Inside Zzorhn's Mind

  A DIARY (also called a journal) is a record (originally in handwritten format) with discrete entries arranged by date reporting on what has happened over the course of a day or other period. A personal diary may include a person's experiences, and/or thoughts or feelings, including comment on current events outside the writer's direct experience. Someone who keeps a diary is known as a diarist. An artist needs to experience trial and tribulation in order to render their soul capable to inspire the rare and delicate fantasies that exist within the vibrant cord of the heart. It is only through such persecution that the exquisite melodrama and strength of character are realized. For without struggle, without hardship, and without pain, an artist cannot express them self and truly relate to others." - Zzorhn Carlson, July 2012, Inspiration Quotations Have you ever wanted the chance to read someone's diary? Here's your chance.  Chapter Thirty Seven Chapter Thirty Eig

 The horses hooves slashed through the air, narrowly missing the man's throat. Only the nimbleness of the leather-bound warrior with decades of practice could have dodged that kick from the powerful warhorse. The dirt and dust flung into the air, hung low like a choking fog. A loud whinny in anger brought a tight smile to the lone warrior;  He heard the attack from behind, before he seen it. Two massive front hooves came crashing down from above! The charging horse lashed out, pawing at the air trying to hit the man, but found empty space, as the nimble fighter sidestepped and brought a hard wooden pole cracking down across the front forelimbs of the majestic animal. He broke out grinning, “You missed Reazghul”, he announced, only to barely jump out of the way as the huge head of the warhorse arced upwards with tremendous force. The fighter back-flipped away from the charging beast. Two more of the massive heavy horses attacked without warning, flanking the fighter who was armed on

 The fly buzzed loudly in the hot summer sun. It circled and landed on the old man's faded blue dress pants. He barely noticed as he sat quietly watching the crowd; the hum of the old fighter planes overhead drowned out the gasps of the spectators and the squeals of the children. It was a magnificent, sunny, summer day in Tillsonburg, and wispy white clouds slowly sailed by on a endless carpet of blue. The gathered ensemble craned their necks to watch the aerial acrobatics in absolute amazement as skilled pilots expertly demonstrated the finesse of the Canadian vintage airplanes overhead. The fly started to pester the man sitting in the wheelchair. He tried vainly to chase it away, but his wrinkled hand was too slow. Many years ago, he may have been nimble and quick, but now his hands were gnarled into a claw by arthritis, and spotted by age. The bothersome insect buzzed his face and it was all he could do to purse his lips and blow, trying to shoo the fly away. No one noticed

 The old chair creaked. It had seen better days, but it matched the rest of the shambled room; mortar crumbling from the stonework, the windows were yellowed, and the straw in the mattress probably not been changed in weeks. The weary gambler shifted in his chair again, causing the chair to groan in protest again. It was late. Tonight had been tough work, and the candles were burning low, making it hard to count the coins on the table. The bottle on the table was nearly finished. Clink, clink, clink. The coins fell through his leathered fingers with practiced ease. A smile broke his face; a well-rehearsed grin, that carried years of experience. He had done well. He heard scratching coming from the old oak door. Quickly he scooped up his earnings, and deftly tossed them into the corner behind the bed. Drawing a slender dagger, he crept towards the door. He stood still listening, his breath suddenly loud and annoying. The room was silent. Then he heard the scratching again, follo