They were on the battlement looking out at the sea of fog that lay just a foot below them, so thick it looked like the edge of the world.
She was sitting in the embrasure, the tips of her feet brushing the clouds of opaque sea.
“Fog’s low tonight,” she said to him.
“Yes, it is.” His response was clipped and uncomfortable.
She kicked her leg up and folded it so she could rest her chin on her knee. “The stigma persists, even here.”
A light chuckle bubbled out of him. “Yes, you may be in a different Kingdom, but that doesn’t mean you’ve escaped the beliefs of Norinth. Don’t tell any of the bigots and loyalists this, but all of us, our kingdoms, they’re all derivatives of the same belief. They difference is in how we approach and enforce those beliefs.
“I am sorry if I seem uncomfortable around you. In my defense there aren’t many, well, really any women in this profession or anywhere near it, not to mention you are quite a case.”
A breeze blew through, ruffling the tops of the trees peeking through the fog.
“I could catch the stars,” she said, reaching toward the sky, “and still people wouldn’t believe in me.”
The moonlight reflected blue off her unusually short hair, and her hand seemed to glow.
“I’m sure they’ll believe you eventually.” He was staring at her, unsure of what she was, because she certainly wasn’t cut from the same cloth as any of the other soldiers.
Erasmus would never forget the first time he saw her. She was dressed like every other woman in court, wearing a bright color, white, a tight-fitted bodice and a loose skirt.
The white made the golden tones of her skin stand out, and her dark hair looked like liquid night. There was a layered gap where extensions had been added to adhere to court fashion. Her face was all sharp angles. Hunger and ice lived in her eyes. She was a waif, but her steps were steady.
No one knew yet why she was there. But once they learned, they wouldn’t look at her the same way.
She looked to everyone else like a visiting noble to be presented to the court, but she wasn’t.
It was in the subtle movements she made to catalogue the room – the way her hands never quite stopped moving.
Erasmus could tell she wasn’t a normal woman. She didn’t look like she was from this continent and he had never seen her before.
The room paid her no heed, there was no reason to, she wasn’t uncommonly pretty or striking, she had no particular air about her that asked the room to look at her, but Erasmus knew by the way the consul from Norinth was looking at her that she meant something more.
He reached the gate just as the sky overflowed, the new storm broke in the form of a huge bone-rattling boom of thunder. Raindrops as big as pebbles began falling at a rate so fast it was like peering though a veil.
The figure he had seen fighting its way up the flooding river toward the church was struggling significantly more as they neared the wall – their energy was clearly waning. The water had reached waist height.
There was a hunting call, and seconds later a group of soldiers broke through the forest across from the draining grate. They drew up short as their heavily booted feet slipped on the steep embankment.
The figure in the cloak stumbled and cursed as they looked back at the soldiers. The head of the group had a deep purple cape, turning almost black as it absorbed rain and mud – a leading officer.
But who was the figure in the river? He watched as they took their last, lunging steps toward the grate, pouring out the last of their strength. Thin, graceful hands gripped the bars, they looked in at him, his hand on the winch to raise the grate.
They were covered in filth and grime, and now closer to him he could see blood. As he peered at them, they became a she. Her eyes were a dark swirling brown, they were possibly warm another time, but now were cold enough to freeze hell.
Photo Credit: Trip Advisor
Otto couldn’t move, her outline was blurry with rain but her eyes shone through like beacons of frost.
Questions swirl: who am I, what am I doing, what do I plan to do?
I glance at the banister beneath my hands. It has a cool and smooth texture, but I can’t help but notice that every once in a while a splinter will prick my finger; one off-grain hair on the back of the hyena, one loose screw in a well-oiled machine.
Do I dare to be that screw, to be an off-grain hair?
The banister leers back at me, returning to its faux smoothness, mocking me – showing me that even those hairs are smoothed out. The bottom of the stairs approaches with a swirl of nonexistent dust soaked in blue lighting.
I can feel myself physically growing colder without anything else becoming chilled.
