The Writer's Tool Box

This  is a valuable tool for writers adding dimension to stories embellishing descriptions feeding the mind's eye.  If you have a visual of a place to look at a seed is planted, and when that seed is watered by the writer's pen roots sprout into being. There is an entire world out there just waiting to be discovered with your pen, or keyboard. A great way for the imagination to expand is by stepping outside the box. Investigating the world of difference; exploring the unknown.  Trust me these things are not in the backyard or playground up the road.  The concepts behind our block buster movies like Mission Impossible, Ian Fleming's 0007 Bond and Man from U.N.C.L.E. they all took place in exotic places.  The world is literally at our finger tips with tools like Google Earth, and YouTube.  We can't all hop a flight to destination exotica, but we do have wi-fi.
Why be satisfied with just wring about what happened around the corner or down the street when creating your short story, or novel's world. Do you know how much fun you can have creating that special place from the imagination.  Another tool of great value is WRITER'S GUIDE TO PLACES it covers 50 states 51 cities and Canadian Provinces; making your writing more authentic. And if you find yourself at a loss for words... like we all experience from time to time there's the Roget's Descriptive Word Finder.  Everything from A to Z nicely formatted, ya gotta love it.

But let us not leave out our characters we painfully birth painting our stories with other levels of dimension and populating the these places we've so meticulously created. Most times we see our characters walking in the flesh in daily life from the frustrating ass holes on the job to the most admired. A little frustration can go a long way if you know how to channel it and make a tool out of it. Even the media and all the drama that comes with it, and even the anger if you can recognize it's potential to your story... a tool to be used.  Sometimes the best ideas come from places of aggravation.  With an over active imagination, and annoyed immensely  I ended up writing
"To Resurrect and Avenge"  a 5 book series about Police Corruption and the Supernatural all this from being  aggravated before I retired. It was also a way of alleviating stress. Never get mad just get writing....imagine a haunted police department Head quarters build over sacred grounds offending the dead. Put it all in the box and think outside the box.
Some times you can even use the ass holes that are doing the annoying when creating characters.  We can be like Dr. Frankenstein, the mad scientist, the world's savior, or even the master chef. Our ingredients determine the character's outward and inward expression from the perfect villain to the perfect heroes. Most times its more then how your character looks, it's about the deep rooted physiological and dysfunctional character traits if they are to be the protagonist of the story. What about the lack of empathy?  How does our character express him or herself...with small words or long drawn out sentences.  Is there a key phrase this character likes to use. Does your character display numerous emotion states of mind? Does your character have a political stance...and what's his or her agenda,or ulterior motive. Life style, economic status, place of origin, family background, history, education all of these areas of life play a role in developing your characters. They should have a story to tell, when you use the tools from your tool box.  I'll be posting excerpts from To Resurrect and Avenge in the near future so come back to be in Another reality.
 Have fun creating and you can visit me at  
www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicles
 

The Children of Banjul Part 1

The citadel loomed over the city of Banjul oppressive and foreboding.  Its stone structure’s spires seemed to stab into a dark sky with its arch carved towers keeping a watchful eye for the possible invasion of enemies  and enemies of the unseen world as well.  Walls built of volcanic stones and boulders rose up to great heights surrounding the place that was once the sanctuary of its people; now only vacant structures and pathways with the occasional stray goat stood witness to the abuse of power as its population fled their homes, some in exile and others thrown into the citadel’s dungeons for minor infractions of the law, or worse accused of manipulating the forces of nature and put to death. Only the king was permitted the use of the occult.  Those condemned had their essence extracted to be used in spells to vanquish enemies of the petty conqueror that oppressed them now.  

Deceit and treachery from those thought to be loyal instigated political turmoil and in-house fighting among the ranking patriarchs.  Conflict of foreign policies and a lack of alliances became an open invitation to over throw Banjul’s ruler emperor Lagolas.  Chaos and uncertainty ripped away at his being as he watched his kingdom slip from his grasp as his sons died one by one engaged in battles that possessed no strategic value nor rhyme nor reason only that false accusations made stated that the bordering kingdom’s long standing treaty between neighboring lands had been violated there by invoking an act of war.    Lagolas had long suspected Mazula’s treacherous deeds played a part in the events unfolding with his obsession for the sacred essence; an ancient magic that proved to be neither true nor false only a mystery shrouded in darkness.  Many perished in search of it’s the sacred essence; an opiate with many attributes to open doors to the spirit world and summon its occupants to do one’s bidding, or change one’s physical appearance.  It was the key to overcoming death to live as a god, to turn lead to gold possessing more riches than one could imagine.  And last but not least having sway over the forces of nature.  Many have died for this quest that remains elusive leaving behind blood soaked lands whose spirits can never find peace.      

