Swath of Blood and Lightning (Working Title)

A story about adventure, it's meant to be fun, altogether. The world is a fantasy one, with dragons, laser-cannons, and any other mix you can possibly think of.

Chapter 1: A Not-So-Great Beginning


The morning air was crisp, easy on the lungs, and I drew in a breath; my eyes were closed so my focus was solely on the gentle breeze steadily pushing at the side of my face, swaying my hair slowly to match the calm of the morning.
A man could go his whole life without worldly pleasures if only to experience the thrill of being in the woods, to breathe the fresh air and hear the sounds accompanying an early morning walk. A still lingering dewdrop fell from the leaves above, and I felt the cool drop splash onto the top of my head, soaking quickly through my hair. The sun was not out, yet a dim light filtered through a sky white with clouds.
With little light, it was dimmer still in the forest, where the darkness yet resided here and there.
    I was squatting next to a large tree, my legs parted and feet holding a tight grasp to a hard-earned place among many over-ground roots.
Slowly bending forward, I pushed up a wall of earth which I tossed lightly upward. The clatter of particles of dirt hitting the scattered leaves sounded, and the fading dust fell slowly south-west. Perfect. I was facing north, which is where I planned to get my kill.
    A cricket rubbed its wings together irritably from one of the roots beside me, and some birds chirped in the trees above, calling, and replying one to another. I could not help but gaze around, admiring nature.
In a forest so full of life, I was the one out to kill, but that didn’t bother me; yet.
    I brandished a large compound bow in my left hand, and a quiver of arrows held onto my back via a thick belt; contained within were strong arrows tipped with razor sharp heads.
With the seriousness of this hunt in mind, I made my senses aware of my surroundings with both ears open for listening, my mind fully aware of the sense of feeling so that I could sense any changes in the wind and any vibrations in the ground.
My sense of smell heightened when I concentrated on all the odors around my body, and my eyes narrowed so that I could scan the area with unmitigated precision. My focus was shown in the intent expression upon my face; my eyes scanning slowly and ears twitching at the slightest of sounds.
After a long time of me pretending to be patient, the unmistakable sound of leaves crunching beneath a foot caused me to freeze in place. Even my eyes stared straight ahead and I dare not blink.
    So there I squatted on a cool morning in September, at 8:30, as stiff as stone.
Only having been on a couple of hunts before with my father, I was not exceptionally skilled at hunting, but my aim was true and my mind-set correct.
Time slowly passed, the beat of my own heart the only sound I could hear, but no animal showed itself. Had I really heard the sound of a footstep? I was sure of it, but it would not help to tarry on the thought, so, having relaxed my muscles and let out my breath I leaned back against an old Oak tree, the end of my scarf lightly folded on the roots at my heels.
I don’t know how you do it, daddy. I thought to myself. You wait in these woods for hours, waiting for something that might never come, and here I am. . . barely able to wait five minutes!
    With all the time in the world to think, my thoughts turned against me. Never had I killed a deer before, nor any animal, and that added fuel to the war that would begin to wage inside of my own mind; a war which would decide how I felt about myself and my ability.
Could it be that I was a lesser hunter than my father, I thought. Then, no, I just had no experience, that’s all. Right?
I’m thinking too much into it, I told myself, but I was not convinced.  What was it that caused conceit, or self-righteousness? At times when I felt happy because of an accomplishment, was it a correct feeling of satisfaction, or merely foolish pride? I would have quickly settled into a comfortable state of prideful bliss in any achievement, if not for the few discouraging words which still lingered in my thoughts after having been uttered by folk who I sometimes barely knew. Even then, it seemed that what people said, and how I perceived that they felt about me, decided how I felt about my own ability in everything, whether or not they were irrelevant to ones emotions, such as, for example; hunting.
My confidence was strong, in general, but my naivety, I suppose; great.
And it was so, on this morning, without a warning to alert my senses, what I had been waiting for and what I had heard previously presented itself as if on a silver platter.
A deer made its way through the clearing, causing me to nearly jump up in ecstacy in its suddenness, but I mentally caught myself before doing anything foolish.
First the rack showed, then its neck, then the body moved out from behind the thickness of the forest; it stopped, took a cautious look around, then arched its head to the ground where it commenced to grazing.
