One thing I always ask myself before I draw anything is: What story do I want this image to tell?

The answer to that question will help dictate the subject, its pose, lighting, contrast, crop, and texture that I want to look for and add. Everything here combined can tell drastically different stories,

But what makes storytelling via a visual medium so unique is that the story is going to be different for every person who looks at it. One piece of art will tell every single person a different story — How interesting is that? You will create it with your own idea of what it means, and then everyone who looks at it will create a different version inside of their own minds.

It can remind them about the past, cause a feeling they think about right there, tell them of a possibility in the future… it is endless. The magic is in the interruption… The job of the artist is just to lay the road out for them. The art is the guide that draws them in, letting them explore the rest for themselves. Each piece is a conversation waiting to happen, between story and viewer.

What helps create a story?

Even if its a hyperrealistic or purely photorealistic drawing, the subject paired with everything else will still tell a story. You can make it your own, change the crop, the detail, the contrast. You can pick subjects that are interesting and that stand out. There’s a massive combination of factors, and it’s just as important to pick an interesting and compelling subject as it is to draw it well.

Subject

Pose

Lighting

Contrast

Detail

Crop

Each of these plays a huge part in how a drawing comes across. The architecture of the drawing will establish what story it represents. It’s the same as a photographer, they take the same kind of pictures as anyone else, but some of their work has that “thing”.

All art is, of course, subjective, but less so than we think. One of the reasons I love realism, even with more abstract ideas, is that it bases the abstract idea in an objective reality, and it almost allows you to explore the concept within the landscape of what we know.

Subject

Obviously, the first major decision is the actual thing we are going to draw. There’s not much to talk about expect that many subjects carry subconscious ideas. Lion’s naturally carry a sense of power, strength, and majesty. Human’s can often carry a sense of normalcy or relation. Horses carry empathy etc.

Pose

Now, the pose of our subject. This is where the idea really starts to take shape. I would say that great photorealists are amazing at this stage. They are limited to how much expression they can create due to recreating the photo, and so one of the things they are most reliant on is the pose of the subject to convey and weave the story. Everything matters — their expression, the placement of their body and head, what’s happening inside the frame, and even the background.

Lighting/contrast

These are slightly different, but close enough to group together.

Lighting will help determine the mood greatly. Top lighting, underlighting, one sided lighting, back lighting, rim lighting — it’s endless. What matters to us is what the lighting portrays. Each one and combination will set a different mood, look, and aesthetic to the subject. It will either accentuate the subject and its pose, or dampen it.

Same with the contrast. A lot of amazingly technical artists avoid going too dark or light, and in my opinion — this really hurts the emotional weight a piece can carry. Especially when we are working with only greyscale, we do not get the luxury of colors.

Detail

Detail is important for a few different reasons. It’s the least important for overall realism, but crucial for anything that’s hyperrealism, and useful in less obvious aways as well.

While the photorealist will copy the details exactly, Hyperrealism gives you a bit of leeway and allows you to add/diminish the details slightly.

If I am creating a more expressive piece of art, I will use details to create a focal point in the drawing. Drawing your eyes to it and letting the surroundings blend into the overall picture. What is interesting with details is, as long as the foundations are set well, they are what will make the drawing have that extra bit of flare to really catch the attention of someone.

They do not even need to be many, you can have a mostly abstract drawing with just one small piece detailed well, and it draws the brain and eyes in.

Crop

Last but not least in the list, Cropping the image.

It may seem redundant, but a good crop can change an entire photo. its quite amazing how brains perceive identical things in entirely different ways depending on the state, stature, and location of what we are associating with.

Sometimes what we choose not to show says more than what we do. Place someone in frame with a busy background, or where their head or face only takes up part of the room, and we get a detached and seemingly small subject.

Blow the face up, and let it be the entirety of the photo — all of a sudden it zips us into the trance-like state where the entire room shrinks around us as we get to know someone that seems interesting.

Final conclusion

Ultimately, I think the cohesion of all of these traits is what allows someone to truly look at a piece of work and start to see something about themselves in it. Art is always about what it is to the viewer first. It acts as a mirror.

And I don’t mean to create without yourself in mind, or even to create things you do not care for. What I mean is, whenever someone looks at artwork, the definition of connecting and resonating with it is to experience something within it that feels like a part of themself. Even if that thing is strictly the status that the artwork or artist carries.

Why Lions?

Lions are a subject I regularly come back to. They aren’t just a cool animal, but highly fascinating and represent an interesting paradox when you look at how they live vs how we look at them.

Whenever we see a Lion, the imagery and words that often follow are:

-Pride

-Kingship

-Majesty

-Strength

Though less than 5% of Lions will be king of a pride, and around only 10% will survive until the age of 5+. Only 20% will even see past the age of 2. Every single male lion in the wild is a statistical anomaly, and while they do represent strength, they also represent a very brutal and real reality. These animals live to fight, hunt, and eat.

If you have ever seen a Lion fight, you will see exactly how brutal and savage they really are — it strips all romanticism away. Yet, knowing this, how violent, brutal, and unglamorous they can be — they are still seen in the above ways and remain, probably, one of the most iconic animals.

Their strength and majesty are not crowned without the brutal pragmatism, ruthlessness, and luck needed to survive their social Hierarchy’s. Yet again, as ruthless as they can be, they are also the only of their species who are truly social.

I don’t like drawing just to draw; I love to capture a story. And with the lives these guys live, each one is able to do that with just a look. Whether they know it or not.

I’ve also done some sketches and simpler drawings of them. While the above images have all taken over 30 hours and more, these were made with a lot less detail and time.

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I hope you like some of the subjects I have drawn over the years, and if you’re interested in owning any originals or prints, feel free to reply to this email.

If you haven’t already subscribed, I talk about my artwork and process, how to improve your drawing ability, and share bits about my writing and some updates on the novel I am writing. Cheers.

