Legacy

My father was a hero. Mom whispered it to me every night, reassuring me over and over. He died during the final battle with Malou, the dark lord. Somehow, despite a wound that should've killed him instantly, he got back to his feet, managing to deal a deathblow to the scourge that wanted to destroy the country. Not long after that, he succumbed to his wounds.

That story was legend. My father was the man who killed the dark lord, the man who lived a foot soldier and died a hero. He was the only man to receive a commendation for bravery and service to his country after his death.

Now, though, Mom didn't like to talk about him. It had been years since he died, she would say. Why did I care so much about the dead? This was a time for the living.

I suspected it was painful. She could humor me when I was young, when the pain was fresh, when it felt good to talk. Now, though, it was like digging into a healing wound, causing it to bleed. So I stopped asking. Just studied the picture of the man on the mantle and wondered how I was going to live up to his legacy.

Of course, stories about heroism stay with you. Everyone remembers the tales of knights and horses and castles that they were told as children. Perhaps not all the details are perfectly clear anymore, but that's all right. Age can dull the imagination.

When I was young, my mom pleaded with me not to tell anyone about my father. Being the daughter of a hero could make my life hard, harder than it was. If they knew my father, there would be no peace. 

I promised, and kept my word. Even when I was taunted for not having a father, even when the war veterans stared at me in suspicion, even when I was held up as an example to the class. Mom refused to let me go to the gatherings, dinners and training exercises that supposedly would unite our people, making it impossible for another dark lord to rise.

When I was a year from graduation, having grown into a quiet young woman who kept herself to herself in a class with very few secrets, our teacher announced a field trip. This was a mandatory trip, part of our studies into the dark lord and the factors that had allowed him to seize control of our then-fragile country.

Deep down, I was excited. Of course I was. My classmates would finally see what a hero my father actually was. 

"All right, everyone," my teacher, Miss Caddel, called out. "Pay attention! A few of your fathers are on display in the museum, as you probably know. I'll try to point them out as we walk through. Of course, there will be time at the end of the tour for you to explore by yourselves."

"Miss?" a girl named Samantha raised a hand.

"Yes, Samantha?"

"Is it true that they've recently opened an exhibit displaying the dark lord and his highest officials?"

Miss Caddel nodded. "Very good. Yes, there has been a display created, simply because there were two sides to the struggle, not only one. When we remember that, we are much closer to peace."

"So you support it?"

"Pardon me?"

"You support the display, especially the statues, that immortalize the dark lord? Wouldn't it be better to let the world forget that he existed?"

Our teacher stared at her. "My personal views on the matter don't have anything to do with the tour. The bus leaves in a few minutes for the museum. Line up, choose a buddy. Just like in Kindergarten, you don't go anywhere without your buddy. Got it?"

They lined up, and, like always, I was alone. It was a perk of being in a class with an odd number of people.

"Guess we're partners again," Miss Caddel told me. 

"If you don't mind, Miss, I'd like to explore on my own. I've been waiting for this trip for a very long time."

"Mia?"

"My father was one of the men who took down the dark lord. My mom never wanted to take me to the museum and wouldn't let me go alone. I'd like to see it by myself the first time. Somewhere in that museum, my father's name is on the list of heroes. Please, Miss."

She looked thoughtful for a few moments, then nodded. "Yes, Mia. But don't tell the others, all right?"

It was my turn to nod.

When we arrived at the museum, I waited for the others to leave, then stood up. 

Once inside, I made a beeline for the new exhibit, dodging around some of the smaller groups that were wandering around. Still carrying my backpack, even though we'd been told to leave them on the bus, I knelt down in front of the statue, 

"You thought that I wouldn't know," I said, out loud. I guess I was talking to the statue, but even a little to myself. "You begged Mom not to tell me. She was willing to lie to me, for years. She wanted me to remember you as a hero, the man you were in your last moments. But that doesn't erase the rest of your life." Looking up from my work, I met my father's eyes, eyes that were forever staring over the shoulder of the dark lord himself. "But Mom got tired of lying to cover for someone who was never coming back. She knew that I would find out anyway. Someone had to tell me, eventually. They hated and shunned me for something that wasn't my fault. Something that I never even witnessed. And that was your fault. So, you really can't blame me for this. For a very, very long time, you had this coming."

