I stood in a hollow place. The world around me was in continuous flux. Moments of stasis would occur, until they were ruptured by chaos. Walls would surround me and then dissipate. I could see through them to the yards, cities, and oceans beyond.
Only one object remained static in this visage. A table in the center of a room would fluctuate in and out of existence. Atop it was the object. Solid and immobile. It drew my focus; begged for it.
Demanded it.
I took one step and the Earth beneath my feet shattered. But I stayed afloat. I took another. The emptiness of the aether surrounded me on all sides. Walls, cities, and oceans disappeared entirely. All that remained was me, the void, and...
- the object.
“Then what?”
I looked up at Doctor Smyth. She eyed me over a blue plastic clipboard, her moon-colored eyes distant and ominous. She repeated the question. I turned back to my paper on the table in front of me.
My black marker filled the last white triangles along the paper

I recently quit playing the free Microsoft Store game Iron Blade. I uninstalled the game one morning before I could change my mind. And seeing as most people reading this probably haven't heard of IB, I'd like to explain why I quit … because there’s a chance you might want to give the game a try. I quit IB because I think I see now everything the game was trying to teach and those lessons reminded me that I have better things to be doing with my time.
IB is not a bad game. The spam bots in the forum say otherwise but they are one of the few small exceptions; their deluge of spam slows the main menus to a crawl. And I don't have a problem with the game's semi-addictive nature; you don't have to play every day, you'll just want to so you can get good gear and level up.
The story of IB is about a medieval knight who goes around killing the many forces of evil in a world of big cities, secluded castles and ancient temples. The art and backgrounds are much better than you might

“There are three rules for the writing of a novel. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.”
- Somerset Maugham
Challenge accepted.
Rule 1 : Before you start, create an outline. Stories can impart important messages and themes through the actions of their characters and the events surrounding them. Without an outline, a novel will by the nature of its length fall off the tracks of this message. The easiest way to write something with a strong, consistent message is to write a short story; when trying to do so with a novel, it helps to have a well-planned outline. Some writers find an outline essential, allowing them to keep a consistent message, continue when stuck and write from anywhere in the novel.
Rule 1b : Or don't create an outline. Planning out a novel can naturally make the novel feel planned when read by others, ruining their sense of realism. Anyone can write a novel where doing X causes the hero to succeed, but that won't convince readers to do X in their own l

The trees cruising by on our left had pale, twisted limbs and bare branches. They cast long, jagged shadows toward the road from a low, orange sun. Wisps of grass grew from a dark ground that occasionally rose in small, misshapen mounds. On the other side of the road everything was green and leafy.
“These woods go on forever.” I stared out at them, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. We drove down the old highway in Val’s teal Prius, no other cars in sight. The gas gauge was on the final bar. “How long until the next station?”
“How much is in the tank?” Val leaned over the cup holders, pushing her head against mine. “There’s a whole bar left.” She sat back in her seat and stared down at her phone. “When it starts blinking, we’ve got about forty miles.”
“Are we going to make it?”
“We could have filled up at that last gas station.”
She didn’t have to make it sound like my faul

We truly are now at war with terror.
Someone once said we would go to war with terror. We would find where terror was, wage war against terror, and at last defeat terror. To be honest, some of us laughed at that person. After all, who can fight an idea? How can anyone fight a label, an emotion, an intangible?
But whether that person was right – or we simply found the war we went looking for – we are now at war with terror. Every day it seems we hear of this new tragedy, that new affront, those new foes. They scream into the television cameras. Strikes occur to us and our allies, at home and abroad. People really do hate us. And why shouldn’t they? We went to war with terror, and (not entirely by accident) we instead ended up attacking our fellow human beings.
Someone once said he who is without sin may throw the first stone. We who won our country by fighting off an oppressive overseas regime must always remember: One person's terrorist is another person's rebe

As Brother Moon descended in the sky and the feast came to a close, I began to grow anxious. Valorian and I had asked among those attending, but the name Russ was unknown to all. We knew he must exist if the medicine man said so, but the sacred magic prevented us from finding him.
People started to leave in twos, small families and groups. The giant left with his wives, more groups left, and at last there were just a few remaining to clean and set the hall in order. I was worried, but found distraction in helping. The old medicine man sat still and silent on the raised platform, deep in meditation or fast asleep.
Valorian and the graceful woman in the silk robe came over to me. “San has a task for us,” Valorian muttered to me, pointing her thumb at the woman. I nodded and followed them to a quiet corner, away from others. Sometimes people we met asked favors of us, simply because we were outsiders who could leave afterward.
The woman in the silk robe began immediately.

Our choices were to stay with Val’s Prius until the attendant came back, or walk through the dark town at the directions of the ghost woman. Gullyvale was silent around us, providing no help with the decision. Then a cold wind blew through, rattling all the branches of the bare white trees. That was all the motivation I needed.
Val and I walked off down the sidewalk. A wave of nausea hit me as we left the lamp light. I doubled over, hiding the involuntary motion by pretending to smooth down my ruffled petticoats. I do not know why I would be bothered. There were no men present, unless one counted Valory, who as always refused to dress as a woman.
I looked to her, passing a secret smile. She was not looking at me, but behind us with a cold stare to her Model T. Her hands checked the pocket of her suit for the starter plug, which she always removed upon leaving it anywhere. Seemingly reassured, she turned and helped me up.
“Still experiencing vapors, Anabelle? I knew the seas

The trees cruising by on our left had pale, twisted limbs and bare branches. They cast long, jagged shadows toward the road from a low, orange sun. Wisps of grass grew from a dark ground that occasionally rose in small, misshapen mounds. On the other side of the road everything was green and leafy.
“These woods go on forever.” I stared out at them, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. We drove down the old highway in Val’s teal Prius, no other cars in sight. The gas gauge was on the final bar. “How long until the next station?”
“How much is in the tank?” Val leaned over the cup holders, pushing her head against mine. “There’s a whole bar left.” She sat back in her seat and stared down at her phone. “When it starts blinking, we’ve got about forty miles.”
“Are we going to make it?”
“We could have filled up at that last gas station.”
She didn’t have to make it sound like my faul