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Only to show up and think… ‘Who is this person?’

If you haven’t, good for you. If you have, you know what I mean. Just like a selfie can lie — So can your eyes and brain.

Many of us draw what we think we see - Our brains are pattern-recognition machines, and we create images from shapes.

A nose. A mouth. An eye.
But here’s the truth:

Your eyes don’t see “things.”
They see light - the light creates form and values.

That’s it. That’s all drawing is:
Highlights. Midtones. Shadows.

Values in relation to one and other.

Relative value (aka: Simultaneous Contrast)

Let’s say you lay down a midtone.
Put it beside a deep shadow? It looks bright.
Put it beside a highlight? It looks dark.

Same tone. Different neighbors. Different perception. Like many things in life, it requires context to form the real message.

That’s how values work.
They lie.
Unless you learn to see them in context.

Don’t believe me?

Click this:

👉 Checker Shadow Illusion

It’s not my own website — I just love how clear it makes the point.
Drag the checker over squares A and B.

They’re the exact same value. Your brain just refuses to accept it — until they’re isolated and exposed for what they are.

Train your eye to see what’s actually there —
Not what your brain thinks it sees.

That’s how you start drawing better. For real.

“Now, this is not me saying that if you learn to recreate the proper values, your drawings will magically become amazing. Proportions still exist.

But here’s the kicker: proportions are dictated by value, too.

There are no hard outlines in life. The only reason you can see the geometric shape or size of a cheekbone is because a highlight is sitting right next to a shadow.

Every edge, every angle, and every proportion you measure is just a boundary line where one value changes into another. Shape and light are inseparable.”

There’s a technique I like to talk about a lot, and its simple (And free).

You squint your eyes at your reference. You will be forced to see only value, the light and dark of it. You will no longer see objects, just the values.

You will then start to see — If you nail the values and add zero detail, a form of whatever you’re drawing will appear. You are drawing shapes of black and erasing streaks of light, and somehow a recognizable image appears in front of you.

If you have any questions, feel free to email me back or leave a comment.

I am coming closer and closer to the first complete draft of my first book. I have learned a lot over the course of this experience. My enthusiasm hasn’t waned, and in just over a month, I have typed out over 100,000 words in the draft, alongside much additional world-building and notes to keep track of things. I have drawn a map, calculated the size and distance, built an economy, and added different cultures.

The main continent where the story takes place features four nations, flanked by a scatter of islands along the western and southern coasts. Beyond that, two entirely separate continents loom somewhere in the world.

While the setting is completely fictional, I have used a lot of the English and French history from the transitional period (1250 - 1400) for economy and basic warfare tactics/armour. However, I have also mixed in some earlier timeline periods, specifically the north which is more focused on the Viking era shield walls with shock infantry tactics, As well as the central powers’ influence from Eastern Roman of well-armoured infantry and heavy cavalry.

Mixing these different cultures and military philosophies and time periods has been incredibly fun so far, and the narrative is finally about to collide in its first major climax. My goal from day one was to build a gritty, grounded fantasy world based on historical realities, ensuring they bleed together seamlessly without glaring plot holes.

Because of that focus, magic in this world is rare. It has been used as a tool for political control and economic monopoly. The central conflict revolves around the terrifying overreach of the world's religious church — an institution that weaponized the magic system to become a borderless global superpower.

The story is told through a memoir of the main character. He is writing his life story for his own son, and anyone else who may pick it up. I have really enjoyed it, and it has become very clear that this sweeping conflict cannot be fully resolved inside a single book. The journey will have to continue.

I have written in some pretty large bursts, and then sometimes slow down and need to try harder to imagine the story unfold. On an average day, I can write between 2,000 and 10,000 words. Some days, I have hit as little as 800.

I am engrossed in the world and story of the characters, and I wonder more and more the closer I get to the finished draft — if this story will feel compelling to others and outside of my own mind.

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PS. Feel free to reply to this email

Just how much can you improve in a short time?

I know you may think the title is clickbaity, but before you jump to any conclusions, take a look at this transformation.

How can someone improve so fast?

Learning to draw is actually pretty simple, but not easy — especially if you don’t know what to look for. If we break drawing down into first principles, it’s astonishingly simple. Everything is a reflection of light — that’s it.

A nose is not a nose; it’s a varying degree of values. Once you start looking at everything like a slider scale of value and contrast, the world looks different. If you can capture the values correctly, you capture the realism.

There are two things you must capture to portray realism.

• Proportions

• Values

That’s it.

Once you enter the realm of photorealism and hyperrealism, details become the third pillar. But all you need for realism is the first two. Our brains have an incredible way of processing and creating images we know from abstract shapes. This is why you are able to see objects in clouds.

What can you do to improve yourself?

You must focus on what’s important. And it all depends on how and what you want to draw. For example, if your goal is hyperrealism, start with a great reference photo and a good outline using either a trace or grid method.

If your goal is to sketch, you must focus on the foundations of sculpting proportions accurately. I cannot express enough how much muscle memory becomes your friend in any form of drawing.

Learning how to sketch

Learning to sketch is one of the most fun and interesting parts of drawing. After you practice and learn to see things differently, keep your skills sharp — you can literally sketch anything or anyone. From a photo or from life. There’s no difference between portrait and landscape, because it’s all the same value system.

Draw from life, photos. Black and white, colored. Just focus on creating the likelihood of what you are capturing. Do not fixate on perfection, just focus on the blocks and shapes at first.

Some drills I loved doing were 5-10 minute sketches. I would put a timer on, use only a single Block of charcoal with a kneaded eraser, and sketch different subjects. It forces you to go fast and learn to capture the real form. It forces you to sculpt light from dense masses of black.

Another excellent tool is squinting. Squint your eyes, and you’ll be forced to look at the values. You will only see basic shapes and dark vs light areas. You won’t be able to fixate on the details, letting you map out the subject faster and with more confidence.