Yes! Yes! I shouted in my head, this was perfect! I wager Daniel Boon himself would have grinned at having a situation like this: An open shot without so much as the protruding limb of a tree to block my vision.
    The ground about my feet was scattered with leaves and dust, which spread out before me into a gradually thickening bed of grass that finally opened into a small field where the buck stood no more than thirty feet away.
    In retrospect, I must mention that it was an incredibly bold and large deer, standing with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a large, ten point rack which made excitement well up inside of me. I had never actually killed a deer before, and it caused my adrenaline to begin pumping. So much so, in fact;  that my hands were shaking in sheer anxiousness. It had taken a great deal of waiting and walking to get this close, which added to the nervousness and still more excitement of the moment.
I stood leaning against the tree, viewing the deer from the profile perspective so the whole deer was visible. A rather rare and certainly a beautiful sight, just as my dad had always said.
“You never get tired of looking at a deer, that is; unless you get hungry.” Was his exact words, I believe.
    Trying to remain mien and contain my bearings, I reached back quietly and grabbed an arrow from my quiver. I stopped. The deer had looked up.
Deer could hear everything, I knew that this would be a patience game and that I would have to wait the animal out. I thought I had come prepared, and had, indeed, come prepared. . . except that I didn’t really.
    Do you ever notice that you only get an itch when an important moment comes about? I remember playing the quiet game, (which, by the way, I had been told was simply a clever ploy by adults to quiet their children without having to raise their own voices, though I am still undetermined on the matter)and would be winning, and just as it was me and perhaps one other individual, I would begin to itch.
Just as it was then, so was it now. As I stood there with almost quivering legs, an itch found itself right on the side of my nose.
The deer looked around, scanned passed me, but froze as I blew on my nose trying to get the itch away. We waited again, the deer and I, for what seemed like an eternity. While I had the moment to ponder my flesh and also, to look at the deer, I felt as if I came to know it, in some manner.
    Another itch appeared, this time in the back of my lap. My eyebrows furrowed; the deer perked its ears. Yet more itches followed until I was covered in a plethora of itches over my entire body! It was as if I had become the resting place for all dust particles on the face of the planet!
Just when I was about ready to cry in anxiety and have a nervous breakdown, the animal bent down and proceeded to graze. Attempting to ignore my urge to scratch madly, I set the arrow gently atop the handle of my bow, surprising myself at how I had managed to avoid rattling the arrow against the bow with my quivering hands; wrapped three fingers firmly around the string, waited for the deer to start moving again, then drew back.  My left hand clutched the handle of the bow through a thick, dark-brown glove.
    The wire tensed when I pulled, then as the wheels at the top and bottom of the bow rolled back, unraveling the string, the 45 pounds that I was holding eased into ten.
A drop of sweat fell from the tip of my nose, I could feel my heart beating in my chest and the blood rushing through my veins.
This was it, backing down was not an option, yet; even in all of this I still felt like smiling. This was the hunt! Fighting for meat was in my blood!
At the thought, I realized that I had become somewhat attached to the animal, the very thought of killing it was suddenly becoming a nauseating concept in my own mind, yet I did not acknowledge the thought, and instead concentrated on the kill-zone.
Using the straight arrow as my sight, I took careful aim. My breathing was normal for just a moment as I slowly aligned my sights.
Draining a deep breath, I eased my fingers back, and as soon as the pierce of the recoiling string sounded I knew - I had aimed too high.
"Shoot. . . .!" I whispered under my breath.
I had to do battle with my own mind in order to avoid thrashing irately about because, quite honestly, that urge was amazingly overwhelming. A fool I was, for becoming so uneasy at such a time as this!
A deer that was running, however; was much harder to hit by an arrow with a fixed destination than a deer that is standing still, so I forced myself to remain quiet and wait impatiently in a cold sweat.
Some leaves on a low-hanging branch waved briskly about for a moment as the arrow soared past.
It was a nicely executed shot, even though I had come short in my aiming. Though aggrieved at my carelessness, I had not given up hope that it might still hit the intended target.
