Taking a chance

What Dr. S said in class this morning really hit home with me. "Writing takes a lot of work and taking the chance that you will look foolish." I haven't put the necessary work into this or my writing recently. If I really want to be a writer then I need to write. To give myself incentive, take a chance and fill this blog with something worth sharing I am making a commitment. From here on I will post daily some of my creative writing. I have a story I started and set aside so this will force me to work on it daily.
This gives you, my vast readership, a chance to critique my writing and give me feedback. I really hope you will take the opportunity to be brutally honest. You can only help me become a better writer. So here is the first 500 words or so of The Team

The murk was almost impenetrable, with a wet clingy fog that wrapped its cold tendrils around him like bony fingers seeking the warmth under his clothing. The fetid stench wafting up from the mud made his eyes water, in spite of the black cloth wrapped across his mouth and nose. The damn mud! Knee deep in spots it seemed intent on pulling off boots and leggings.

The mud is what made this excursion possible though. A quarter mile wide by half mile long stretch of bog known as Fegan’s outhouse. It bordered the back edge of the Nelban army encampment. Because of its reputation as an impenetrable barrier the camp was unguarded along its edge.

Rolph swore he could lead a small team through the bog. The right team could do a great deal of damage if it got into the camp undetected. Jimez had that team. He was a part of the team. Ostensibly he was the leader. But he would no more claim the title than any of the others would acknowledge it.

The team was a collection of individuals that had come together over the years for mutual support and benefit. Its current incarnation of 5 members was a strong group with diverse talents. Jimez kept telling himself that he would move on after the next job. Somehow he could never bring himself to leave.

Jimez and Clint were the core of the team. They had met several years back through a mutual friend. During their initial job together a bond had formed that neither seemed willing to break. Clint was size and power to Jimez’s speed and agility. At 6’6” he towered over most people. Even Jimez at 6’ 2” felt small in comparison. Jimez jokingly referred to Clint as “barrel wasted” because of his healthy paunch. Many had died mistaking Clint’s merry blue eyes and ample girth as signs of weakness. Behind Clint’s laughing blue eyes and ready smile was the mind of a veteran fighter. For years arena fans had cheered “Clobberin’ Clint” and his big iron cudgel “Betty”. Betty seemed an extension of Clint, you almost never saw him without it hanging from his meaty fist or resting on his broad shoulder. His battle cry “sing for me Betty” and the accompanying whistle of the cudgel had been the last sound heard by many.

Jimez’s dirty blonde hair was pulled back and tied with a piece of leather. The black cloth around his face only partially hid his aquiline nose. His swarthy complexion made him difficult to spot on most nights. In the dark and fog tonight he was virtually invisible. His worn black leathers only added to the camouflage. Even the hilts of his sword and dagger, worn crosswise on his back, were wrapped in black leather. He was attempting to move silently but the sucking mud made that a difficult task. “I’ll cut out your heart if this doesn’t work Rolph”.

By all accounts Rolph was one of the best scouts and woodsmen in the area. Timo had done his usual thorough job in locating the best source for the information and services he sought. The little man was amazing. Within hours of the team’s arrival in a new area he would show up dressed in local fashion and have a pretty good grasp on the lay of the land. His talent with explosives was the reason the team had taken this job.