 In the throne room sat the embodiment of barbarity king Mazula referred to as the man-beast cursed by his ancestors a war oriented soul who lived for the sake of battle.  Blood filled dreams afforded him no peace as restlessness fed his appetite for cruelty.  He would never be afforded the simplest pleasantries of life; the scent of jasmine, the sweetness of honey would evade him as bitterness and the stench of death would remain his closest companion.   

 Losing his son in battle his heart pounded with rage as he inhaled and exhaled. An unquenchable thirst for carnage rose up in him with anger flowing through his veins as if it were blood as he denied an unimaginable truth.  The unholy conception of his son was an abomination before nature itself.  That one fateful night a witch an enemy of his ancestors deceived him sending him one where death had embodied her.  In his time of weakness ignoring the faint stench of death that hung over her accompanied by her cold embrace he indulged his urges.  The attempts of his ancestors to return her back to the kingdom of the dead were futile as he did the unthinkable and banished his ancestors, a fate worse than death itself.  But the powerful spirits would not be denied revenge of such sacrilege.  Propelled by fury an unrelenting curse fell upon him never would he know peace again or of life’s pleasantries as he fell prey to lowest of bestial natures.  His thoughts would be of confusion creating his reality around him with a twisted and dark mind that only viewed the world around him as his enemy suspicious of everyone. Uncontrollable fits of anger often led to someone’s execution.   Afterwards when the anger faded he claimed it as the will of the gods.  It was often whispered that the king engaged in human sacrifice to sooth the raging beast inside of him by eating the hearts of his victims; thus the reason for his rather un-nerving appearance.  The sharpened teeth with nails black as slate was reason enough to fear Mazula.  His blood lust nature draped his spirit as if it were a robe, obsessed with power the tyrannical beast ordered those with loyalties to the previous ruler to be singled out for banishment or death according to their rank or status, or more importantly his mood for the time being.   Empowering those from his inner circle he quickly replaced the generals of the old king whom he despised, and replaced them with individuals lacking the ability to think for themselves and would agree to anything to simply appease the twisted notions of the war mongering tyrant.  From such like minded individuals he formed his own political and judicial council to execute his bidding.

*

 Dozens of Torches lit the circular chamber as shadows danced about free of a physical counterpart against the grey stone walls.  Evil had been birthed; taking up residence where justice once dominated.  Zaire stood before the war council scarred and battle hardened exposed like a raw nerve beneath the chain-mail armor as he felt resentment for accusations made against him at the battle of Zokarius defending Banjul against her enemies.  A place where war raged for as long as anyone could remember, in fact it was completely lost as to why the fighting continued some say it was over unclaimed riches of sacred essence, others say it was over land and what was buried deep within the earth.  Many reasons were given as to why countless wars reigned with its casualties populating the ether. 

Surrounded by political enemies his jaw clenched as he gazed out at the faces that gloated over his perceived defeat.  “Mazula’s lackeys… I knew the time would come when honor would be replaced with decadence of heart where cowards who had never held a sword would determine a warrior’s fate,” he thought.  The council knew they could never persuade him to their political view or control him.  “It is much safer to annihilate what cannot be controlled,” they thought. 

The men seated before him in positions of perceived authority formed the council of law most of which were politically corrupt and immoral void of integrity seething with hatred.   Old and bitter envious of Zaire’s strength, and courage they sought to judge the warrior standing before them.  Battle wounds marked his body like badges of honor.  Restrained by the kings guard’s with heavy chains securing him was the only reason why the council felt so compelled to express such condescending and arrogant overtones laced with complete disrespect when referring to the warrior before them.  Only the privileged witnessed the many sessions of innocents on trial for fabricated accusations falsely lodged against them with no recourse.   

