What I seek to attempt here is a story- in my own words of a length of 12,000 to 17,000 words. It is to be a short story in the genre of sci-fi or fantasy. I have a partiality to both. A short story, by itself, is made to represent a moment on someone's life, and a distinctive one at that. A moment? Which one though? I am not stopping until I have written 1,000 words you see. and this shit doesn't count either. but I am just warming up at the moment, trying to see where things take me. I have heard that you are supposed to write the ending first, so you know how to direct yourself. I like this approach, even if I specifically dont have it in mind. Endings can only tell stories of hope or dispair. Someone was distroyed because they failed to change, and the other lived because they were able to keep going with their live. I like the idea of two individual
The earth smells. Every patch is different from the other: a rainy land with black mountains has mud that smells a little like the crap of the mules that plow it; a dry land with red mesas has dust that sits in your nose and smells like ashes. Ambrose had walked many lands, but all he thought the ground smelt like was blood. That warm, salty taste of iron and some thing else. Maybe peprika, he thought.
The ground was the brown of tanned leather, a shade lighter then his boots, and the sky was a lighter blue then he remembered, almost washed out compared to the dark berry color of sky near shore.
His tongue rolled arround his mouth, sticky with thirst, the lack of something to drink almost a worry of his, if it werent for the white walls of Oddberry on the horizon.His harness had bit into his clothing for the last mile, the sheith of his sword ocassionally swinging back into his leg
The earth smells. Every patch is different from the other: a rainy land with black mountains has mud that smells a little like the crap of the mules that plow it; a dry land with red mesas has dust that sits in your nose and smells like ashes. Ambrose had walked many lands, but all he thought the ground smelt like was blood. That warm, salty taste of iron and some thing else. Maybe peprika, he thought.
The ground was the brown of tanned leather, a shade lighter then his boots, and the sky was a lighter blue then he remembered, almost washed out compared to the dark berry color of sky near shore.
His tongue rolled arround his mouth, sticky with thirst, the lack of something to drink almost a worry of his, if it werent for the white walls of Oddberry on the horizon.His harness had bit into his clothing for the last mile, the sheith of his sword ocassionally swinging back into his leg
