IT #1

I think everyone should take up the hobby of writing letters.
Writing letters is a time where one reviews his or her own life and relays it in a more humble manner than any other time of conveyance. It's rather like keeping a journal, only the keeper is the recipient and not the sender (unless you have electronic mail and your web-account keeps track of sent messages).
Truly, it's an opportunity for a person to be a story teller, revealing tales of adventures, tragedy, penitence, and success. Or as the grandfather of Fred Savage in The Princess Bride put it: "Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monster, chases, escapes, true love... miracles..." As ironic as it is, or as silly as it sounds, we all have stories that contain all of these terrific elements that makes every life an epic masterpiece.
It is a practice that is healthful to every human soul because it is a sobering process. We recollect our deeds with deep sincerity (or at least deeper than usual), and in doing so, we judge ourselves worthy of commendation, or guilty in our wrong actions. They (the events in which we write letters) are times when we get the opportunity to be the wise donkey (or was it a mule?), who shook off all the dirt that fell upon him and stepped up. Or in other words, we gain a better understanding of ourselves, and therefore, we grow.
You Mormons out there have it pretty darn good in the fact that opportunity basks on your doorstep. There are always missionaries who direly need to be written to. So kill two birds with one stone by evaluating your lives and making improvements, and making a day (or even a week) for a missionary.
Letters can also stand the test of time.
The letters of Paul are powerful. They provide strength to millions (a hopeful estimate) by his personal enthusiasm for the gospel and his encouragement for others to keep a bold stronghold in the faith. The Screwtape Letters also bring the essence of humorous, but shocking soberness to us as we realize the true consequences of seemingly harmless decisions and influences. And--what the heck--even grandmama's birthday cards (which count as letters) always act as pleasant reminders that our ancestors (near-immediate) still remember us, and that there are people who love us [enough to send us some of their cash].
So go find someone to write, and you'll find yourself changed in the process. And if you don't...well, then you messed up somewhere and you need to try again.

And if you're not Mormon, you can still write a Mormon missionary if you want to. I only suggest that you enclose cookies with the letter. I will be going on a mission soon, and my favorite are no-bake peanut butter and chocolate cookies. But only if you want to.

The King

This is my first pretty good blog (at least, I think so). I wrote a little more than a year and a half ago.

In the land of Mar, the great and noble King Thrii reigned over us in peace with justice and equity. The land was prosperous, with healthy soil which produced the finest of crops, and our beautiful, lush, green fields fed and nurtured the best livestock in the known world. Happiness and joy lived in the hearts of all people in the land.
Alas, our peace was ended when the evil King Hroth of Varn invaded our borders with innumerable hordes of dark warriors and began to kill and burn all in their path as they marched across Mar, leaving death and destruction behind them. Our beautiful land quickly changed from a lush country to a desolate wasteland. As the plague of Hroth's havoc spread everywhere.
King Thrii sent army after army in attempt to stop Hroth. But all were overcome by the immensely powerful foe. All hope faded from the land and no resistance could defy the enemy. But King Thrii, refusing to surrender to this vile evil which invaded us, gathered all the men left in the land to assemble under his banner in one last attempt to vanquish the enemy and drive them out of our lands. Eagerly we all answered to his call in the defense of our homeland, as his bravery and confidence was enough for us to trust him to lead us through any crisis.
The day of the great battle arrived when the sun rose above the eastern hills on the other side of which our enemies were awaiting us. The day was clear, and a small breeze winded by every soldier, lulling us as we stood in our formations we had assembled out of a few thousand men, which would be the same in comparison of a handful of sand, to a large beach as we were to our foe. When the hour of battle pressed on us, King Thrii rode his steed before all of us on the front line and met our gaze. There was nothing said in words, but we felt his great enthusiasm, his burning courage, and his Kingly dignity. And in his stare, we could tell he was wishing God to be with us in this conflict, and he bid us farewell, for none of us would survive. He turned around and faced the hills masking the enemy.
We all stood still, waiting, with the roots of fear beneath our feet, steadily growing, and as the ropes of doubt and dismay knotted themselves within our bowels. All of us were restless, as our minds began to race through the memories of the lives we've lived; unearthing all embedded deeds we had done, both good and ill. Then slowly, dark thoughts of our evil enemies loomed over us, threatening to engulf our souls, sending their vilest, deadliest, most fearful hail storms, winds, and floods at us, desiring only our sorrow, misery and destruction.
Yet, even as the vast armies of Varn were rallied behind the hills, and though we could not see them, we could feel the icy evil of their presence, a small flame of eagerness, courage and hope remained lit within us all, and for a small moment, which felt to us as if it was lasting for eternity, we took comfort in the sunlight and let the wind sooth us. And nearly in unison, a final deep breath was taken, and as our great King began his trek to climb the hill, we all slowly and solemnly followed.
As we drew nearer to the top of the hill, all of our hearts began to beat faster and faster, until almost it seemed that they would simply wretch themselves from their places. Closer and closer, our ears began to ring, and our anxiety was nearly great enough to cause us to vomit out our innards.
We reached the top of the hill and halted. There were none who could not help but be amazed at the overwhelming enormity of the hordes of Hroth, as they seemed as numerous as the sands of the sea. Gradually, all of our eyes fell upon King Thrii, who remained still; comprehending his enemy. Then, quick as lightning he drew his sword and held it high in the air. He turned around one final time. We then met his fiery glance, and in his eyes we could see all things; that we must fight for all that we hold dear, that all depends on us, that we cannot fail, that we must not fail. And he turned towards our great foe and gave a great cry: "TO VICTORY! AND TO GLORY!" and began the charge towards the enemy.
The small flame of courage was a roaring fire now. We followed our brave leader and gave the same cry as he did, and rushed with all of our strength and will, and defied our enemies. Though we now knew victory would cost our lives, we pressed forward behind our glorious King.