In the suspense, the deer lifted its head up, looking directly at me.
For a terse moment, time seemed to freeze all around me as I gazed into the deer’s shiny black orbs. Innocence was in those eyes, more so than any human could have. Staring eye-to-eye with my prey, and with my own eyes filled with curiosity and wonder, my heart sank.
When the deer lifted its head up and looked at me, its whole neck lined up with its shoulder, and as if the world was suddenly set in motion again, the arrow launched into real-time.
    I lost my breath suddenly, when the arrow pierced the flesh of the deer with such force that the animal nearly staggered; from the other side of its neck the arrowhead broke through the flesh, blasted briefly through the air, and finally lodged itself into a nearby Redwood.
    The deer attempted to run, but got no more than a few feet before its front legs bent at the knees and it skidded across the forest floor. The stop caused the back end of the deer to rear up and its face to crash into the ground, which is where it finally plopped down in a pathetic heap; twitched as the nerves died, then became as still as the deathly air around it.
The entire amount of time, from the release of the arrow, through my thoughts and feelings, and to the fruitless attempt to escape, must have been no more than three seconds.
I waited until the animal became motionless, but still tarried longer as the lifeless body lay before me. I was unsure of whether I should approach my kill or remain for a while. Something about killing this animal caused my stomach to churn and my eyes to stare widely at the lifeless carcass.
The death in the air, however; could not match the curiosity in my mind. I quickly gathered up my comportment, stood to my feet and walked warily toward the creature.
I became more serene, and my lips turned down with sadness. This was incredibly strange for me, because I was hardly ever one to grow emotional over anything that was not directly personal. If someone I did not know died, and I went to the funeral, I would not shed a single tear, or even, I regret to say; feel sorry for the poor soul.
Should I apologize for that, or feel remorse? I do not know, but after all, no one cries when a ship sinks, potentially killing hundreds. Why mourn for one?
In spite of all of this, one lone animal made me feel terrible-- I had taken a life.
As I came upon the deer, even with blood running from the hole in its neck and staining its brown coat red, a small smile showed on my young lips.
"This is beautiful." I told myself as I knelt down beside it.
Not the bloody deer, mind you, but the fact that the first deer I had ever killed in my life lay before me. I knew that my dad would be impressed. I could hardly say as much for my mother, what, with me shooting Bambi and all.
    I was just about to grab that beautiful rack and lift its head up to look upon my prize in sweet sorrow, when I felt cold steel press against the back of my head, causing every bit of sadness and serenity to melt away quicker than it had come. It was replaced with a fear that gripped at my chest and tightened like a fist.
    A voice from behind me spoke in an annoyingly brusque tone,
"Well, well, looks like you got a nice, clean kill there."
The wind of the forest seemed to die with his voice.
"Yeah . . ." I replied nervously.
My eyes darted around quickly as I tried to figure out what to do. I did not want to die, and yet, my attempts to stop the images of a bullet blowing my head into a fine, bloody mist from looping in my mind were in vain.
Amidst my thoughts came the ungraciously nonchalant voice from the man behind me.
"Well, I think it's my kill now. A man has to make a living, y’know." Was what he said, followed by an irritating, high-pitched chuckle that I figured could very well have killed all the squirrels in every tree from within a mile around.
"Now just stand yourself up, slowly.”
    I did as he said, staring blankly ahead; waiting for that ending moment when all was gone forever. My heartbeat speeded up, and my eyes were wide with fear.
Even so, I was less worried that I would actually die than I was with the obnoxiousness of the man or the fact that he was stealing my kill.
I suppose the option of dying was not a plausible idea in my mind. . . how could I die? It's strange how the mind works when it is overcome by fear, yet not on death did I think, but contrarily; upon life.
I even remembered that my legs were feeling a bit tired and hoped I could sit down soon before he shot me.
Never would that moment of death come, however; for in the crisp air of the forest, and the calm of the morning, the man lifted up the handle of his gun and bore it down onto that back of my skull. Pain exploded from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, my surroundings became black, and, unable to keep hold of my consciousness I dropped limply to the ground. Leaves and dust blew outward in the wake of my fall.
“Sorry, Kid.” Was the last thing that any of my five senses registered.