I imagine my breath swirling and dancing, taking to the air, oh how I long to dance that waltz, a waltz that is carefree. Of freedom, non-worry, to dance to an unknown beat, the beat that is all my own with no rules or steps, no one can dictate what it is, what I do, how I move, what I ask, how I ask, what answer I receive.
The end of the stairs comes faster than I want, as if telling me that my time for contemplative thought is over. I stare down the hallway, looking at the doorways – all the doors of different paths I can take; nothing black or white – all gray – all this sad, desolate gray, I can’t figure out what I should do.
Photo Credit: The Millions – The Shining
I know that I want to leave, but I can feel fear closing in around my resolve, fire to ice. Am I a glacier, with more to me than is seen, or am I an ice cube, simple and nothing beyond my square?
See here’s the thing, there are people everywhere in the world fighting for a change, for a difference, fighting to save humanity. And that’s all well and good, but then there are writers.
A specialized breed of ruin, a deadly addictive drug.
Sure one could ask what the cuss they do for the world. I can tell you this, they kill trees. They bury students in dry immobile states of constant stress and depression.
But know what else they can do? They can keep me up all night. Make it so my mind never stops whispering to me. Make it so it feels like I’m drowning in ink and can never shut out that click click clicking of the keyboard.
Writers. Arguably the most talented, frustrating, simultaneously strangle-worthy yet kiss-worthy people on the planet.
Every time I finish a book good or bad I wonder how?
How on earth does anyone figure this out? How does anyone think of this? How does this happen? How are they real? How do they do this? How? How? How?
Then I think why.
Why can’t I do this? Why am I not doing this? Why am I not good enough? Why isn’t this happening? Why? Why? Why?
It’s a constant cycle: how, why, how, why, how, why? Like a broken record playing over and over and over.
I’ve read most of my life away and yet I still can’t see those plot holes coming, I can’t predict it, yes that’s a good thing. But then I can’t even seem to think of ones coming at me on my own how am I supposed to write anything that even measures up in the slightest.
Sure good artists steal but that only gets you so far. So what if some people tell you you’re good, their obligated to tell you that, cause the worlds about making people feel good about themselves, especially when you’re a young volatile developing teen yeah?
But then I see other people’s writing, it doesn’t even need to be published or personal-universe shattering. And it starts it all over again.
How? Why? How? Why? How? Why? Until it feels like I’m going to go mad.
I’m thinking yeah I’m good enough but then I read a bone shaking book. And the little disembodied voice whispers, are you good enough? Am I good enough? It echoes, like a museum display no one came to see.
Then I’ll read something written by someone like me unofficial, young, and just writing for the sake of writing. And that disembodied voice gets louder, No you’re not good enough are you? Just one lousy kid playing pretend.
I recently finished a book that for some reason shook me to my foundation. I hate analyzing literature but this one hit points that are incredible and leave me knee deep in cement thinking, this proves it, it officially proves it, writers are amazing and will probably be the fryers of my emotions. Yes the book had some stand out flaws but still. How?
I’m one sad little mind grasping at something I’m not even sure is mine to grab. One out of hundreds thousands millions. Every time I’m done with a book or story I’m left raw and wrathful and insecure yet I continue to do it to myself because I don’t think I could bare to be without it.
Writers block is such an odd sensation. It’s like knowing what you want to write but you don’t know how to formulate it coherently.
It is literally an all-encompassing feeling of frustration and confusion.
The most frustrating part about writer’s block is that there is nothing that will make it go away except time and it can last for what feels like an eternity.
Writers block can strike at anytime, but it feels as if it is most common when there is a deadline that is fast approaching.
Breaking through the writers’ block and having the words just flow out is one of the most satisfying feelings.
It is like a dam that has been holding back a vast amount of water, and that dam finally breaking down and all the water pouring out. Once that dam has been broken down you feel almost unstoppable, like the water that just continues to flow.
I did this because I am uncreative person who relies on the ideas of others.
