Writing!

       Jerry is paranoid. Oh, not foil hat, CIA in the WiFi crazy, but paranoid even so. In his home, at work, or with friends, the fears stay with him like a distasteful birthmark. At home watching a movie, he hears foot steps outside and a knock on the door and his heart pounds like he was dying suddenly or excessively living. A squad car while he's driving and he turns into a parking lot or onto a road, making a mental note over the heavy metal pounding in his chest to forever alter his route. A laughing couple next to him at a restaurant is a dagger stabbing into his brain, causing insecurities to pool up on the surface, threatening to drown the smile on his face.

        That smile, like a filthy pair of work boots polished to a sheen, he wears every day, to keep away the questions and judgments that only make the terror more real. He has no reason to be fearful, not really. He's a tax paying 40 hour citizen like any other, no warrants to warrant his fears, no feature or action so baffling to draw laughter from others. Even so, his heart strains against his chest day in day out to be free, pounding against the padded walls and bars of its cage like the room Jerry fears he belongs in. Why does he have these fears of there is nothing to be threatened by? Why is he constantly looking over his shoulders like prey caught out in the open? 

        Unless he is the cause of the fear, some base creature in his mind creating the reaction, terror in the rest of the mind. Is this fear any more grounded than the others? And how, how can you ignore your own mind? Always knocking in his head like a friendly neighbor or that damnable heart beat Always around the corner like the watchful officer, patrolling his own inner workings. Always at the table beside his waking mind, laughing at his failures and reminding him of his limitations. 

        The sudden blue lights as he drives home now set it off worse than ever, the aortic drumming audible over the officer's radio. The way he draws closer, light in hand and the other held warily on his holster, walking with those damnably loud boots that drive the diners inside crazy with their fresh gossip fodder. Then the rapping on the window, the damn knocking at the door that-- and suddenly, the pounding stops. The next table over is cleared, the caller in the hallway has gone away rebuffed, and the cop car continues on its route. Jerry's face is peaceful when the officer's light strikes it, closed eyes and a smile. No life in that smile, but the first true smile of his short life.

Flamebrand, part 1

    Here's part of a story I've been wanting to write for a while. Any comments or feedback appreciated!

   Glaring out over the country side, a young guard looses the stopper on his canteen and takes a bitter swig its contents, letting the ale the local peasants naively called alcohol sear its way to his stomach. "Denean Flamebrand, now that's alcohol, Randall, and you just know they'll have it in spades at the celebrations tonight. Not us, no sir. We get guard duty on the farthest wall in the farthest town in the region. What's point? Especially tonight!"
      "Fifty years ago tonight. . . hard to imagine. My grandad fought right here when the last battle was fought. They emptied our keeps and were still almost overrun." Randall gestures to the tower closest to the gate. "He took the arrow that took his life just over there on that battlement. His men tried to get him to withdraw, but he told them there'd be time to run when the war was over. . ." Randall smiles sadly, putting a hand on his comrade's shoulder. " It's lucky that ours is dull work, Theron."
      Theron grunted noncommittal agreement, nodding back to the bonfires in town, "But from where I'm standing, lucky doesn't mean good."
      Randall sighs and wipes the dark hair from his eyes, "I've got this taken care of, you can run along- provided you send my love to Emily- she worries, now that she's with child."
      "Truly? Thank you! I'll let her know. You're a true friend!" Theron proclaims as he grabs Randall's worn hands in his own meaty mitts.
      "It's nothing, go find yourself a pretty thing and a bottle somewhere," with a smirk he adds, "with the celebration tonight and you in uniform, even you won't have trouble not finding either."
      Theron keeps the oafish grin plastered on his face as he rushes down the wall into town. Randall turns and continues his patrol, having sent away his only distraction. Glancing up from the wall, he considers Emily, her warm, round eyes and hair as pale as- the moon. Randall sees them now, dozens of shapes passing in front of the moon and stars in quick succession, too small and quick for clouds but too large for bird or insect. Tugging at the power inside himself, he forms a ball of fire in his hand a launches it skyward, and too soon it explodes, revealing a sea of scales on creatures that could only be one beast. "Dragons! Dragons! Sound the alarms!" He yells dashing toward the tower, lighting the warning fires along the walls as he went. He busts through the door and dashed up the stair case, tripping on a few stairs on his haste. As he exits to the bell room, almost within grasp of the ropes to sound the warning, he sees it silhouetted against the night- one had broken away and was perched in the bell tower, coiled and ready to strike, smoke, sparks and flame forming a hellish beard around its maw. With one quick motion, Randall flicks his sword out of its scabbard and forward. The beast hisses and follows the shining blade with its eyes. . . as the sword hit stone. The massive creature looks back to Randall, gloating, just as the ropes snap, sending the bells crashing down on Randall and the dragon.
      The clashing of brass and stone echoed, deafening the both and punctuating Randall's pain. The dragon screeches and lumbers toward Theron, casting aside the man sized bells like a massive bar wench casting cups of a dirty table.  Eyes swimming,  Randall sees Theron leap from behind him, landing on the injured demon's head and plunging his sword through its skull. The flame left Theron, and he knew no more.

That New Blog Smell

I've decided to start up this blog as a part of getting back into writing. Hopefully this will help me get back into full swing!

For those who don't know, my name is Ben Hamaker, I'm a literature and video game nerd, and I tend to be a tad obsessive. I look forward to talking with you all more in the future!