I draw and sketch mainly with charcoal, but many of these principles stay the same. you can also look at other methods that are popular for proportions, such as the Loomis method. I personally do not use these, and instead focus my energy on learning the placement naturally. But I am a believer in using what works, so if it works for you, use it.

For this sketch, I used nothing but one 6B block of General’s charcoal, one 4B General’s pencil, and a kneaded eraser.

Learning how to draw Hyperrealism / Photorealism

The first thing that must be brought up about these styles is time investment. They are incredibly time-consuming styles and require immense attention to detail. So, if 25-100+ hours for a single drawing does not detour you, here are some important bits of knowledge.

Tools matter. Unlike sketching, Hyperrealism requires you to capture a large array of details and textures. While the core principles stay true, actually achieving certain textures can actually be quite challenging.

I’m not saying you need every single tool to be successful, but at a minimum you will need blocks of condensed charcoal (not vine charcoal), a good set of charcoal pencils, a good set of graphite pencils with ranging lead from 2H to 8B. And you will need erasers. Kneaded, as well as some with fine points. I also have a complete tool list of all the tools that I use here, completely free. Many have told me its helped them immensely: All of my drawing tools

The next is having a great subject and reference photo. A good reference photo consists of a few things:

-Photo quality

-Lighting and pose

-Emotional message

Ok so, first on the block is quality. For photorealism this MUST show all the gritty details. For hyperrealism, the same thing with one single caveat; if you are comfortable enough creating some of your own details without breaking the realism, you can use ones that are slightly grainy. If you were new, I highly suggest NOT attempting this.

Next is the lighting and pose. Whatever subject it is you want to draw, there are a few ways that we turn a bland photo and drawing into a powerful one. The grey scale needs contrast. The more contrast, the more emotion. because you are limited to one subject to tell an entire story, you must know what the story is, and this subject must be able to tell it with a combination of lighting, pose, and expression.

The last part ties into the lighting and pose. It must have both lighting and strong pose to be able to convey the emotional message you want to draw. For example, if you want to draw something heavy, there must be a weight to whatever you draw. It could be the aging and tiredness over a lions face, or the sagging of a persons skin contrasted with their weary but still strong eyes. The art of drawing is not copying the reference, its telling a story. An image can speak a thousand words, so use that to your advantage.

The Ultimate Tool

The ultimate tool is deliberate practice.

To improve, you must improve at what matters. You can run on the treadmill every single day and not lose a single pound of fat. The same is true for drawing; if you practice poorly, you will not improve, and may even cement bad habits.

The method I learned and the method I teach is simple. its not necessarily easy, and it rejects the idea of following strict guidelines or How to’s.

My method of drawing is using a combination of tools and following the three simple steps.

1. Proportions

2. Values

3. Detail

That’s it. Within these three steps, you will use a variety of tools and figure out many ways to achieve any number of textures. There will be nothing you cannot draw, because everything follows the same logic.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask them in a comment or message me privately. I love seeing others succeed, and happy to offer my own personal insight.

PS. The second ultimate tool is drawing what you want to. I didn’t get better by endlessly following guides or systems. I picked the things I wanted to draw, the stories I wanted to tell, and I worked at them.

The blurring of yellow lines, familiar sounds of an engine revving, downshifting, and changing gears. The smooth transaction of foot and pedal, the crisp feedback of a well-running vehicle.

A window cracked just enough to feel the night air’s bite, wisping through the wind at speeds much too fast for the road, yet not fast at all. Not to the driver.

What was it, exactly? Hard to say it was the adrenaline, because he rarely got it anymore, even going 140 in a 60. At the time, it felt like a love for the speed, a craving for the feeling of a vehicle gliding. Knowing you drive the same speeds calmly that others rarely dare. Unstoppable – That’s what it is. There was nothing to stop it, no major accident, no speeding ticket, nothing. As if you’re outrunning consequences with speed.

He saw the redline often, the buried speedometer in the dashboards of sports cars. Want to know what it feels like at that speed on a regular highway? It feels more like a boat than a car. You feel every intimacy of the road, every small rumble, bump and dip. You feel like you hover over the pavement, not drive on it. The heart beat quickening, The feeling of being so locked in you do not care about the blurring environment surrounding you. All that matters is the road in front of you and how long you’re willing to hold the pedal down for. How far can we climb? Do I dare to look? It feels fast, fast enough a single mistake will kill me. The broken lines of the road becoming the same blur as the solid ones.

There’s a certain kind of bliss to it, it’s like meditation – only better. The entire world shrinks down to you, the car, and that road. Tunnel vision not because of the adrenaline, but because of the laws of the world. It’s like a guide, showing you that you may only direct your attention one way. The road to the front is clear, and everything else a motion blur.

And then it happened, a small divot in the highway of the road. Not enough to cause notice on a normal day, but… enough to nearly catapult you into some barren field. You start on the left side of the road, you feel the car glide in a way you know you can’t control. And bam, there she is. The white line on the opposite side. But, as the body and the mind catch up, you realize you handled it, you stayed calm, you rode it out. You aren’t ready to let off the pedal though, not yet. There’s one thing left to do.The eyes shoot down. Hah! She was buried. Somewhere between 270 and 300. He finally let off, and let her glide back down to an easy 200. Then down to 180, then 160. He cruised 160 most of the way back home; it felt like a snail’s pace.

Months went on, many months. More near misses, ones he was ashamed of. Not because he broke a law, not because it was wrong, but because somewhere in his mind he knew the fire didn’t just burn the arsonist, sometimes it burned those around him. Yet the road kept calling his name, and as much as he tried resisting its yearning, It always won. It won until eventually there was no thought of fire. How could there be? There was never any flame.