“You are hereby accused of a most heinous act… resulting in the death of your captain… the king’s son Mazula the II heir to the throne of Banjul…by the use of the forbidden knowledge of the dark arts….no commoner should have access or knowledge of the occult or conspire with demons or the dead.   Should I go on,” the voice bellowed out condemning Zaire to doom in just a few short words.          

“If you must to confirm your self appointed importance,” Zaire shot back angering the council that sought to dis-credit him and tarnish his character and reputation like so many that fell before the hateful and vindictive council of Mazula’s political Hench men. 

“I was ordered to slaughter those who posed no threat to anyone…women and children, the old and sickly after the battle was won, despite our captain fleeing at the height of the battle… it is where he met his demise.  He was cruel and cowardly he showed more cruelty to his men than the opposing forces we battled across our blood soaked lands,” he declared as his memories slipped back in time to the raging battle taking place in his memory vivid and clear as the events played over in his mind’s eye.  The sound of clashing steel rung out as armor was splashed with blood.  His ears filled with the screaming of dying men as they fell; some with limbs sheared off.  Others fought on with blood streaming down their faces some even with protrusions of the enemy’s weapon still embedded in their bodies.  He remembered the many times the swift breeze of the enemy’s battle ax whizzing by his head missing him narrowly because of the assistance of the powerful amulet and precious gems that adorned the breast plate that covered the massive chest.  Painted with his enemies’ blood concealing it; it blessed its wearer with power and strength making him nearly god-like, and victorious in battle like his father before him and his father before him.  The amulet’s great power protected them while all others perished in the heat of the battle.  No one ever knew where the amulets came from.  Some speculated that the amulet birthed itself into existence in the far reaches of another realm and was only attainable by those whose bloodline was worthy.  Others say it was cursed as it condemned all others around it to befall a most violent death while engaged in battle as it fed off of the blood lust of war, but no one knew for sure.   So many thoughts had run rapid in Zaire’s mind he couldn’t  help but to wonder if he himself were not cursed, but quickly shook the thought from his mind; for there was no room for doubts or fear as he was jolted back to the present.

“How do you plead,” the words thundered.

“What difference does it make to those of no moral standing…it is of no consequence how one pleads when the outcome is predetermined by the ill deeds of those who abuse their authority in such ways,” the warrior stated defiantly.

 “Then so be it you have here by been found guilty of the black craft and here by sentenced to death Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta.  Have you any last words?”

“Yes I do…How did the war council come to this conclusion? What proof do you have? Where are your witnesses?  I have the right to face my accusers.” 

Then suddenly the room seemed to have chilled and dimmed with the torches’ flames flickering as dread made its presence felt,” what proof do I have…my son is dead and you are still breathing,” the king said circling Zaire sizing him up as if he were to be devoured at a feast.  “He was a most skilled swordsman trained by only the best since he was a boy,” he snapped breathing heavily with gritted teeth; teeth that were filed down to a point.  The overly large hands that hung by his side baring black nails became clenched fist.  Standing before Zaire seething with hate and loathing for a man who had survived a battle that had taken his ill conceived son enraged him. 

“Sire…your hands,” a voice said gesturing to the droplets of blood that were trickling down to the floor forming a small puddle that darkened and then fouled the air.   Mazula glanced down momentarily un-phased by his blood he’d drawn from himself by his unrelenting anger.  “This dog before me dares to ask for proof I am the king and I need no proof.  You asked to face your accuser…here I am,” he growled only inches away from Zaire’s face ranting insults inciting the warrior to challenge him.  Zaire turned his face away from the hate filled words only to have an unbearable strong hand grab him by the jaw as black nails dug into his skin drawing blood, “what does the dog have to say,”  the king said pushing his face away leaving angry wounds that bled down his neck.  The horrific odor nearly took Zaire’s breath away.  Anger began to rise up swelling the warrior’s chest flaring his nostrils that took in the putrid air that seemed to add to the agitation of his spirit.  The insults and blatant disrespect he received after serving his kingdom perturbed his spirit.  To be rewarded with abuses from those whose quality of life had been greatly improved 100 times built a fire of rage he struggled to silence, but it would not be denied.  From deep within his spirit he felt the surge of truth bursting forth,” the demon seed you spawned dealt his men nothing but tyranny and misery gaining him many enemies.  His abuses of his office and authority granted him nothing but hate.  On the battle field he cowered behind sending good men to die in ill conceived battle strategies of poor planning…because they were expendable…and his father was the king.  The general’s advice was ignored because his father was the king.  He was arrogant ignorant and stupid filled with self importance like the rest of your lackeys.  What got your son killed was not magic or the dark arts or demons it was him fleeing from the heat of the battle as it threatened to overtake our position. We pushed the enemy back while your precious captain ran like a whipped dog…you can not blame magic for his cowardly demise.  And since I am to die my words will forever haunt you,” Zaire said with great satisfaction.  Suddenly an ear piercing howl rang out from Mazula somewhere between human and bestial shocking everyone except Zaire who saw the king for what he was. 