Behind me, I heard someone come in. Because of the controversy, this exhibit had not been very popular with the public. No one wanted to mess with the past, especially not the villains.

"Look at this," Samantha said. "I thought you looked familiar."

"What do you mean?" Her boyfriend was not an airhead like she was. He was one of the few who had actually tried to befriend me. His name was David, though he preferred Chipmunk. Well, he hadn't come up with that himself. It was gifted to him after a particularly unbelievable win in a marshmallow eating contest.

"Mia. Look at her, and then look at General DeSanto."

Chipmunk stared at me for several minutes, and then his eyes widened. "Mia?"

"Yes, he was my father. No, I never met him. Yes, I hate the bastard as much as the rest of you do."

"What are you doing, Mia?" Samantha had apparently noticed the apparatus behind me.

"You know what, Samantha? I'm done with your drama. How about the two of you turn yourselves around and walk back out of here?"

"Fine Mia. You're such a freak." Samantha grabbed Chipmunk's elbow, swinging him around and out of the room. "Let's go find ourselves some of the bags of spiced nuts or something."

Once I was finished with my contraption, I tucked it under the platform for the statue. Then I lifted my now much-lighter backpack and made my way back to the bus.

Later that day, I was eating with my mom, for the first time in weeks. There wasn't much we could talk about anymore, but she liked to play the news. Several of the doctors I spoke with said that her obsession with current events was a result of her involvement in the war. She had gone from being relevant, important and needed to being a nobody. It was a blow for anyone.

"Today, in the museum, an explosion destroyed the new exhibit, titled Villains in our Time." The newscaster was a male, and his voice was remarkably dry. "Three civilians were killed in the blast, and five others were injured. Two of the fatalities were students at a local school, one David Killinger and Samantha Burton."

Mom sat up a little straighter. "Didn't you have class with them?"

"Yes, I did."

"You went to the museum today, didn't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

She stood up, knocking her chair back onto the floor. "Mia, what did you do?"

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Mia, where is your backpack? Where is it, Mia?"

There was a knock at the door. In a split second, I was out the back and running. I had to live up to Father's legacy.

Writing tip #17 - ‘Said’ is usually fine

 You’ve all read it. The book where characters scream out their point, they mumble, they gasp, they sigh, they breathe, they cry. But it never seems like they can bring themselves to just SAY something. That’s because, a lot of the advice for writers concerning dialogue tags is about words that can replace things like said, or asked or whatever. Often, this is bad advice, for several reasons.

First, how often would you use words other than said to describe yourself speaking? Your characters are a bit of a reflection of you, and in real life, people don’t breathe words. They say them. Of course, there are occasions when you do breathe your words, or pant them, or whatever. But then make it clear from the character’s body language. If said is a word that never appears in your story, that’s not a good thing.

Said is also a throwaway word. By this, of course, I don’t mean that it’s a word that should never show up in your writing, but rather that it disappears. It’s a word that readers tend to expect, and if you use it, they won’t really notice. Words like gasped and breathed and sighed when describing dialogue can break up the story, because this is now something the reader has to think about. If you mention that a character sighed before they speak, you’ve had the action, and it’s easier on the reader.

If you’re spending more time looking for increasingly fancy words to use for dialogue tags, don’t. Chances are, if you don’t know what it means without asking Google, neither will your readers. 

Sometimes, it can feel like your story is a never ending string of the word said. When that’s the case, look back over your writing and see if you can take out some dialogue tags. In a conversation between two people, they aren’t really necessary after the first few. Unless you break the rhythm of the conversation of course.

I know I’ve touched on this before, but posts with what appear to be more descriptive words for said bother me, because it’s an excuse to tell rather than show. Sometimes that’s good, but it’s usually better to use wording and body language to give the context and tone for a conversation

Day 261

 Day 261

We found it. An hour ago. We found the weapon that the Professor told us would finally stop the Apocalypse, his greatest creation. 

We often wondered why he couldn’t just tell us what it was, as that would make our search easier. We understand now. Everyone does.

The child sat in the corner, his legs pulled tight to his chest, shaking with cold and fear. As far as we knew, he’d been alone since the whole disaster began. It was a miracle he’d survived. Children were a rare sight these days. The aliens knew that our advantage lay in the fact that we could multiply faster than they could, so a disease that targeted children and pregnant women was devastating. Just like that, they’d built a stronghold, a blemish our planet might never recover from.