 

















Chapter 2: My Pride, My House, and My Mom


I do not, by any means, consider myself to be a coward, but there are times when you just have to put your hands up and say “You win.”
The moment that the gun pushed against me, in my mind, was not one of those times. It was not a moment to give up and wait to die, but alternatively to fight to the death so that when anyone asked about me, the reply would be one told with strength and pride. No one should ever hear that Atari gave his life away, only that it was taken, and the person that took it went through hell’s flames to get it done.
    As for the reality, I awoke where I had fallen: laying in a bed of grass. Not at all the adventurous, daring man I had thought myself to be.
Though still dazed, I struggled to sit up. “Wh-where? Oh, yeah! Wait, my deer!”
I looked quickly around, which ended up being a mistake. Not surprisingly, a large knot had formed on my head. Or, rather, been put on my head via the handle of a gun. Needless to say it was throbbing, and when I jerked around it only multiplied the pain.
I put my hand over it quickly and held my eyes shut tightly until the pain subsided, which felt like it took forever!
“Should have saw that coming. . . .” I told myself through a grunt.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small puddle of blood and, in curiosity, I twisted around to see what would come into view.
What I saw was a trail of blood leading across the grass, and into the woods.
"Wha--?"  Stunned I was for a moment, and my eyes narrowed in complete baffle before I finally yelled, “He stole my . . . .!” I never got to finish the sentence because another fury of pain was bounding in my skull.
I grunted and wrapped both hands around my head with my legs sprawled out before me and my chin tucked so tightly to my chest that I nearly choked myself.
“Didn’t mean to do that. . . .” I elaborated through gnashed teeth.  
    When I was finally able to stand to my feet,  I stood wearily, wavering on my heels. My eyes were half-closed and I looked, in general, like a man who had not slept in days.
By chance, my eyes wandered off to the left. At first, I saw trees and the forest beyond, then my sagging eyes focused closer and there, right beside me, was the arrow I had used to slay the buck.
    I stared at it weakly for a few moments, then let out a half-hearted, “Wow.”
A few more moments I gazed blankly, straight-faced and purse-lipped. Anger flashed in my eyes, but reacting upon my worst emotions was something I rarely, if ever, did.
Now, normally, I was quite flowery with my English and was able to articulate sentences with unmitigated linguistics of a substantially robust caliber, but you see; I was tired. Have you ever reached a point in the day where you are so overcome with exhaustion that you think only of a place to lay, and every place you see, whether it be a gravel pass or a wooden log, looks like a bed? That was how I felt, and my mind had shut down -- at least, the part of it which was reserved for grammatical integrity.
So, in an effort to vent, and to simply recall what was ruining my day, I blurted this out:
The whole hunt. . . the thing, the coolness of it, the- the awesomeness was all for nothing!
Truth be told, I only said it in my mind, for after twice having the vibrations of my own words irritating my head, I had learned better, furthermore; it was just as well, for even the animals would have laughed at such an ill-fraught string of wording had it been spoken aloud.
With nothing else left to do, I gathered up all of the arrows that had fallen from my quiver when I had collapsed on the ground, then attempted to pull the arrow out of the tree, but found that, when I pulled, my head throbbed unbearably. The anger I felt multiplied, and when I let all of the frustration go in one big sigh, I found that carelessness was what filled the hole that anger had burned into me.