So there he was, unbeatable, unstoppable, beyond reproach. Just another night, another familiar stretch of road, and the familiar hum of an engine singing into the empty fields on either side. He ran his normal loop, late at night. This time, a few beers in his system. Not for courage, nothing of the sort. In fact, he drove at a more leisurely pace. Which to him was usually between 120 and 160. His normal loop was chosen as it was often empty of other cars, and the fields on either side made sure no homes or sidewalks filled with people. Other close brushes with the fire taught him many things, but the lesson was never to not play with it ; just to manage it.

It was a crisp fall air, the last ride before a winter storage. It was like any other night ride, the windows cracked, music playing, and a good set of LED’s trailblazing the night. The sound of the engine roared and hummed, depending on the driver’s woe. A snappy downshift when coming to a stop sign was nearly as satisfying as a clean quick shift at high speeds. But this night, there was no downshifts.

He drove down a long straight that folded down a hill. Not a large hill, and one he had driven many times. A guard rail to his right, a yellow line now blurred to his left. Nothing else unusual struck out to him. His speed, unknown. Just the joy of another night ride with speed that forced a clear head.

When you drive fast, you see, things happen in an instant. A second becomes a minute, a minute - two. Reality seems to bend for a while, and your whole definition of time changes.

The bottom of the hills came, and his heart fluttered. The distinct feeling of the tire losing traction, he knew it well. Though this time, it was not on purpose. He stayed calm, his heart and blood pumping that warmth that made you feel above it all. The climax hit, and everything blurred. This is it?

Snap – rubber catches pavement, we are back on track. Another close call, he thought, letting out a distinct breath of air and a smile of victory. For what can conquer a man who laughs with a clean break every time?

…

Ticking. What was that ticking?

Tick…

Tick..

Tick.

Distinctive intervals, familiar. Was I dreaming? I don’t know, but the more he thought about it, the more it felt real. Finally, color came back. White, green, and a bit of intermittent orange.

What is going on? A few heavy blinks, and the feeling of cold so sharp it felt like little teeth nipping at his skin. Not that it bothered him much, he was used to that. But the rest of it was out of place.

He took a breath and sat up… he couldn’t move. His body was restricted, but he didn’t know by what. His frustration built as he tried to look around, and his neck hurt; it hurt badly.

Trees. All he saw were trees, and what looked like spider webs… no, shattered glass.

Ah… I understand.

His eyes grew heavy once more, the ticking now a lullaby, a tune that hushed him and asked for sleep. The last thought of his mind speaking back to him; I’m sorry to all the people I called pu**ies for saying whiplash hurt. Because damnit, It does hurt.

He woke up once more, but not in a quiet fade like last time. No, this way was also familiar to him, but was never anymore comfortable each time. He huffed in a mouthful of air, a sharp gasp rang through his lungs. His eyes shot wide, and the tunnel vision and vignette was gone just as fast as the chills set in. His entire body felt stabbed by the cold.

Damnit, I’m freezing.

There was no more warmth, no more adrenaline, no more sweet alibis from the hazards. He was cold, in pain, and wondering where the fuck he was. He felt something on his forehead, he reached his hand to it, noticing the dried blood smearing over his hands back. He wiped at his forehead, but nothing changed. He pulled the rear-view mirror down, realizing it was just dried blood over his eye.

The man who never panicked suddenly felt a pang of fear in his gut that he had never had before. A loneliness that felt like the world abandoned him. He yelled at least four times. “Help!”

He blinked, realizing he talked to no one but trees. So he laughed, a deep and humorous chuckle that eased the immediate pain in his body. How? He didn’t know. But the chills and shaking came back as fast as the chuckle left.

There were two options: die or move. He looked around, and as he did, his neck cried at him, a sharp pain that threatened to make him collapse. What the hell? He thought. He started his body scan. Head seemed ok aside from a small cut over his eye. He petted his torso, no blood or holes. He could move his arms, then continued to his legs. Huh… He was temporarily perplexed. He had one single sock on. The other one was barefoot, and he was sure he wore a pair of shoes earlier. He attempted to move his legs, but nothing. Great.. Two broken legs.

He hit them, no response. They just felt like two cold dead weights.

The thing that restricted him – the seat belt. An arch enemy now, a guardian angel only hours ago, or however long ago it was. He fumbled with the belt buckle, trying not to move his head. His fingers wouldn’t work, and it became a multiple minute struggle. He gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath. “Fucking work already.” and finally, with enough pressure from the seemingly useless five stumps of meat drove home with enough force to unlock the mechanism. Hah!

The victory disappeared as he painstakingly shifted his body left to the door. Ok, nice and easy.

He wrangled the door lever with his fingers like trying to rope in a calf. Thank god it was an easy one to grab, he thought.

But life is not always so kind. The door refused to budge. He grunted some more and looked around, trying to move his body like a stiff brick to avoid the devastatingly sharp and vicious pain that would shoot through neck and body when he moved his head.

He chuckled as he realized the problem. The car door was crumpled in, the window missing and decorated with a pink curtain in its place. Oh yeah, a phone. Phones exist. He slowly turned around in his seat, awkwardly looking for the familiar black otter box. Nothing was left in the car. He laughed some more at his luck. But maybe it wasn’t all bad, he was warm enough to not be sucking air through his mouth in gasps.

He took a breath, knowing where he had to go next. He shifted and shimmied, pulling his legs clumsily over the center dash. All that he thought in his mind is how amazing it was that they didn’t feel bad considering how broken they must be. He had felt many bone breaks in the past, and usually they come with a distinct pain. But there was none, and so he labored. His hands ached a little, but still no control over the fingers. When he moved enough in the seat, he noticed the crumbled dog kennel he had stored that pushed against where the head rest was supposed to be. He didn’t care, his dog was not with him that night. That’s all that mattered.

He anchored his weight on his palms, took a few breaths, tightened his core, and heaved up. After what seemed like at least half an hour, he was in the passenger seat. His lungs heaved and he could feel traces of warmth nipping back at the cold on his skin. He smiled, another small victory. He looped his fingers through the door’s latch once again, clumsily fumbling the fingers like an aimed whip or rope. The satisfyingly heavy clunk shot out. I never imagined I’d be excited by the noise of a car door opening, he thought.