“He’s just a kid,” Jamie muttered next to me, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder. All our old weapons were useless against the aliens, that race of energy beings. We still carried them, though, to defend ourselves against anything else that roamed and wanted us dead.

“The Professor should be happy,” I replied, not wanting to let my friend know how wrong I thought this was. 

“All right!” Devon’s voice brought us snapping to attention, standing up straight. The kid flinched. “We’re moving out! The Professor will know what to do. Sammy, you help the kid. Make sure he gets there in one piece.”

I nodded, saluting.

The little boy shrank away from me as I approached him. It wasn’t surprising. We’d essentially kidnapped him, even if it was to save his life.

"It's all right," I told him, keeping my voice low and reassuring. "I won't hurt you. We just want to get you somewhere safe."

“Where?” He stared up at me, eyes huge in his thin face.

“We move around.” I nudged his side, prompting him to move over. “Gotta stay one step ahead, you know?”

The boy nodded, relaxing just a little.

“What’s your name?” I asked quietly. “Mine’s Sammy.”

“I’m Damen.”

“That’s a strong name.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m strong.”

It was sad, how quickly he’d grown up. When I was his age, all I worried about was catching bugs and staying up past bedtime. War has so many casualties that no one even remembers. Youth is a big one.

“We should head out,” I told him, getting to my feet. “It’s safer for us to be with the others.”

He nodded and followed me.

“How did you find me?” He asked after silently keeping up with my much longer steps for long enough that I stopped checking to see if he was next to me.

“We have ways. Basically, we tapped into the vermin communication systems. We’ve been interfering in every disturbance and investigating any reports of children.”

“So there are other kids like me?”

For a moment, I hesitated, wanting to shield him from at least a little of the darkness in the world. But it was foolish. He’d find out, and not telling him the truth now would make it harder later.

“No. They were all infected by the time we got there.”

“Why not me?”

“Hopefully we can answer that.”

He fell silent, keeping his head down. “How did you hack their comms? The old reports said they were encrypted, protected by some cyber bug.”

“They were, until the Professor  cracked the encryption. Some of the guys joke that he slayed the bug.”

It took such a long time for him to reply, I glanced at him. He’d stopped, staring. There was something like horror on his face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, turning around.

“You’re with the Professor?” He asked. 

“How do you think we knew to look for you?”

The terror on his face scared me. “Does he know you found me?”

“We radioed in the moment we confirmed it was you.”

Resolve slowly replaced his terror, bringing colour back to his face. “Then I’ve got no choice. Sammy, I’m going to need your help. Otherwise everyone is going to die.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Professor is not human, and he’s definitely not helping you. He’s the reason those creatures gained a foothold at all. He’s also the one who created the virus.”

Now he had me staring at him. “No, that can’t be true. The Professor lost his wife and child to the disease, he’s been the leader of our organization since the war was lost.”

“And how much have you rebels done? Killed a few aliens, here and there, barely enough to make a difference. Moved around, under the guise of hiding? Why do you think the Professor wants me so bad? I know what he is.”

“How?”

“Children can see through their cloaking for some reason. That’s why the virus targets them. Adults can’t see that their world was already quietly taken over long before the guns came along.”

“But what does this have to do with you? Why not let the virus take you and be done with it?”

“I’m immune. They did their testing on me, before the virus was strong enough. I got antibodies, so now I can’t die from it. He needs to kill me so I can’t tell what I know.”

I thought it over for a long while. Even if I didn’t know who this kid really was, I kinda believed him. Enough to speak to the Professor about it, anyway.

“All right kid,” I finally replied, “you hide in the rubbish here. I’m gonna go talk to the Professor, see how much is true. If it is, I’ll kill him right there, no matter the consequences. If it’s not, I’ll come back with guards and bring you in. If you aren’t waiting here when I come back, I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself.”

He nodded. I longed for the day when threatening a child would get me arrested. Times were different now.

My rifle slung over my shoulder, I strode into our hideaway, nodding to the guards. 

“Where’s the kid?” Jamie asked.

“Around. I need to talk to the Professor.”