The Admiral

The Admiral
Current mood:Determined

In an assumptive difference of equations, I think that scatter-blasting is a primordial design. I wrote this about a year and a half ago.

MY ADMIRAL

Admiral Chakam-Lamaar was sitting at a desk in his office on an air-galleon flagship, finishing his daily report and log. After he was done he stood up, went over to his hat rack, removed his long dark-blue overcoat and admiral's cap and put them on. Fastening his coat together, he exited his quarters on to the deck and approached the railing. The strong winds of the high air rushed through his big bushy mustache and beard, and his coat. His eyes were almost entirely concealed, as he squinted through his thick eyebrows. He put his hands on the railing and observed his large fleet of ships surrounding his own. They dotted all around the admiral's flagship, hundreds of bulky, elaborate, heavily armed air-galleons; above, below, in front, behind, and to the sides, the ships sailed swiftly through the sky over the battle-torn, barren wasteland of Mendaria with their large and glorious, billowing sails, reflecting majesty, might, and strength to the light of the rising sun on the horizon. Admiral Lamaar smirked, pleased by the grandeur and intimidation of his fleet. This, he thought, will be a great and mighty match against Chugg-Rashuk and his vast orc-armada. He clenched his hand into a fist and lightly pounded the railing.
Another shipmate in an officer's uniform walked up to the railing next to Admiral Lamaar. Chakam looked at him for a moment; the man had a full facial beard and mustache, but was neatly cut and trimmed. He then returned to his gaze towards the horizon.
"Good morning, Admiral." said the man .
"Captain Durak," said the admiral.
"I trust you slept well last night?" asked Durak.
Chakam chuckled, and rested his forearms on the railing "Captain, I never sleep at night, when I'm on my ship. I'm always filled with excitement in anticipation for the break of battle to deliver my commands to the sailors and unleash the fury of the fleet on my enemies."
"What do you do at night, my admiral?" pressed the captain
"I rest, plan, think, fret, and do many other things to occupy myself until the sun rises again." explained Chakam
They both said nothing for several minutes. In that time Durak admired his admiral. He had been fighting wars for the better part of his life. He was old, seasoned and unbeatable in combat; a brilliant commander, and never gave in to opposition of any kind.
A minor officer came up to Durak and handed him a note. Durak read it and turned to Chakam.
"We will meet Chugg-Rashuk and his armada within 3 hours, my admiral." Durak reported
Admiral Lamaar stood up, turned around, and clasped his hands behind his back "Ready the fleet for battle captain. We'll begin our attacks as soon as the enemy is in sight."
The captain nodded his head and walked away to give the admiral's prepared orders to the rest of the fleet.
Admiral Chakam-Lamaar looked up at the flagship's enormous sails bulging ferociously with the wind, appearing like a white fire. He took a deep breath, turned around and staring defiantly at the horizon which would eventually bring him the vast deadly enemy armada. He beckoned danger to come and dare engage with him. Tentatively, the wind stirred and rushed through his hair and clothing, making him look like a firm, old, battered flag in the distance, waving, remaining strong as ever. It seemed at that moment, that any foe, would have to have the same courage, as that of a small man going up against a hundred ferocious beasts, as to that of going up against Chakam in battle, and they would surely await a bitter, grueling challenge.
I'm coming for you Rashuk, I advise you prepare for the unleashing of the mighty fury of my fleet of powerful galleons and strong veteran sailors, thought the admiral as he and his fleet sailed on through the air into the sunrise.