I simply did not care any more. . . still, passing up a good challenge was not like me at all. The arrow from the tree I would retrieve! Even if I had to move heaven and earth! On that thought, I began wondering how one would go about moving heaven, or earth for that matter. I contemplated the enigma for many minutes, pondering what strength and size one would have to attain before even attempting such a feat!
When I had finally come to the conclusion that it would be impossible, I found that it did not help me in my current endeavor, and I would have to devise another means of dislodging the arrow-- other than moving heaven or earth.
It was obvious that using my whole body was not going to get this arrow out, so I concocted an alternate manner: first, I leaned my back against the tree, then grabbed hold to the shaft of the arrow, and with all the strength of just one arm, jerked it out.
Just as the arrow’s point left the tree I drew in a deep breath and a tremendous, metaphorical light blasted from my body; I was glowing with pride! I had been able to withdraw the arrow with cunning and wit!    
    "It just wasn't right," I thought repeatedly to myself as I made my way through the forest.
I was watching these paintings on the trees. They were simple marks with a spray-can, which was supposedly to help hunters find their way to the best hunting spots.
I assumed that they would not actually be the best spots because everyone probably went to them, but since I was a rookie, I deduced it was best to follow them for now. As I passed by the area where I had been crouching when I shot the deer, I picked up my bow.
At that moment, I really would rather have left all of my belongings in the woods, staggered home and fell asleep.
Nothing seemed to matter, and I was too tired and downtrodden to care. My parents trusted me, though, and I had to show them I was strong and, more importantly; dependable.
Eventually, I came to a point where the trees cleared abruptly and opened into a large grass field where the sun blazed powerfully in the sky. The warm rays hit me, warming my flesh and, just for a moment, making the entire day seem worth it.    
    The base of a cobble-stone path which led toward a little town by the name of Waterwake lay at the foot of the woods. One weary step at a time I pressed onward, determined, if not careless.
“Yes!” I stated loudly in my best warrior’s voice, although I used broken and faded speech, “Yes I’m, I’m moving forward! For those who move inward, outward, or backward are the ones who are doomed to a horrible oppression by a terrible evil!”
I allowed for a terse moment of silence and stillness to let the force of my words sink in, then proceeded to go the course and walk across the small path with both hands fruitlessly attempting to ease the pain in the back of my head.
All the while I wondered how much of a coward I had been. It would not have been that difficult to stop him with the use of my electricity.
Electricity, you ask? Forgive me for not mentioning this earlier. Allow me to explain myself: I am a Draknian. Draknian, you ask?
Well, you ask a lot of questions! A draknian is an human of sorts with an odd array of traits unique to their race only. Hair color being one differentiating factor.
What was my hair color? Blue was my own. Aside from the hair color differentiating me from any human, there was, also, the electric-eel-like ability to send out a shock of electricity by touching my palms together. I know electric eels don’t have palms, but that’s not the point. Quite impressive, I must admit, and it does come in handy. Other than that, a draknian looked just like a normal human.
    Actually, there is one more thing, but you will learn of it later. So now it seems that you must keep reading in order to discover this enigma!
I know; I’m deviously clever. How many other books actually devise cunning strategies in order to force their readers to keep reading?
    