“Sammy, he’s not seeing anyone. Especially not you. Something about a betrayal. I’m sorry, but I have to arrest you.”

I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. We’d been closer than brothers since the apocalypse started. “What do you mean?”

“Either you come quietly for me, or you will be forcefully taken by the crew. Orders. From the Professor himself. I don’t know how he knows.”

Silent and wary, I handed Jamie my gun, feeling like I was cutting off an arm. This couldn’t be happening.

Devon stood in the centre of the mess hall, arms crossed.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll beg for forgiveness,” Jamie whispered behind me, but I ignored him.

“Sam.” Devon’s voice was harsh, harsher than he’d ever spoken to me. “Are you aware of the accusations?”

“No, Dev.”

My brother was tearing himself apart. I could tell from his eyes that he was beating himself up over this. “Where is the boy, Sam? What have you done with him?”

I paled. Somehow, the Professor knew what Damen had said to me. He had to know. “He’s safe. But he can’t come here.”

“Why not, Sam? Where is he?”

“The Professor wants to kill him. The kid is immune to the virus.”

“All the Professor wants to do is study him. If that kid has the cure for the disease, we could win the war.”

I stared at my brother. He rarely disagreed with me, at least not on anything important. 

“The Professor is one of them, Dev. He’s an alien, and the kid knows it.” A small part of me wondered when I’d accepted what Damen said as truth. It didn’t matter. I believed him.

“Listen to yourself, Sam,” Devon was getting angry. The conflict that had been barely hidden was gone, replaced with fury. “He saved both our lives. How can you say that?”

“It’s true. You have to believe me, Dev.”

My brother shook his head. “You’re crazy Sam. Somehow, the kid got to you. This is for your own good.”

Jamie pulled a pair of restraining tablets from his pocket, warming them in his hand.

I didn’t even think. All I knew was that I had to get away or I was a dead man. Senses honed in the decade of war lent me speed and strength. 

I pushed Dev to the floor, knocking him out with a swift, hard punch. Behind me, the others were scrambling for their guns. But it was too late. I was free. I was out of stun range....

A sharp, jarring pain sent me to my knees. I was out of stun range, true. But as a traitor, they were authorized to use lethal force. And the lethal rounds went twice as far as the stun rounds did before they lost their charge.

Hot, wet blood ran through my fingers as I desperately clutched at the wound. Trying to hold the flood in my body. I lay on my side in the rubble, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Devon leaned over me, shouting at someone, shouting something. But it was too late. The world was disappearing into a flood of darkness at the edges of my vision. And then there was nothing.

Writing Tip #16 - Characters Aren’t your Babies

 All right. Many writers have a tendency to be overprotective of their characters. They take care of them, pamper them and make sure that nothing truly bad ever happens to them. Perhaps this character loses their dog, but find it back before the end of the book, or they get a bruise when bones should’ve broken. Either way, it’s rather easy to spot these books. The protagonist usually sees the world through rose-tinted glasses, and they invariably end with all the conflict tied in a happy little bow. Nothing wrong with a happy ending, but the happy ending will be sweeter if your character had to fight to get there, rather than float nonchalantly through life, protected by the unseen force that is the author’s  pen.

These characters are flat, stale, and boring. If you want to see what your character is made of, you need to take them to the breaking point, then beyond it. The worst should happen. 

Imagine that your characters are like geodes. They're a bit boring on the outside, with dirty, lumpy bits. But if you smash them, it reveals the beauty inside. And you will never know about that beauty unless you break them.

Of course, there are certain lines that each author needs to draw for themselves. For example, if you don't want to kill any of your characters, have logical ways for them to survive. A character that is always miraculously getting out of life-threatening and usually fatal situations won't be the same as a character who was in a terrible situation, but escaped due to prior planning, or some exploitation of weakness (a kidnapped character being found due to negligence on the villain's part, or a brief moment of freedom to speak with someone not connected to the villain is often more believable than the character being found out of nowhere, because of a single footprint left by a henchman, or something like that. Foreshadowing is key in making things believable. If your villain is a monster, it doesn't necessarily mean that those around him are.) 

You can decide that, even though your character might be tortured, they won't be left with any obvious scars. This opens up wonderful opportunities for things like psychological torture and other devious methods of gathering information from someone. Some authors will murder people by the handful, but will never hurt an animal. Some could benefit from letting a few of their characters survive.