What surprised me was that the number one “funny” topic on the website was “Women can’t be funny”.Seeing this invoked my inner Hillary Clinton or Susan B. Anthony or whichever feminist you wish to compare me to.
Obviously I was outraged.The idea that women can’t be funny is crazy; if I learned anything from my 10 years of watching Saturday Night Live, it would be that Kristen Wiig is hilarious and Justin Timberlake needs to stop writing songs about his…you know.
In days past, it used to be only ugly girls were funny, now it seems to be only good-looking female comediennes who can crack a laugh.
It used to be that when performing you wanted to look “comical”, much like Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, but now, if you don’t have good looks and, of course, above a C-cup, it’s hard to even score spot at an open mic night.
While the comedy world isn’t 100% free of sexism, it’s pretty close.
That person who wrote that “women can’t be funny” topic isn’t really an outstanding model for the entire comedy world.
I mean that guy probably thinks “that’s what she said” jokes are hilarious and has based his entire sense of humor off South Park.
As a first-year journalism student, I have the tedious task of producing two blogs a week. They aren’t hard pieces of writing – they have a 150 word minimum and can be about absolutely anything. However, every time I sit down to write one, I find myself with intense writer’s block.
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It’s not that my life is so boring that there’s nothing to write about, honestly. It’s just that I can never translate it into writing! I never know if I should talk about what’s happening in my day-to-day life or if I should speak more about worldly current events.
The most difficult part of writing blogs is the mandatory aspect. If I sat down whenever I had inspiration and simply wrote, my blogs would be great! However, I’m forcing myself to scrounge up “interesting” material and scrape out 150 words, which just takes the magic out of writing.
I’m not saying that everything I write is dull and completely forced, I’m only introducing the idea that if I were to write of my own accord, my writing would be full of life.
Hi, people. I’m writing a book right now. I’ve gotten about 16 pages done — aren’t you proud? Here’s a chapter. Hopefully you can read all of them next year, maybe even in a published book.
8-
I am running.
Footfall after footfall, the black street disappears behind me as a I fly through the night.
Out of breath, I whip my head around. They are still following me, almost about to catch me.
The game soon becomes a chase, similar to how a cheetah chases a gazelle.
I hop over logs, stumbling but righting my balance. I launch forward onto my hands and swing my legs up and over my body. This sets them off a few paces.
I continue running.
This is true freedom.
Fighting for my survival, fighting to win, to be safe. The wind passes through my hair and keeps it upright behind me.
I do not slow down.
They are laughing, stumbling, trying to catch up. We are all full of pancakes, bacon, eggs. It is slowing them down.
I keep going, ignoring the sharp pain in the bottom of my stomach.
I turn a corner, taking it like a race car, slanting so far down that I am almost parallel to the grass on the side of the street.
I am aware of everything around me – the gas station on the corner, the yogurt store across from it, the three boys behind me, my white converse hitting the ground.
Recently I found some really good blogs online.
Some are formal, some are more about daily life.
One of my favorite is called “Jaron Report.”
“Jaron Report” is a journalism blog that is run by Jaron Gilinsky, a video journalist, documentary filmmaker and web entrepreneur from Canada. The blog is mostly the reporter’s personal journalistic experience and his opinions on the trends of modern journalism and the challenges the journalists are facing. He analyzes critically about some issues such as the credibility of Wikipedia. He also gives some advice of how to become a good journalist.
The layout of the page is simple and easy to see the titles of each articles. Most of the articles are long and some of them have pictures. On the left side, there are links to other journalism blogs, the news on current TV, some feature documentaries, CNN world report and the blog archive which leads readers to his earlier posts.
The blog focuses on Jaron’s writing works and it’s really helpful to read his own experience and learn something from them.
Blogs are ways for people to express their ideas and record their life through words and pictures. Different types of blogs have different focuses therefore people can search for their preference. It’s just amazing how blogs have become more and more popular these days and how they connect people together as a whole world.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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