He pushed his wrist into the door, launching it open and was met with a nippy air. He took a few breaths and he lowered his legs to the ground. Alright, just a little push. He heaved up, immediately falling into the dirt, his neck screaming at him sending pain through his body and feeling as if the vertebrae’s on his neck were being sawed in half. He cussed and snarled at the dirt as he breathed through the worst of the pain. Once it faded to his liking, he spiked his elbows into the dirt and forced himself up. The bright side, he thought, was that he felt warm now.

He wore a t-shirt, jeans, and had one sock on. It was the 29th of September and it was now -1°C.

He rested himself against the rear tire, taking in his surroundings. Great, more trees.

He watched his warm breath escape into the cold air, forming plumes of smokey mist. He started to chuckle again, he had beaten the car. But now he must beat the reality of being in the middle of nowhere. He rested his head back, knowing he could only wait until he knew the direction he must go. He didn’t have the energy, strength, or time to make a wrong call.

He lost track of time, he gazed at the stars and the moon overtop of the tree tips, shadows like hairy spears in the air. And then, he heard it.

The distinct sound of a car on a highway, and soon after he saw it, lights bled through the forest. The only problem was – it was a lot further than he thought it would be. He tracked it until he marked what seemed like the closest point of travel. Its engine and tires faded into the distance. Thank god, I was just getting cold again. He had his mission.

Just work, you can do it, it’s not far. He whispered to his legs as he pushed with all his might and held onto the tire. He heaved himself and locked them out, laughing as he stood at the top. He tried to walk at a pace and immediately collapsed. His neck shot out in pain again and he yelled. He screamed to the dirt and at his legs, he cussed them, calling them weak and pathetic. His rage grew and he curled back to the tire. He punched at his legs with his still useless hands. Just work, we don’t have far, you stupid fuckers! WEAK, WEAK.

He thought a good thrashing would work, but no such miracle came. He laughed at himself, the anger gone suddenly. Alright, crawl it is. He saw that he was in a bowl-like indent, so he had to crawl past the back of his car and then cut left. Alright, let’s go.

He eased himself down enough that he could place his elbows into the dirt and move in such a way that protected his neck from moving. It was slow, and he thought multiple times what it must have looked like.

He had to take small breaks to look up, as all he could see was dirt and the course brush and thorns that cut at him while he crawled. It was finally lightening up outside, the transition from night to morning. The sun is not yet out, but the light slowly pouring into the black sky. He had officially made it to day break.

By a miracle, he crawled into the low morning light, to the only point in the fence where you could crawl under. The fence ran with wire that was flush to the ground, and the point to where he crawled was the only point for kilometres that had the gate and room to crawl under it.

He slipped under, an ache all over his body, his energy sapped. He continued over some more pavement, the little rocks and pebbles crunching into the cuts the thorns made like moths to a flame.

He waited to hear a vehicle, and propelled himself up like a bear on its hind legs, until it faded and he fell back down. He lost count, but at least seven vehicles passed until one finally stopped.

“Oh my god, are you alright!” yelled a woman’s voice called out from across the road.

He laughed a little to himself. He imagined he probably looked like road kill at this point, and this poor lady sounded like she was in more shock than he was.

“Yeah… been better.” he replied. Still crumpled over.

“Oh my god, do you need anything?”

“Yeah….be helpful if, uh… you could drive over here and give me a ride or some water.” he replied with zero sarcasm.

She muttered some sounds and he heard the vehicle pull over to the inlet he was in. Thank god.

She got out in a hurry, running over a Gatorade bottle. “Here, take this. I’ll call an ambulance.”

He fumbled at the cap, “No, no ambulance please, I’ll be ok. Could you please drive me home? I’m not far from here, I can direct you,” he asked, offering her his Gatorade bottle back, which confused her. “And could you please open that too?” He felt ashamed, but he could not open the meager cap.

She desperately tried to convince him to wait for an ambulance the entire time she helped him into her car, but he wanted nothing but to be home. He laid in the back, and knew the route well enough to direct her calmly to his place without seeing the road.. He felt his body warm and the reality of the pain creep in. By the time he was in his driveway, he knew the hospital was the only place. They drove him to the nearest ER. To his humor, they did a vehicle extraction and placed him into an ambulance to take him to a nearby hospital that was equipped to handle his injuries. He was hit with fentanyl, and soon after, much became blurry. A cocktail of liquid morphine and other drugs erasing his senses.

His hands and arms burned with fire and zaps, his legs didn’t work. A broken neck, the c6 and the c7 had to be fused. The family called in and told he would likely never walk again, and was lucky to be alive. One in a million chance, they said.

He sucked at ice chips and water on a sponge for days, desperate for a real drink but denied it. He had to wait to eat or drink, unable to until the swelling in his neck was low enough to get surgery on.

Constant trollies to and from the imaging room, the drugs so thick that the surroundings didn’t look like a hospital, but an array of different worlds. Plane hangars, classrooms, army tents, WW2 bomb shelters. They Carouseled through with no rhyme or reason.

Finally, the surgery happened. The fusing of three vertebrae, alongside a plate and six screws. Just over two weeks later, he walked out of the hospital.

“Sorry, lad. Life ain’t always long-lived here.” He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder as tenderly as he could manage.

Lark dully looked at the man who held his shoulder; he knew him for some years, and the man was always kind to him. He just nodded, his mind drifting. What am I going to do? He wondered.

A sharp voice bit through the air, “Boy!”

Lark looked over. It was Sir Gravlen. “Stop messin about, Godfrey, get back to securing those damn furs on the wagon.”

“Sir.” Godfrey spared Lark one last look before sharply turning to continue his work.