    Finally -and I use that word with no belittlement- I entered the town.
Before me a dirt path stretched outward all the way to the town’s public square, and the first of many houses lining the street was my own.
    Back at the foot of the dirt path I held my head and stared up the street in dismay, it seemed like such a long way to walk. Luckily, I did not have to walk up that path. In my disorientation, I had forgotten for a few brief moments that my house was the first one on the left.
     I waved lazily to some people that asked me what was wrong or that were just saying “Hey.”
"I'm fine." I would say.
Everyone who lived at the town knew me well and I was often told that I was a ‘strapping young lad’. Such praise pleased me, but I could only blush and wonder if it was true or not. Fortunately, not a terribly large amount of people traversed this particular section of the town, so I was safe from the worst of the mass of people.
Back to where I was standing, I cursed my legs for not moving. The longer I waited around in that spot, the more people who were going to ask me if I was O.K.
“Curse you for not moving!” I shouted at my legs, but once again, only in my mind.
        After gaining the will to move, I leaned left and staggered to the first house.
It was a pleasant little house with plants aligning the deck on both sides of the steps.
Those plants were kept and cared for by my mother. I never understood her obsession with planting, especially considering that almost everything she touched, plant-wise, died.
Amazingly to me, I got to the steps without dying: this was a good sign.
When I came upon the front steps I stopped walking, paused to look, stared with half-opened eyelids, then leaned forward and crawled up the steps and onto the porch on all fours. After making it that far, I collapsed onto my stomach and let my arms and legs sprawl outward.    
I could not understand why I felt the way that I did. Was getting knocked out really supposed to take this much out of you?
    Then again, I remember a time when my dad had built a deer-stand beside a tree, close to the woods.
I was playing in it when he came along and yelled up to me, “When I was a kid, we would have run and jumped off of the stand, grabbed that tree-branch right there, swung back and forth a couple of times, then jumped down.”
Then he walked off leaving me to ponder my own ability.
I wish he had not said anything, because I was just foolish enough to quote some famous last words; “Well, if he could do it.”
Unfortunately, I could not. . . do it.
Yes, I caught onto the branch, but only long enough to realize my mistake and have my grip (or lack thereof) come loose.
I dropped and my head slammed onto a large, over-ground root of the tree.
To this day I do not know whether or not I was knocked out, but I certainly felt dazed when I stumbled home that day and collapsed on the couch in a confused heap. To top it off, no one even asked me if I was alright! A hundred people must have walked by me that day and not a single one so much as acknowledged my presence! Thinking back, I can only be amused.
So  - just perhaps - this was the way I was supposed to feel.
    What ever the reason was that I hurt, my mother would certainly tend to my wounds in a very motherly way, because that was a definite part of who she was.
After a long rest on my face, which was surprisingly comfortable, I managed to pick myself up onto my knees where I could reach up and grab the handle of the door.
My head reeled harshly, but I did remember that my mother would lose her nerves if she saw me crawling through the house as if I were half-dead. After much contemplation of whether or not I truly cared about anything in the universe any longer, I finally gained the will to stand up.
Into the house I went, barely managing to close the door behind me. As I passed the kitchen, my mother turned to see who was in her home.
A smile, “Hello, Maxi! Did you catch anything for supper?” That was my middle name, Maxi. And how ironic that she would mention me catching anything for supper, and yet; she was already cooking something in the aged, steel pot upon the stove. I say ‘the’ aged steel pot because it seemed as though since I was a young boy that pot was the only one she ever used.
    I gulped and waved half-heartedly, “Ah, uh, no ma’am. Well, sort of but, we can’t, it won’t, I don’t know.”
In spite of my haverings I felt that my mother would understand me anyway, so I staggered quickly into the kitchen, pulled and twirled a wooden chair out from under the table and plopped down in it with my forearms laying on the top of the backrest.
I was still having anger flashes as I thought about how I was so easily stolen from. It was less of anger, however; and more frustration and growing upset. I had always imagined myself as being courageous and awesome, and now I knew that when it came right down to it I was just a coward.
This, of course, was all going through my mind with my mother standing directly in front of me and, as I tried to sort it out, I looked blankly through the air and into my thoughts.
    I guess you are wondering exactly what my house looked like on the inside. I will explain this before continuing so that you might have something to imagine while reading the boring parts of this story. Also, I will have to pull out my thesaurus and see if there is another word for ‘story’ in the English language.
If there is not, I may have to resort to Spanish, or perhaps German, which is a very fine language; in order to avoid being in the state of repetition.
    Let me see, our kitchen was our dining room as well. Hence the house being small as I mentioned earlier.
A table was set up in the lower right corner, which I sat in, and the cooking stove along with all other appliances dealing with the preparation of food were all the way to the front of the room directly ahead, where my mother stood leaning over the oven with a green oven mitt on her hand.
To my left in the other corner of the kitchen was the pantry which held things such as pancake mix, syrup, oatmeal (Nothing beats good old Maple and Brown Sugar!), cereal and other things such as these.
The floor was tiled ceramic, and had many shades of brown amongst a background of white, making strange patterns. Usually, this kitchen was filled with the smell of food, and had steam rising from the stove.
