It was all rather peaceful. After his bath in the pool, the uneasiness that had plagued Spirit since morning had disappeared. All seemed to be right again.

“Come on you two! Quit standing there like a pair of absent-minded layabouts and sit down. I’m hungry,” Lilten grumbled impatiently. Laughing, Spirit and Elissay hurried over and inserted themselves into the circle. Spirit ended up between Bellirn and Elissay.

Bellirn grasped Spirit’s hand and bowed his head. There was a soft rustling as the other elves followed his lead. Spirit felt a fiery blush creeping onto his face as he realized he was would have to hold Elissay’s hand, but the emotion he was feeling was anything but embarrassment. He had no clue what it was. It felt prickly, intense… eager? What is going on with me? he thought, wrestling with his muddled emotions.

For a moment he just sat there, desperately wishing he could sit down and figure out what was going on in his head. Then he remembered they were getting ready to pray. Slowly, feeling incredibly nervous but oddly pleased, Spirit reached out for Elissay’s hand. Her soft fingers brushed his, and an electric tingle raced across his body. Hardly daring to breath, he closed his fingers around hers. Her hand was warm, her grip surprisingly tender. Unable to stop himself, Spirit peeked at her face.

As if she could feel the weight of his gaze, Elissay opened her deep green eyes and looked up. When she caught him staring at her, a smile began to creep onto her face. Then a strange emotion exploded across her face, and she whipped her head back forward, eyes determinedly clamped shut.

Confused by her reaction and yet fighting back the sudden desire to start grinning like a maniac, Spirit lowered his head as well. He breathed deeply several times, trying to calm his racing heart. Elissay’s fingers twitched in his, but then they calmed and he heard her take a deep breath. A warm sense of satisfaction set his whole body abuzz, and finally, a grin spread across his face. The grin faded as Bellirn cleared his throat and began.

“Oh Creator, ruler of the heavens, master of this world, we come to you in humble gratitude for protecting us as we have traveled to this place. We have passed through many dangers, but your guiding hand has protected us from them all. We ask you now that you would continue to watch over us as we begin the next stretch of our journey. Keep us under your caring wing for the rest of our voyage, shielding us from the dangers of the desert. In the Creator’s name, femun.”

“Femun,” they all repeated.

After they all sat down, Bella began passing out the rough wooden platters that they ate off of every evening, while Bellirn followed behind her, sliding a pigeon off the spit and onto their expectant plate. The meat was cooked to perfection, courtesy of Lilten’s excellent culinary skills. Spirit looked the bird over for several moments, admiring the skillfully seared meat before his hunger got the best of him and he began tearing it apart with his knife.

The circle was quiet for several minutes as everyone dug happily into their food. Around halfway through the meal, Bellirn cleared his throat.

“So, we all know the plan right?”

Spirit and the others groaned loudly in mock annoyance. “I think we know the plan by know Bellirn,” the boy said teasingly. “You’ve gone over it about a hundred times.”

Bellirn shrugged apologetically. “It’s better we know it by heart then someone forget and all of us pay. Let’s go over it one more time. At every oasis…”

They all answered in monotone. “We draw water for the horses to drink before replenishing our supplies.”

“As for food…”

“We only take from the rations if we can’t hunt for our own food.”

“Good. And the golden rule is…”

“Stick together and don’t wander off.”

Bellirn nodded, apparently satisfied. “Excellent. Anyone have anything to add?”

Lilten spoke up from beside Bella. “It’s always a good idea to tie down the flaps on the wagons as much as possible. The sand blows in pretty easily.” The others murmured their assent. Normally they just left the flaps hanging over the doorway, making it easier to get in and out. But with the soon-to-be-frequent sandstorms, tying them up would become a necessity.

Bellirn smiled, obviously pleased someone else was taking a part in his lecture. “Good idea Lilten. Anyone else?” He looked around at the others, who were studiously avoiding his gaze. When no one else spoke up, he nodded again. “Excellent.”

As the others started back up their interrupted conversations, Bellirn turned to Spirit. “Now, the others already know what I’m about to tell you, so this is purely for your benefit.”

Spirit sat up straight, his insatiable curiosity aroused.

As he spoke, Bellirn’s eyes acquired a dead look, as if remembering something incredibly painful. “I’m sure you’ve heard the others talk about how brutal the beasts in the desert are, right? But you have no way of knowing just how serious this is. The animals in desert are incredibly vicious, far worse than that bleak-wraith back in the woods.”

Spirit shuddered at the memory of the horrible grey monster that had very nearly killed him. He’d had nightmares about the encounter for several days afterwards.

Bellirn continued. “In the desert, the only rule is there are no rules. It’s kill or be killed, and the beasts there are exceptional at what they do. I know you’re an extremely competent fighter, but if you meet a wild animal on this trip, your best bet would be to find one of us.” He put a thin hand on Spirit’s shoulder. “The last thing I want is to see you get hurt. Do you understand me?”

