Tuesday, July 26, 2011

writing snippet (James) - Taveston's

They sat across the table from each other in uncharacteristic silence. James fidgeted with his coaster, stroked the spine of the folded menu, drummed his fingers softly against the tabletop. Chayla’s arms were crossed and propped on the table and she was looking around, taking in Taveston’s familiar décor.

“So?...”

“Huh? Oh. I’m sorry – I just don’t have a lot to say today. It’s been a long day and I’m just feeling worn out, you know?”

“Well yeah, I figured that. Your job sucks, James. I don’t know how you keep going back every day.”

“Yeah…”

“But that’s why I called you. So you wouldn’t just finish work and then go home to that itty little apartment of yours and spend all your time alone on the Internet or something, and turn into one of those guys who spends all his time alone except when he’s at work.” Chayla paused a moment.

“What if you went crazy and started hallucinating or something? No one would know. You could be mauled to death by imaginary bears, and no one would pretend to know what happened.”

“Right, thank you. You came this close to saying something sweet and meaningful…and then imaginary bears happened.”

Chayla shot him a withering look and then looked around to flag down the bar man.

“Hey, Chay. What’s goin’ on, moonchild? What can I get ya?”

“Not a lot, Luke. And just the usual, please – Fat Tire and an apology from an asshole.” Luke was just weird enough for Chayla to forgive him for mostly being a stiff.

Luke gave her a slow grin and turned to James. “Little trouble in paradise, amigo?”

“Soon as I’m in paradise I’ll call the bar and let you know. And I could go for a Terrapin, I think.”

Luke bobbed his head in affirmation and shuffled off to the bar “Get those drinks right up for ya. Have to add the apology to your tab, though.”

Chayla watched him walk away, not turning back to look at James. “You’re an A-grade jerk, you know that?”

“…said the girl who used to stand outside the door with a wine bottle and swear in French whenever I tried to invite someone over,” James sighed. “Also, the topless thing.”

Chayla couldn’t keep up the act any longer. She almost snorted, broke into a grin at the memory. “You coulda done better than any three of them anyway, my darling little J-hole. So, what’s going on anyway? I know you’re usually Serious McBusinesspants right off of work, but you seem a little mopier than usual?”

“Thanks,” James nodded to Luke as he set the two beers down. “I don’t know, Chayla. I guess I’ve just been in a weird mood today. About halfway through the morning I got this picture of the mountains stuck in my mind, and after a while I just wanted to leave my desk and get in the car and go. Payday’s at the end of the week, so why not? I just got gas, so I could go a few hundred miles before I had to start walking. Go south and I might be able to get as far as Georgia. I’ve got some family down there, and I’ve always wanted to see Athens and Savannah. North and…well, I don’t know how far I could get, but as long as my car didn’t die on a turnpike I think I’d be okay. Maybe just take the tags off and abandon it when it does, and start a new life in the closest town I can walk to from there. You know? Even If I just go back to doing the same god-awful boring stuff that I’m doing now, at least I’ll know that I did something with my life for at least a few days.”

“James! Stop it.”

“Christ, what’s wrong with that?" Chayla's tone put him on the defensive. "You and I both know that I’m probably not actually going to do it. I’ve got too many responsibilities here. I’ll probably never leave this damn place.”

“No, I meant stop touching your face so much when you talk. It’s distracting.”

James stared at Chayla, expressionless for several moments, then sighed into his beer and took a long drink. This was probably why they never dated back in school.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

writing snippet - phonecall (Chayla)

Chayla dialed the all the numbers but one, waited a dramatic moment, and then forcefully punched the 4.

Rr-ring. Rr-ring. Rr-ring.

“C’mon, J-hole, pick up already!” She rolled her eyes in exasperation and stretched, holding the phone out at arm’s length for the last two rings.

Hi, this is James. I’m not available right now but leave a message and I’ll get back to y….what the fuBEEP.

Chayla grinned, just like every time. She remembered what she’d been doing when he was recording that message. She started yelling at the phone, still arms-length away.

“James! James! Pick up your end of the goddam tin can, James!” He always called her phone a tin can, giving her a healthy dose of teasing for still using a landline when literally everyone else they knew had cell phones. In return, she would usually give him a healthy dose of middle finger.

“But seriously, though. Don’t call me back because I won’t be here when you get this message. I’m going to Taveston’s. Meet me there in, oh, 45 minutes or something. If you don’t, you better expect the worst. You know, like the time I stopped shaving and swore at you in French with an empty wine bottle whenever you had a girl over. Or the topless thing. Oh by the way, tell your uncle I said hi.” Chayla could barely suppress a giggle. “Anyway, see you soon!”