Thanks for visiting Another reality visit again for part two of The Children of Banjul. 
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The Storm's Calling

Paranormal stories supernatural, occult, new age, what ever you want to refer to them as they all contain elements of the metaphysical.  A basic understanding of any metaphysical subject is extremely invaluable.  It could be the oral traditions from a culture's spiritual concepts. Fantasy and  fiction writers' understanding of the basics will go a long way in character development, and origins.  A whole cast of heroes and villains come from just a small understanding of metaphysical science for fantasy writers or any creative story teller.  This is a story centered on the Kundilini and it's Chakra system originating; an Eastern metaphysical concept of how energy flows through our body utilized by many indigenous cultures around the globe.
Now the story begins

Stabbing down from the sky wet and cold came the rain accompanied by fierce winds carrying the spirits of the ancestors strong and powerful.  The villagers scurried in an attempt to escape the brutal elements with their meager belongings, but the fierce winds seem to tear away their homes with the exception of one who stood defiantly in the path of the violent rains and destructive winds. 
“Fools…you don’t honor your dead; especially now.  This is the thinnest the veil has ever been between the physical world and the spirit world… so shear almost like silk.  Eventually the veil will begin to deteriorate in different places and those whose eyes are aligned with their spirit eyes will be able to see on to the other side and those on the other side will be able to see on to this side.  They may even cross over.  Some will go mad,” she said seeming indifferent to the storm raging around her as she was not effected. 

“Miraku…Miraku…you got to get out before the Ganges flood everything,” the young man said soaked carrying a basket containing his belongings standing in the door way allowing the cold rain to find its way into the small structure that served as Miraku’s home.  “Boy…do not fear the Ganges.  The river spirits bring good fortune and clean away the bad.  This is a cleansing so much has plagued our people.  Close my door,” she said pulling him inside immediately calming him.
“We have lost our dream senses…our many ways to dream and communicate with the other side…that’s where our people are, but we can’t see or hear them.  You lost your spirit eyes and the will to dream your world.  Because you’re covered in dirt and filth…that’s what fear is…  Its hate…stop hating and dream walk.  Sometimes dream walking can shift your reality into another existence and teach you…give you wisdom boy. Close your eyes and still your mind boy.  So even when you hear the clock on the wall ticking and the traffic in the roads somehow your spirit sight has shifted now you’re residing in a distant world of spirits in a place comprised of mostly water elementals and ancestors.   They walk the surface of our world. These beings are elements within elements that create their own individual realities and ours too; multi-dimensional plains,” she said in his language compelling him to become still and thoughtful despite the raging winds and rain that pounded all around them yet doing no damage. She listened to the wind and then went on,” look  to the rain look inside of it, and listen to the wind use your spirit ears and eyes.” 

He began to stare out of the window into the falling rain. At first the rain was as if a thousand drops were all falling randomly then simultaneously becoming a sheet of wetness.  The wind once a howling in his ears now became words possessing a familiarity.
He listened closely disbelievingly,” Grandfather,” he asked,” that’s impossible my grandfather has been...”                                                                                

“What…dead.  Why do you not call him what he is… an honorable ancestor with a message he’s been trying to give you since he crossed over.  Open and listen,” she snapped returning his attention back to the storm before him. Again the familiar voice came speaking to him in a way he understood telling him the story he use to tell him when he was a child.