Spirit nodded, taken aback by the concern coloring the elf’s voice. “Is that how you got your scars?” He gestured at Bellirn’s back.

The elf grimaced. “I got overconfident, thought I could take a midnight walk by myself. If I had been a second slower…” Bellirn lapsed into a moody silence, lost in the memory.

Spirit fidgeted uncomfortably, waiting for Bellirn to say something else. But all he did was stare at the ground, his eyes unfocused, his mind far away in another time. Hesitantly, Spirit asked, “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”

Bellirn started and looked at Spirit. He managed a wan smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to drift off on you.”

“It’s fine. Is there anything else you wanted to say?”

He shook his head. “No. I just wanted you to be forewarned.”

“Ok.” Spirit turned back to his now-cold pigeon, feeling as if a lead weight had been dropped into his stomach. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. Grimacing, he set his plate on the ground beside him and leaned back on his palms.

Bellirn was perfectly within rights to be concerned for him, but that didn’t mean he could treat him like a child! And as for the order—for that’s certainly what Bellirn had intended it to be—to run and get the others if he encountered a wild beast, that was completely outrageous! Spirit had been training with Kelken for over a month now. He could hit almost any target you cared to name, and he had already progressed to moving targets. Plus he had his fire abilities. Surely he could watch out for himself in a fight? But no! Bellirn wanted him to go off running and screaming like a ninny, pleading for the others to protect him.

Spirit snorted quietly. If Bellirn thought Spirit was going to agree to that, he was sorely mistaken. Besides, he doubted he could outrun any of the predators in that barren wasteland. If they could chase down a fully-grown elf man, he had no chance trying to run from them.

                                    *                      *                      *

After the meal, they scoured their plates clean without water, not wanting to waste any of the precious liquid. Lilten buried the bones outside the camp while everyone else stumbled sleepily into their wagons. Everyone except Spirit.

While everyone else had been finishing the final scraps of their food, Spirit had wandered off to a small hill, just a few minutes walk from the caravan. There he sat, struggling to puzzle out his confused feelings. It seemed like forever ago that he had stood by the edge of the pool with Elissay, more embarrassed then he had ever been in his life.

He sighed heavily. That was another confusing situation. What was going on with him? He had played blastball in nothing but his pants in front of dozens of people back home, and he hadn’t felt a thing! Yet standing there, just the two of them… Ugh! he thought. What is happening to me? He flopped onto his back, letting his breath out in an irritated huff.

Unbidden, an image of Drac and Reorin floated to the fore-front of his mind. Their happy expressions as they gazed at each other, quietly holding hands in the darkness. Holding hands… He froze, a thought suddenly occurring to him.  Could I… no. No way.

But his brain ignored his frantic protests. Despite his attempts to ignore his traitorous mind, memories rose to the surface like bubbles from the deep: him standing by the pool, mortified and yet secretly happy she could see how strong he was becoming; at dinner, the electricity that surged through his body when Elissay’s soft, thin fingers slipped around his tough, calloused ones; his joy at the smile on her face when they held hands, him wishing it would never end…

No! With a vigorous shake of his head, he shattered the train of thought like a fragile pane of glass. I can’t fall in love with her. She’s like, a hundred times my age! And immortal for that matter. Nothing could start there and you know it Spirit, so quit mooning after her like some lovesick puppy! She’s an elf, he told himself sternly, as if this final statement summed it all up. He knew it was a simple, logical conclusion, and yet for some reason it made him feel even worse.

Groaning, he covered his face with his hands. “Why does it have to be so complicated,” he grumbled to the stars.

They didn’t answer, just shone back at him, twinkling gently up there on the roof of the world. The scrublands around Spirit shone like silver in the light of the moon, so clear in the desert sky. A gentle wind blew across the plain, ruffling Spirit’s hair and sending little cyclones of dust spinning off the ground.

Absently, Spirit summoned fire to his hands, wreathing them in scarlet flames. Every time he did it, it became easier. Calling fire to him had become effortless, almost instinctual. At times the power he wielded scared him, and other times it invigorated him. Many things have changed, he thought to himself, swirling his iridescent hand through air.

He lay there until the moon shone high in the heavens above him. Then he rose and trudged tiredly back to camp. The others had long since turned in for the night, so the camp was still and quiet when he entered the circle. The ashes in the pit barely flickered when he walked past. He smiled slightly at what a grim indicator that was of his mood.

Stifling a yawn, Spirit pulled back the flap doorway and crawled into Bellirn’s wagon. Bellirn was curled up on his cot, snoring. Despite his bleak mindset, Spirit couldn’t help but giggle slightly at the elf’s pig-like snorts. Mood lightened somewhat, Spirit pulled off his boots and shirt, laid them by the doorway and collapsed onto his bedroll. Sighing, he slowly fell into a fitful slumber. Even in sleep his fears would not relinquish their hold, and his dreams were filled with ferocious beasts chasing him, and Elissay staring at him, a question on her lips that he could never hear.