Aljandrr's Arrest

“I called the guard, Aljandrr” Ijordi said. “They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

            I froze with dinner in my mouth, and focused on deciding whether I’d swallow, choke or spit it out. I chewed. I let silence fill the room while tasting and savoring the bite. I knew it would be my last, if what I thought my arrest would bring were true.

            “We were talking about the beach, Ijordi,” I said.

            My mind threatened to collapse, and I forced it to avoid anything to do with Ijordi’s revelation.

            “I said I wanted to collect sea glass, and I asked you what your favorite color would be.”

            Ijordi stood and slammed his hands on the table. My food leapt from the plate, which followed it to the floor with a clang. My water glass toppled and spilled across the table. It rolled along the wood until also falling to the floor. The echo tried in vain to compete with Ijordi’s frustrated breathing.

            “Will you just hear what I said,” he said. “I turned you in. You’re going to prison!”

            “I heard what you said,” I said.

            I mopped up water with my napkin.

            “There’s just a lot to process.”

            “Well, process it. You have a little over ten minutes before they come to take you.”

            “Who?”
            “The guards!”

            “Oh, right. Because you turned me in.”

            Ijordi growled as I giggled. I knew it was a mean thing to do, but I wasn’t going to make this easy for him. I knew he was making a rash decision, and I was going to start his payment for it. I reached down and picked up the plate. I picked up the knife, and then the fork. And then I scooped up bits of food, one handful at a time, returning to a full sit every time.

            “I guess I should ask why?” I said.

            Ijordi started to speak, but I held up my hands.

            “But what would be the point? I’m going to die.”

            Ijordi spun from the table and stomped across the kitchen. I knew I hit a nerve, and was now convinced he hasn’t thought this plan through.

            “You’re not going to die,” he said.

            “No? I guess I’m unaware of how traitors and seditionists are treated by the Council upon arrest. I just know we usually never hear from them again.”

            “What? You think they’re going to torture you and kill you?”

            “At the very least, yes.”

            Ijordi was silent, and his head began to hang lower and lower. He was turned away, but I knew his eyes were watering. He started shaking. I walked up to him and hugged him from behind. I kissed the back of his neck.

            “For what ever it’s worth,” I said. “I forgive you.”

            He started to sob and there was a pounding on the front door.

Feelings are stupid

If I had just fought harder, would things have turned out differently? Would Jordan and I still be together, and his life a whole lot happier, if I actually fought for him to stay? If I just begged for a little more time?

Feelings are stupid, and frankly, fuck country music.

Fleshing Out a Character

(Antagonist: Ijordi Ivy-Oak)

When I turned my husband in to the city council, I didn't realize he'd be tortured.

Nor did I think I would have to be among his torturers. I can't seem to rattle the images from my mind. Even as I sit in my beautiful garden, stroking the oak leaves falling from my trees (given as part of the council's payment, thank you), I can't help but think that the dew on the leaves and shimmering from the grass is Aljandrr's sweat, blood and tears. Oh, how he cried. How he screamed! And I beat him.

"Ijordi, please," he'd whimper towards the end. "Stop this. Make them stop. You don't have to do this."

But I did, didn't I? Water God knows what we do for a chance at power, and I have power now. I have an entire quarter of the city under my charge. Three thousand guardsmen! Ten thousand citizens! And all of them calling me Lord.

"Hail, Lord Ijordi! Hail, Lord of the Oaks!"

Torturing my husband, and casting him out of the city, made me a Lord. And got me a mansion!

...still can't seem to shake the blood from my fists, though; my torn, calloused and bruised fists. They're bespeckled with rings, though. I received one for every charge upon which Aljandrr was convicted. The council called me a hero. I did my duty.

I served my countrymen. I performed honorably.

Didn't I? As I wipe the dew from the leaves, my hands take control and rip them apart. And I weep sometimes.

Still...

(Work in progress for a class. When I finish it, I'll publish it here.)

A word on adverbs

Adverbs are unnecessary in the best writing, and harmful in the worst.

More than a word, but I said it. Yeah. I said it. Adverbs are bad. Wanna fight about it?

Adverbs are a source of controversy among writers, and the debate has raged on since before Mark Twain was ushered into the world on the tail of Haley's Comet. Some writers say they are evil, and lead to lazy and insulting writing. Other writers think adverbs are powerful, and help guide a story into deeper realms of description and imagery. I am on another end (as per usual, eh?) and just find adverbs unnecessary. I do tend to swing toward the "evil" camp sometimes, but that occurs when I see an adverb that is so horrible I would rather feed my eyeballs to Cthulu.

Those adverbs are what I like to call weak adverbs. They are adverbs that could be replaced by any multitude of words. For example, take "slowly". I could write "the car was moving slowly." Well, that's not much of a sentence is it? It's showing me absolutely nothing and is just 5 words. How dull. Instead, I could write "the car rivaled a snail in its pace, and I swore I saw one laughing as it sped past the vehicle on the asphalt." Ah, isn't that better? I threw in a whole new sense of imagery and description that made my sentence rich as escargot.

That's the key to writing, isn't it? I write for the sake of giving my readers a new world through which they can live their lives separate from reality for at least a few moments here and there. To use the classic maxim "show don't tell", I would rather show my readers a world, and let them experience it like they would a brand new plush sweater, rather than just tell them a story like they are a toddler I'm trying to bore off to sleep. "The car was moving slowly" is all well and good if I'm just trying to give you a simple statement about some car. Yawn. "The car rivaled a snail in its pace, and I swore I saw one laughing as it sped past the vehicle on the asphalt." Even if I were telling this to a toddler in the hopes he would fall asleep, I can be ensured that his dreams will have snails racing cars in them. That's my goal as a writer.

"But Bryan," you cast upon me from your lofty writer's desk. "You can't avoid all adverbs."

Perhaps, and let me refill your cognac and get you some fresh tobacco for your pipe, sir.

I have a professor at my university who is convinced anti-adverb writers are insane in their quest to rid writing of verbal and adjectival shackles. He says that whenever a writer mentions to him the phrase "don't use adverbs", he just has to point out that they used an adverb! Deus meus, he's right! I would use an adverb in that context, wouldn't I?

Well, he got me, I guess. There's really no possible way to avoid using "not", is there? But consider this. How much have I written on the subject of not using adverbs so far? A hell of a lot more than "don't use adverbs", right?

And that's why adverbs are unnecessary. An adverb can always be replaced by either a better word or a better phrase. Always. Wait...damn. Mea culpa. It is a rare incidence that an adverb has no replacement word or phrase, and I dare say it is impossible to find such incidences.

I think I've prattled on for enough time, and if you've stuck with me this far, I thank you. Please avoid adverbs in your writing. You're better than that.