“Long ago populated among the more unique plains of existence was a village of people called the Khakras.  This was a culture steeped heavily into the ancient Rites the way we once were.  They relied upon their chosen to successfully complete a dangerous Rites of passage to empower them…many did not survive.  An arduous journey into the denser plains of existence was only the beginning of the perilous Rites of passage.  They must engage with the non-evolved and attempt to open the seven bridges of consciousness.

On Kun-Li’s fifth cycle she journeyed through many doorways only seen with the spirit eyes during the most sacred time of all ”the storm’s calling” the time celebrated by the water elementals.  Translucent and fluid they relished in their essence existing on the material plain and the non-material plain.  It was their time to congregate with other nonphysical beings, including the ancestors.  Messages were always being relayed back and forth between realms from the living and the dead and others.    At that place of many waters it was divined by the great oracle that her time had come to undergo these Rites.

“Kun-Li… it is you who must insure the opening of the way for the bridges of consciousness, and in doing so you cannot allow your essences to be dissipated or corrupted,” the crystal being whispered in a raspy voice as she glistened eagerly awaiting  the wisdom of the oracle.  The oracle flickered within the bank of mist that hovered over the luminescent water.

“At the base of the mountains in the temple of the deities is where you must find the Kundalini and become one with the fire element.”

“The fire element…you mean I must confront the serpent of fire,” she uttered with fear cloaking her like an eclipsed sun.

“Do not let your fears darken your light….how will you successfully complete the Rites in the denser plains?”  Immediately Kun-Li’s ambient light was absorbed by the mist; beckoning Kun-Li to ride the mist to the mountains of the moon. The mist weaved and coiled around her essence embracing her raising her as the mist traversed from the place of many waters with Kun-Li in its embrace.

Gazing from the mountain’s base was the fierce Kundalini.  Diamond shaped black onyx scales covered the powerful body that coiled around the mountain blocking its entrance.  The emerald eyes watched the approaching mist.  “Ahhhh another wishes to descend down into the abyss of dark matter.  Huuuummm how interesting.”  Patiently the serpent sat awaiting the descending mist.  Kun-Li could feel the atmosphere changing with every breath the serpent took as the mist swayed back and forth with her essence.  Kun-Li wondered how the serpent would react; considering none of the others returned from the denser plains.  Kun-Li attempted to fight back the fear that threatened to dominate. 

“I can smell your apprehension and almost taste the fear that threatens to ravish you.”  Kun-Li paused debating whether or not to approach the serpent that had been destined to swallow up the bringers of fear with its fire. 

“Tell me….shell I devour you now or later,” he hissed spraying fire with every word burning away the mist that had concealed her essence dropping her to the ground. 

Kun-Li’s illumination flickered frantically; being so close to the serpent’s muzzle.

“If you devour me I will not be able to fulfill my destiny.”

“But it is my destiny to devour fear….after all I am Kundalini,” he boasted.

Kun-Li thought intently,”I must master my fear,” over and over Kun-Li repeated like some melodic mantra until the flickering illumination became an ambient and a steady glow.

“Immmmpresssive,” the serpent hissed, “so tell me….what is it that is one with the darkness?  If you answer correctly you may mount the Kundalini… but do not let your ignorance doom you.”
Kun-Li thought long and hard before answering.  The serpent’s head weaved back and forth waiting for an answer with its unblinking emerald eyes gazing over her making her feel uneasy as his tongue darted in and out in an attempt to distract her. 

Kun-Li’s illumination began to pulsate brighter, “it is in the darkness where all colors are one.”

“Immmmpresssive Kun-Li you have earned the right to mount Kundalini, but before doing so remember….other worlds can be terrifying so remember to always master your fear and you will prevail as we descend into the lower realms; there we will rise up burning away all lower base instincts opening the way to the seven bridges of consciousness of the temple up to its apex gaining enlightenment fulfilling our destiny.” 

So with one swift leap Kun-Li mounted the great serpent where they became one raising up to the apex of the temple of deities in a great ball of fire.

Instantly his attention was snapped back to the monsoon’s violent rains and rushing waters.  However, his fear seemed to dissipate as he looked out on to a storm that appeared to bypass them with the Ganges gently carrying them along its currents as if the meager structure was somehow transformed into a seafaring vessel.  He looked at Miraku incredulously,” it is the will of the ancestors,” she said sitting back smiling.
I hope you have enjoyed another story from Another reality and thanks for visiting