So often, in fact; that when anyone would come over they would take a reflexive deep whiff upon stepping through the door because it was widely apprehended that my mother was an incredible cook, which she was. The mental image of our kitchen was never imagined without the smell of warm apple pie and chicken and dumplings wafting lusciously through the air.
    “What is that supposed to mean?” My mother asked, turning from the stove to face me. I must admit that my last sentence had not made much sense, yet even in my knowledge that it was indeed a mindless ramble I was still disheartened by her inability to understanding me. Not that she could, but she should have! After all, I was her son! And, furthermore; she was my mother.
I turned up to look at her staring toward me with innocent ignorance. Or at least what I took to be innocence. Or even ignorance, for that matter.
This was a woman with heart, and strength. She had red hair, and freckles about her whole body. Being her son, I thought that she was no doubt the most beautiful and wonderful mother in all of the world.
I ran my hand nervously through my royal blue hair, “W-well, I’m not sure exactly how to put this, but uhm, well, hah hah!” The whole idea of this happening was so far fetched that I was not even sure how to say it. And when I finally did speak, it all came out in a furious outline.
“I was in the woods, and I had just come across the hugestest buck in the-“
“Largest.” Mother corrected.
“Right.” I replied. She and I both knew I had used incorrect grammar on purpose, just for the fun of it. I knew I should not, but hearing her correct me somehow soothed my heart. “So, anyway, I shot it, and that kinda made me sad.”
“Sad? What ever do you mean? Surely my brave son doesn’t have a heart for animals!”
“I don’t know.” I looked right at my mother when I spoke to her, but I wanted to look away; no one with as little courage as I deserved to look his mother in the eyes. Nevertheless, I continued.
“But anyway, so then I went over to get it, and some guy came by and put a gun to my head!”
Already I could see in her eyes that she was doubtful.
“Really! I’m serious! It’s crazy!” Upon that exclamation, the pain in my head returned and my teeth clamped down tightly. I tried not to look like I was hurting, but I might as well have been lying to the Lord, because it was not fooling my mother.
“Oh, goodness! He didn’t hurt you, did he?”  She asked in sheer panic, making her way quickly over to me. The reason for her outburst was unknown to me, perhaps she thought I had gotten shot.
I grimaced and looked away so as to avoid showing my pain, “N-not- much.”
This was just what I did not need: to be pitied.
    Describing how I felt as ‘pathetic’ would not accurately define the lowliness I was experiencing at that moment as my mother pushed my hand from my head and began parting the hair to see if I was bleeding.
“Foolishness. . . .!” I whispered harshly, staring down at my lap.
“What?” Mother stepped back after kissing my forehead. After a very long time of living with me, she had gotten somewhat used to little knots on my head, and it did not frighten her as much as it used to.
“You aren’t hurt that badly, it’s just a bump.” She said with confusion directed at my angry words.
“I- I’m just- pathetic.” I told her, breathing heavily, but heavily in anger; not pain. My fists were clenched to my pant-legs and my eyebrows were pushed tightly together.
She took a breath and looked at me intently, “What do you mean?” She asked yet again.
My fingers squeezed together so hard that my knuckles turned white, “I-I just stood there and let him steal from me and then walk away while I sat on my hand doing nothing! Daddy wouldn’t have let him do that. . . .”  
“Atari Maxi Tariyama! You listen to me!” That was my full name. “You did the right thing out there! What if you had tried and gotten shot?”
“At least I would have tried!” I countered.
“And if you had died at the hands of a two-bit thief your name wouldn’t exactly be thundering down the corridors of time, and I would be lost without you.” Tears almost welled up in her eyes, tears conveying a righteous anger,
“ Now you have an opportunity to fight again, and this time without your britches down!” That was another thing I liked about Mom. She may not have known exactly what happened, but she certainly backed me up an hundred percent.
    Her words struck me like a sledgehammer of reality. In a calm moment, as a knife pierced into my pride and caused my heart to skip a beat, I blinked, and looked up suddenly. It was so impressively clear, and I spoke in a quiet manner with realization still settling in,
“F-fight again . . . .?”
Mother bit her tongue and was kicking herself mentally. She already knew where I was going with this, “Now, don’t take what I said and run off with it! You know very well what I mean!” Mamma had a slight southern drawl, just enough to be pleasant.
Slowly, a smirk pushed its way across my face as I thought about what she had said. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense and come alive to me.  “Y-you’re right, Mamma! I have another chance, and this time I will be more than ready!”
I stood up, gave her a kiss on the cheek and raced from the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” She yelled at me with nervousness accenting her voice.
After a moment, my voice hollered back: “To bed, I need to rest!”
Mother smiled and let out a sigh of relief, “Silly boy.”
    As I lay in my bed with my arms behind my head and eyes staring wide at the ceiling, I promised myself then that I would never tuck my tail between my legs at gun point ever again. It was my first time to ever experience true danger or fear, and now that I had experienced it, I would not fear it. It was only a matter of being given a chance-- most people did not succeed the first time around.
I would die one day - I would try to make it the last thing I would ever do, of course - but I vowed it would never be a death such as dropping in a heap on the ground with blood running freely from the back of my head.
It was disgusting in more ways than one, and what ever it took, no man would shoot me down in such a ridiculous way. Guns would not rule me.