Sir Gravlen walked up to Lark, his plated armour clunking and his boots making slurp noises through the mud. “Listen, kid. I know your father died, but there’s no time for sulking here,” he looked at Lark with a frown, “You can either get back to work and stay on as a hand, or I can give you a few coins, and you can fend on your own.” He stared down his nose as him “What will it be?”

Lark stared back up at the knight, noting his armour was immaculate, even when speckled with mud. If my father had armour like that, would he have died?

“I wish to stay. May I see my father before his body’s filled in?”

Gravlen curled a lip, “Hurry it up.”

Lark paced over, debating internally if he had really wanted to see his father. The company fought a Mire-Bear, a giant predator that was twice the size of a regular grizzly. Its fur sells for exorbitant prices in the South, which is why the company was north in the fall, butchering what they could prior to heading south before the winter’s cold set in.

The bodies lay just ahead, a cloth covering them, three in total. Four more men dug a large pit not far off, biting the iron shovels into the clumpy, cold ground to bury them there forever. Unmarked and forgotten.

He grabbed the course sheet between his fingers. Just walk away, don’t look. Take the coins…just walk away.

He bit down, grasping with the rest of his fingers as he curled his fist into a ball, grabbing a handful of cloth. Lark ripped his arm back as if he pulled a trapped sword from a stiff body.

-Bleiegh-

Lark hurled his head to the side and vomited everywhere. I can’t even tell which one is him.

He looked back, the bodies more like minced meat than solid bodies. Limbs hung from a thread of flesh. Ligaments, organs, and the insides of stomachs were visible. One of the men was ripped from chest to groin, a large cavern of human entrails.

You want to stick around for this? This is all that awaits you.

Lark left the cloth on the ground, turning around and walking to the rest of the men who loaded the freshly skinned fur. He could smell the cooking meat over the campfire, waiting to fill their bellies after a long day’s work.

I miss him… Damn, this life sucks.

Lark started loading the cart with the giant fur pelts, tears ran down his face as he did. He was unable to staunch their flow.

Godfrey looked over, a shadow covering his face as he looked back down to finish his lashing.

Lark wiped at his tears and grabbed some rope to tie down his pelt. Damn this place, damn it! I just want to leave. I can be a baker’s helper or even shovel shit from horse stalls. Anything but this…

Shouting erupted from the camp. Frantic movement and men shouting came from behind Lark. Godfrey let go of his rope and ran towards the sounds, “Get out of here, boy!” he yelled as he drew steel from his hip.

The loud clangs of blades broke out. Lark could hear distinct grunts, shouts, and chaos from behind him, but he dared not look. He walked at a leisurely pace in the other direction. What is it? The sounds are getting louder… more frantic, screams, screams of pain and dying. My father must have screamed like this, too.

Lark finally gained the courage to look over his shoulder. The campfire had spread to nearby trees. There were men on horses with swords, axes, and spears attacking our company; they were still scattered and reeling from the surprise. Many of them didn’t even have their armour on and desperately fought in chaotic and broken ranks. Sir Gravlen emerged from some smoke and trees, sword drawn. He roared and kicked at his horse, riding through the scattered men below like an angel ready to deliver its fiery wrath. Kill them, Gravlen! I hate that bastard, but if anyone can turn the tide, it’s him.

Gavlen rode a spectacular steed, his armour shining, and his sword menacing. He rode hard, weaving through the crowd that fought in dispersed and frantic battles, avoiding them all as he bit his heels into his mount’s side again. What’s he doing? Where’s he going?

He was nearly upon Lark, threatening to run him over. Lark heard it before he saw it, an arrow whistling through the air, piercing through the knight’s neck. It was an expert shot, directly in the few-inch gap that wasn’t protected by the fine steel plate. Sir Gravlen slumped from his horse, his body tumbling ungraciously as he choked on his own blood and grasped for air. He held his hands out to the boy from his back, his face hidden beneath the Steel helmet. It sounded like he had tried talking, but all that came out were throaty, wet gurgles.

Another horse came chasing behind, kicking dirt into the air. The rider wore chainmail and no helmet, his hair long and wild, same as his beard. He had a bow with an arrow notched as he held it with one hand. He reigned in his horse with the other before pointing his bow and drawing back, pointing it at Lark.

Lark gave the man a defiant look, tears running down his face. “Do it, you bastard.”

The man released some tension, looking down at the still choking Knight. “You know this man?” He growled with yellow teeth showing and a thick accent.

Lark found some words hidden in his throat, “Yes,” he choked out.

The savage man in chainmail held his bow low, still half drawn. “Open his visor,” the words were barely recognisable.

Lark stumbled a few steps, kneeling beside Gravlen. The knight grabbed Lark’s arm in a panic, but with fading strength. He opened the visor to reveal a man still choking on his own blood, his mouth and nose twitching in a way that looked like a fish gasping for water.

There was a light thump and a liquid sprayed across Lark’s face. He jolted back, smelling the distinct aroma of iron. Sir Galven’s hand fell from Lark’s wrist, and there was an arrow firmly planted in his face.

A menacing laugh bellowed from the rider’s gut. “Yuhoh Beak Niecx”, the man smiled at Lark. The rider placed his bow on his saddle, throwing a leg over and drawing his sword with a wispy sound. He stuck his blade point into the eyeball of Sir Gravlen, for reasons Lark did not understand.

“You want to die next?” He pointed his blade at Lark.

Lark fell to his knees, plunging his hands into the cold and clumpy dirt with his fists. He crawled on his hands and knees towards the man, “Please, please don’t kill me, I beg you” He snivelled.

The man sneered, dropping his blade low. “Snivelling like a woman in the dirt.” He spat. “I’ll let you pray to whatever god you worship.” The words were thick and hard to understand, but Lark understood enough.

The man turned his head to observe a nearby shout.