So. Kill the dog. Murder the friend. Make your team fight, disagree, even betray one another. Give your character something to fight for, because a character without suffering is a character without substance. Give your happy 

Build a character, make them human, give them names and families and lives. And then break them. Your writing will be a thousand times more interesting.

(An important thing to note is that I don't write children's books, and you shouldn't be looking for advice on children's books here. I'm a novelist. Children's and picture books are a whole different pot of tea.)

Recruit

 He found the journal on the train. Of course, being a conscientious person, he normally would never take something that didn’t belong to him, and certainly wouldn’t read someone else’s journal. But this journal spoke to him, called to him. And he couldn’t resist.

He sat back in his seat, fascinated with the journal. It was worn, the spine creased from being opened and added to. 

Opening the cover himself, he began to read.

*****

If you're reading this, it's already too late for me. If you hurry, you might be able to save yourself.

My name isn’t important, and it isn’t one that you’ll know. Just know that there were others who went before me, and there will be those who come after. You are one.

If you are reading this, the journal called to you. Your mind is curious, open and ever growing. Exactly the qualities you’ll need to survive.

Not everyone believes in an all-powerful good, but everyone is at least aware that things don’t always go right. This is because there is an evil in this world, an evil that taints everything it touches. Long ago, humans were touched by this evil and the Earth was wiped clean. But that was long ago, and humans have forgotten.

Evil is real. Luckily for us, so is good. And this is where you come in. You are the newest member of a secret society that works to uproot the social system through good. Historical figures like Abraham Lincoln, William Wilburforce and Mother Theresa were all members of this group. Of course, we do not have a monopoly on goodness. Once in a while, someone will come from the darkness and help with our work, having never even been contacted.

There are many of us, and yet the enemy has even more agents working for him, working to stop us. The man who assassinated Lincoln was such an agent, one who took revenge for the blow to their cause.

But what is your task? It is a simple one. Do as much good as you can. Look out for those who can’t help themselves, speak for those who have no voice. Fight for peace and justice.

So far, I’ve mentioned two groups, those who fight for good and those who fight for evil. But there is a third, and this group is the largest of the three. It’s the group of ordinary people, those who don’t fight for anything. They are ignorant of the battle that is waged around them, unaware of the toll it could take on their lives. But they are a vital part, because they have the seeds of both tremendous evil and tremendous good inside them. They can be swayed to fight for us, if you are careful and meticulous. 

This is why my task, and now yours, is such an important one. We are the foot soldiers, those who walk among the ignorant. We are responsible for small acts that can change a person's life, acts as simple as smiling at someone. 

You have no supervisor. No one will be holding you accountable, other than your own conscience. What you do with the information I have given you is your choice. But remember. If you aren’t for us, you are against us. Apathy is giving the enemy a helping hand, simply because there is one less soldier fighting on our side. A single grain of rice can tip the balance.

*****

He stared at the worn leather book in his hands. This couldn’t be real. There was no way. It was some kind of sick joke, or a work of creative  writing, forgotten by an absent minded author.

But then he felt the eyes. The little hairs on the back of his neck stood up, sending tingles through his body. This wasn’t a feeling he’d felt often during his ordinary life, but it was unmistakable. Fear rose in his throat.

“You know it’s real,” the woman next to him whispered, still facing forward. “And they know you know. You need to get off this train.”

He stared at her, thousands of questions forming. Then she smiled, and it clicked into place. The journal was hers. She was the one sending him onto a path that would change his life forever.

The train slowed to a stop, and she elbowed him. “Get off, now. Before they realize I’ve passed on the mission. The journal will help you. Read more when you are safe.”

“But, but,” he whispered, desperately trying to come up with a protest. “Why me?”

“You read the journal. It’s your purpose. To create chaos in the ranks of evil through good deeds. Honestly, once you get going, it’s a lot of fun. But if you don’t get off the train, we’ll both die here.”

“Are there others?”

“More than you can ever know. Now go.”

He got up, gathered his things, and left the train, glancing back to see that the woman was now surrounded by men in black suits. “FBI,” one said, “We need you to come with us.”

As they escorted her off, she caught his eyes, holding them for one long second. Then she was gone, and his life would never be the same.