I recently completed some physiotherapy on my legs (still doing the exercises but seeing massive improvements already) and I feel like a new man. There’s a springiness I’ve lacked in the months following my sprained ankle that are a big part of my zest for life. If I stay faithful to my physio I should be back at the MMA gym by early September, which is right around the time the sailing season ends…
And sailing is going great. The same looseness in my limbs that gives me confidence on the ground is so key for feeling at ease on the water. I’ve nailed down the basics of the boat and am starting to shoot selfies during the long reaches of races, as you can see below.
I’m still writing up a storm, and I’ve got some fun stuff you can check out if you like my work in fiction.
Need for Steed: Suravani’s Oasis is a story I’m writing solo on the creative writing/roleplaying website Althanas.com. I’m using it to build upon a model concept for a herculean character who will appear in the first full length novel of Echoterre. The desert continent it takes place in is also great for forcing me to expand my creative thinking, as it is rich with unique lore.
The Cellebration is a post-tournament in game social mixer I started half a year ago – and the party is still going strong! This can be read much like a choose-your-own adventure story, there’s a rich cast of some of the top characters on Althanas and they put a lot of energy into out-flirting and under-cutting each other. If you want to read something light and silly and a little bit sexy, check this out!
The Pixie’s Paramour is a short story I’m working on as part of a larger anthology called Murderville. It’s a gritty look at an ultraviolent future to our current social regime where larger than life heroes and villains fill the void in humanity. The following teaser shows more the ugly side than the fantastical, but hopefully it will hook your interest:
I’d never been in a real street fight – at least not since the seventh grade. At a certain point around age fourteen the consequences of combat changed. The idea of being seen by society as a violent criminal for the rest of my life terrified me much more than the concept of taking a beating. I chanelled my energy into martial arts and combat sports and gradually the desire to engage in pointless bloodlust waned.
Ten years later the red mist returned to lick at the corners of my eyes. A gauntlet of unfortunate events had filed my rough edges back into points. Weapons with only one purpose. And so I trudged the streets of Murderville, trying my best to disguise a limp.
The small city had a prettier name once. Before the Farmer’s Market dried up and the local busisnesses skipped town, leaving only the lowest cost franchises and warehouses amidst boarded up abandoned buildings. The population had waned, but only slightly. A different breed of citizen had occupied the haphazard assortment of smoky-halled apartment buildings and falling down houses. Those who slipped through the cracks left in our capitalist society.
My refusal to vacate the barren town was one of the reasons she gave for not loving me anymore. I’d been worried when communication became more about buzzword text messages than the long conversations we used to share. But I’d given her the benefit of the doubt… and when at last we saw each other again she had force-marched herself through a complete breakup without telling me. Yet still she wept in my arms. She come to know me too well, and inflicted as much pain as she could in leaving.
Barely sleeping and in a constant daze, I’d thrown myself into training. The increase in vigor matched with minimal focus brought me a badly sprained ankle that didn’t want to heal. I couldn’t lift, couldn’t run, couldn’t jump, couldn’t train. It took less than three weeks laid up in my apartment for the red mist to boil up.
And then I found myself downtown, navigating the cracked cobblestone of old Market Square with feet bare inside green rubber crocs. There was a time when I never went out on foot without wearing sturdy shoes. In case I had to kick someone or run, or both. But kicking and running were out of the question with the injury to my right ankle. I leaned against one of a long line of wooden supports holding up a walless roof that had once sheltered the farmers on market days.
A long low sedan nosed to the curb, fresh white paint reflecting the late noon sun. I realized with mild surprise it was the same honda civic I’d seen circling the block in the opposite direction. My slow, deliberate pace had looped me through to where the civic pulled up to park.
Three of four doors opened and six feet hit the street. Innane conversation cut off as three skinheads in baggy T-shirts and jeans. The passengers looked to the driver who was looking at me. He was taller and broader in all dimensions than his buddies – fatter, more muscular, and his skin and scalp was several shades paler than the others. The kind of semi-tan prison inmates get during their daily hour of outdoor recreation.
A thick marbled steak, fresh from the meatlocker.
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoy my work please let me know by sharing this post with like-minded folk or leaving a comment. Even if only two people read what I write… I write it for you too!
Lover Fighter Writer 