Lark grabbed Gravlen’s blade that was beside him, launching the handful of dirt into the man’s face as he looked back with widened eyes. Lark let off a sharp scream and wildly stabbed his blade into the guts of the man in front of him.

A throaty groan was made, and the man hacked his blade down at the half-kneeling Lark. He rolled away and scrambled on his hands and knees until he was able to gain a foothold and launch up into a sprint. He looked over his shoulder to see the assaulter on his knees, holding the knight’s blade that was still skewered into his insides.

Run, Run, Run! You should have kept the sword, you brainless sow. Fuck!

Lark ran at speeds he didn’t know were possible for a human, his heart hammered, and his body felt like it could never fade or wane. Branches whizzed past him; he saw the world come at him in slow motion, every sound distinct. You killed your first man! Haha, you did!

Lark kept running; he didn’t stop, his legs went forward, one after another. He finally stopped behind a large tree to catch a few breaths, but he heard no hooves or shouting anymore.

They can’t be after me still… I don’t hear anything. Damn, I’m thirsty. Lark caught his breath and tried to gather some kind of bearing.

-Crack-

Lark twisted around, holding his breath. No way, not them, impossible.

A giant man came hurling from behind the trees, wrestling Lark to the ground. He kicked and kneed, but it did no good. Lark finally found some meat with his teeth, biting down into the flesh and tasting the warm iron flow into his mouth as a piece of skin ripped off like a tough patch of jerky. He rammed his head into the screaming man’s nose, enough to let him slip out from under the man. Lark punched him in the throat while he was still stunned before jumping up to run again.

But this time it was short-lived; another man on a great horse cut in front of him, kicking his face and sending him to the leafy and twig-ridden ground.

He spat the flesh out of his mouth and then spat a few times, ignoring the enemies behind him. Disgusting.

Lark returned to his knees, a throbbing face looking around him, surrounded. Not knowing if the iron taste of blood in his mouth was the enemy’s or his own.

He let out a chuckle, a hopeless, dark, disturbing chuckle. Pathetic life it was, pathetic. He spat once more into the ground, trying to rid himself of the taste, whoever’s it was.

In 480 BC, a few men stood against an ocean of Persian soldiers. The enemy army that threatened to invade was estimated to be between 120,000 and 300,000 soldiers. This included the 10,000 Persian elites dubbed the ‘Immortals,’ the main army, conscripts, and auxiliary troops.

The allied forces of 300 Spartans and an added coalition of around 6,700 men marched to the gates of Thermopylae to hold the overwhelming force until the Greek army inland was rallied. The small force wedged itself into the pass so that they could not be surrounded. Their phalanx formation and superior discipline would ultimately be what made the impossible odds, possible.

The first days were the worst, the silent days of waiting — King Xerxes waited them out, hoping they would retreat. The slow brewing anxiety of men awaiting the horrors of close combat. Combat so close you can smell a man’s last meal as he grunts with effort to stab cold steel into your body. The Greeks and Spartans were tired of the wait; they were ready to shed blood.

Finally, on the third day, Xerxes ordered the first attack. The first wave marched toward the Greeks, an ocean of armour and weapons. They shook the ground from their numbers and crashed into the lines of the Greeks and Spartans. They crashed to their death, smashing against the long spears of the Hoplites’ spear walls with nowhere to escape. Their light armour no match for the practiced killing methods of their enemy.

The Persian King, now angry at underestimating the Greek defense, retreated his men. It was time to send in his elite troop, the Immortals. As they closed in, the Spartans broke ranks and fled. Of course, who could stare at such an elite force and not be afraid? Even the Spartans are mortal men.

The Persian Immortals chased after, breaking their own ranks and rushing into the fleeing enemy. But this became their fatal error. In what would have looked like an ancient robot systematically reforming, the Spartans and Greeks wheeled around with inhuman discipline. They formed their shield wall and phalanx, partially encircling the now terrified and awe-struck Persians. To the king’s horror, his men screamed their death throes, slaughtered by the killing machine that was the Spartans and Greeks. It was like lambs to the kill-house, being dispatched in a swift and professional manner.

Few Greeks died this day, but many Persians lost their lives. An estimated between as many as 5000 and 8000 casualties were incurred on that first day, but only the men who partook in the work would know for sure. Regardless, this was a high price to pay for the invading King.

The Greek army of 7000 had killed as many as they fielded, and with a surprising casualty list of only fifty men at most, and not one single Spartan was recorded as dying that first day.

This continued into the second day; the Persian king, thinking the Greeks would be tired from the slaughter, rushed more men in. But King Leonidas rotated his men, keeping the first lines fresh. The second day met with the same fate, and many more Persians died to the slaughter. Estimated between another 4000 - 5000 more dead. While the Greeks sustained very few casualties, most likely fewer than fifty, once again.

Though it was not all victory for the Greeks and Spartans. A Greek traitor told King Xerxes of a goat trail that led around the mountain pass, which would effectively surround the Greek army.

With the exception of his own Spartans, King Leonidas dismissed his Greek army. Other men refuse to abandon them, leaving a total of 1500 - 2000 Greeks left to hold the pass while the remaining retreated back to the main unifying army. Three Spartans were also permitted to leave, two with an infected eye wound that made it so they could not stand in the defensive line, and the other as a messenger and diplomat. Upon hearing of them being surrounded, one of the blind Spartans had his slave lead him back to the remaining Spartans, where he stood with the rest. The other marched back to Sparta, being disgraced and eventually leading a wild charge at a later battle to reinstate his honor. The third was the messenger, joining the formed army and also aiding in future battles.

The small force stood their ground, pushed in on both sides. They fought a grueling battle, stabbing spear into flesh, sword into bone, and slowly dying from the brutal mass that pushed into them on either side. All they would have seen in their last hours was a sea of enemies trying to kill them. Though they did not go quietly, they took another estimated 7000 to 10,000 men with them. This included two of King Xerxes’ own brothers.