Author's Note

Ignore the lack of italics or indentions; the site takes them out because I have to copy-and-paste them in, and it's way too much writing to edit all over again!
This is only the first two chapters, but if anyone likes it enough, I'll put in more!

This was originally supposed to be more stream-of-action, more things happening than than being thought, but I may have deviated from that entirely!
I'm mostly interested in people telling me about awkward sentences, poor grammar, and the like.

Reviews

[Legacy]

Good Morning Atari,

I must say, you do know your hunting and even a bit about the hunted.

The story line seems to flow rather fine. A bit drawn in the understanding, however no problem following along. A little patience�no different than doing your time in the woods.

Your descriptive uses are well placed and powerful. If I may suggest - cut down on the amount you use.

Look forward to viewing more.

Write on....

Legacy

[Chelsea Schermerhorn]

I've only gotten to read through chapter one at the current moment, but I have to say, you do well with sensory details and imagery. I'm a little hazy over the world it's set in, but that's probably because I have not read further. The two instances I caught with inconsitency are allusions that would not fit into a fantasy world that was not futurized of our own-
"Yes! Yes! I shouted in my head, this was perfect! I wager Daniel Boon himself would have grinned at having a situation like this: An open shot without so much as the protruding limb of a tree to block my vision."
and
"Not the bloody deer, mind you, but the fact that the first deer I had ever killed in my life lay before me. I knew that my dad would be impressed. I could hardly say as much for my mother, what, with me shooting Bambi and all."
If the world is not a futurized, fantasy version of our own, then, I'm sure there was no Daniel Boon or Bambi. lol.
I admire your descriptions. The details are amazing, but in your fervor, I think they might be a little overdone in the first chapter, but then, that's only my own opinion. This is a very good piece of work from what I've read so far, and I look forward to reading more when I have the time, but I have 427 poems to read and judge from the Any and All Poetry Contest, along with 41 Edgar-Allen-Poe-type works. lol. Luckily, my Spring Break from school has begun.

[S. L. Bynum]

First I want to thank you for critiquing my story. I edited it a bit because I understood what you were saying.

Now I'll get to your story. Good news first: Excellent beginning. You're good at setting the scene, which is something I'm working on. The character's perception of the hunt is told well with much intensity. You have a knack for getting into the character's mind and exposing his thoughts and feelings exceptionally well. I even laughed at some parts, such as when the character was "covered in a plethora of itches". I also like how you refer to the reader in chapter two.

Now the bad news: A few grammar issues, such as the line, "Do you ever notice that you only get an itch when an important moments comes about?" where you should either drop the 's' on 'moments' or change it to "when important moments come about". And I don't know about the part when you're explaining that you need to pull out a thesaurus and avoid repetition; it seems like you're referring to you, the writer, instead of remaining focused on the character. But that's my opinion; maybe it's just a unique way of writing. Also, try not to overdue the descriptions of scenes.

All in all, your writing is very professional. I look forward to reading more to see exactly how a "Draknian's" electricity works. Keep writing!