The Persian king Xerxes was so furious that he had his men find the dead body of Leonidas. He beheaded him and crucified his body, flaunting it as victory. But he and his own men knew the truth, and the truth was one that shook the army to its core. The Persians lost more than 20,000 men in three days to a force that was 43 to 1. The last day, it turned to 1 to 150… this meant each Greek alone had to have killed at least four to seven men each.

This alone was enough to shatter the confidence of the King and his army. They no longer felt inevitable, their giant army humiliated. When they finally marched, they were rebuked, sent back to Persia in utter defeat and humiliation, only two months after their costly victory at Thermopylae.

While the legend of only 300 Spartans is a myth, it does not change the heroics. The Spartans held the more dangerous part of the formation at all times, and they acted as the anchor for the small Greek force. King Leonidas was not just a good soldier, but was tactically sound. He not only held the Persian army there, but he had enough sense to retreat the majority of his small force, knowing that the Greek army stood no chance without them. And he and his Spartans, along with the very brave men who chose to stay with them, died playing a vital role in the ultimate victory of Greece.

Drawing is charcoal and graphite on 19x40 Bristol Vellum paper. It took 90+ hours to complete.

By: Zachery Hockridge

The Beginning - 150,000 words in one month

I started writing quite recently, on May 7th. In just shy of a month, I have written a bit over 150,000 words across various short stories, ideas, and two books I’m working on.

The first book started years ago, when I had a small itch. It was quickly abandoned after a few pages, and I had forgotten about it since. Over the years, I have done copywriting for myself, as well as for a friend and a company I worked for. Outside of that small bit, the most writing I have done was on my phone in text messages or emails.

I have always had stories in my head, but early in life, creativity never felt necessary. Over the years, I’ve accumulated countless experiences, seen a fair share of the world, and met many kinds of people. Following an accident in 2019, I took up charcoal drawing. I did that on and off for some years—which I still enjoy—but I never could stick with it. I loved the outcome of the pieces, I loved the stories they told; however, something still felt like it was missing.

The First Lessons

The first major lesson I learned in the first 20,000 words of my continued novel was POV. I learned the basic types, and as I continued to write, the rules started to make more sense. I had learned that great books broke the rules sometimes, but typically very carefully, and while it did happen, it wasn’t a common or recommended practice.

That led me to learn that the third-person omniscient was also discouraged for many writers. Of course, I wondered why, considering one of the greatest stories, books, and trilogies ever was originally written in that POV. (LOTR) But again, as I wrote and learned, I found out why it can be great, and its drawbacks.

After POV, I learned about the three main archetypes of book building:

• Pantser / Gardener

• Outliner

• Hybrid

I was naturally using the hybrid already, building a very rough idea and history of the world I wrote in (I usually write in fantasy or sci-fi), and then I drop my characters into it and discover how they navigate it. I usually have an idea of some of the big institutions and/or enemies in the world, but I’d wager about 80% is slowly made up as I go. I find it amazing what you naturally stumble into while adventuring with your own character.

To keep myself sane, I use Google Docs, and have a tab list where I store information like economy, names, cities, and locations. I also draw out a map and build my continent or world so that I know where my characters are in it.

Moving on, I learned about passive writing and filler words. I find I still struggle with this sometimes. Specifically, when scenes bombard my mind, I write so fast that I leave a trail of typos, filler words, and passive phrasing in my wake. I continue to progress and find myself slowly working them out.

The biggest lesson is immersion. Immersion, I think, is the first principle of fiction, and it ties everything together. Whenever I write characters, I try to imagine myself talking as them, in the world they live in, and with the people who surround them. Sometimes this can be difficult. I’ll look back at the dialogue and hate it because it has modern slang; I can’t picture them saying it on the second read. It’s a skill that went unseen when I was just a reader; creating such distinct characters who live and breathe in a world that is words on paper. As long as the reader remains immersed, the story can work. Obviously, many things play into this, like real characters, a plot without holes, fluid writing, proper grammar, and believable progress. It is absolutely fascinating how some authors break the so-called rules, yet their readers still love their worlds and books.

My Relationship With Reading

Getting back into writing was weird for me, in a sense, because I didn’t read much anymore, and hadn’t for some time.

When I was a teenager and young adult, I read a lot of books—nearly all historical fiction. I couldn’t put them down, and this is where my love of a story began. I don’t remember how many books I read, but it was a fair amount. I was probably 16 or 17 when I started, and I read much of Bernard Cornwell, Conn Iggulden, and Simon Scarrow. There were a few other books from different authors, but they were the main ones. I remember trying to read fantasy, but I couldn’t keep interested; I was always drawn back to the interesting lives of fictional characters in a real world, which is ironic because I write fantasy now.

Even after I stopped reading, I still loved stories; I just consumed them in different ways. Life pulled me in many directions, and reading wasn’t a priority for me. I actually remember the last book I fully read when I was 20 years old. I was in a holding platoon waiting for my infantry course to start, and I read the last book in the Conqueror series by Conn Iggulden. It was the last book in a series I was unable to finish before leaving for basic training.

I vividly remember that book and reading it, hiding under the covers with my headlamp into the late hours so I didn’t wake up the guys around me, reading about the final days and battles of Genghis Khan before I woke up every morning to go on a run or ruck—still drowsy from the night of reading.

As I ventured into writing, I found myself reading every evening once again, and I thoroughly enjoy doing so.

What I have found

I have discovered my biggest weaknesses remain grammar and typing; I have fast ideas and clumsy fingers. When I go back to edit, my mind turns to stone, and it becomes tedious indeed.

My goal is to tell deep, fascinating stories led by characters who feel alive, breathing, and completely lived in. My favorite scenes to write are battle scenes, capturing the reality and weight that comes with them.

If you are a writer or a reader, what do you think? What is it about stories, and specifically books, that hook you in and make you want to turn the page?

-Zach