Now she just needed to get dressed and head over to the bar. James would be there, almost exactly on time, and she’d get huffy about how she’d waited so long for him to arrive, and he’s apologize profusely, and she’d act like she had been snubbed but would still allow him to escort her inside. She didn’t want to call it a tradition, because she wasn’t sure he’d caught on yet that the same thing happened every time, or that it was just a game.

Actually, James was a great guy, and Chayla considered herself really lucky to have a man like him in her life. As she picked through the pile of clothes on her floor for underwear and a tank top that wasn’t too wrinkled, she tried not to dwell on her secret fear that he’d get tired of her fond abuse and stop spending time with her. James was a really good friend and didn’t deserve to be treated so shitty; she didn’t know why she couldn’t stop.

A quick look in the mirror to see if she should put on a shorter skirt (nah, I haven’t shaved in days), the she pulled her hair back, tied a bandana like a headband, and drew the top card of her tarot deck to tuck in it for accent. Empress reversed? Damn, that means something but I left my stupid book upstairs.

Anywhere else, her exploded-new-age-shop couture would probably get a load of nonplussed stares, but she’d been so many times to Taveston’s, with groups or with James, that they were used to her stylistic affectations. She was pretty sure at least one of the bartenders knew her by name. Oh well, that just meant that sometime soon she’d have to shake things up by going in wearing a regular jeans-and-t-shirt outfit. That might raise a few eyebrows.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

D&D one-shot event game - The Sly

This past weekend I ran a 12-13 hour D&D session, the second-longest session I've ever been in (there was one longer in high school, but it included a 2-hour break to play Super Smash Brothers, and at least one point where the DM accidentally dozed off and the game stalled (I think this might have instigated the Super Smash Brothers session, actually)).

I designed the game as a one-shot "double session" for Stephanie's birthday, because she wanted to explore the character of the mom of her character in my regular campaign, so I took the idea and ran with it, spinning it into a paragon-tier 4th edition game.

The characters were
Alvilág Xiafalla (Stephanie's character), a tiefling warlord and matronly gang boss
Romulus "Romie" Widdering, a human wizard running from his past
Eckard Vectomon, an elf seeker from the Feywild who talks to the spirits in his head more than the people he meets in real life
Piotrek Durand, a half-orc thug who gets his way through violence and making a point to know people's secrets
Sord, a dwarf barbarian who gave up the seafaring life of her people to become an equestrian
Bertram Halifax Rosario St. Germaine, a human swordmage who is a son of privilege, and is trying to make his way in the world to prove that yes, in fact, he is as awesome and worthy of respect as he claims to be.

This small rag-tag group made up a gang called The Sly, a criminal organization of some notoriety (especially in their home borough of Bedstye), but whose reputation is overshadowed by the larger, more ruthless gang called Eleven Sons.

It all started when The Sly got a notice of late shipment from their main suppliers, the Tradewind Caravan Company. However, they weren't expecting any shipment to be delivered at all, so after using Bertram's magical reading monocle to decipher the illegible signature on the order, they snooped around until they found Mason Locke, the man whose name was on the form. Mason was at a tavern/arena fight club called The Pit (so called for the big sandy pit right in the middle of the building, where the fighting takes place. Also, at request of the PCs, they also have really good ribs). He had just finished meeting with a client when the PCs approached him and showed him the notice, inquiring as to what was going on. Mason Locke apologized profusely, saying that the PCs should never have known about the order because it had been arranged for him to pick it up at The Sly's headquarters (a used book store and pawn shop that also doubles as a black market of sorts...for the right customers), but the supplier never showed up at the rendezvous on time, so the transaction was never completed. He offered to let the PCs speak to his employer, for whom he had made the order.

The Sly made their way to the Terasein Council Hall, where Locke's employer was talking with Councilman Rowe. Council Hall is a nice building, built in classical Elenathan style, but because of the high crime rates in Terasein the barracks for the Imperial Guard and the Brotherhood flank the entrance. The Guard are the bread-and-butter police and armed forces of the Eastern Empire. The Brotherhood are elite warriors recruited from the best of the best of the Guard who undergo intensive training to become almost superhumanly powerful combatants. The outer walls of the Brotherhood barracks are adorned with 22 dragon skulls, each engraved with a different name. There are 22 Brothers stationed in Terasein. In a city were anything that isn't nailed down (and most things that are, if you have a big enough pry-bar) is fair game, none of the decorations have ever been stolen.

Inside Council Hall, Locke led the PCs to Councilman Rowe's offices, and introduced them to the politician and also Locke's employer, Alexander Bartlett. Bartlett is a member of the Artificer's Guild, who is trying to sell a new technology they've invented to make travel around the geographically expansive Empire more efficient - a sort of teleportation that allows you to enter a controlled, close space and emerge at any location anywhere else in the world...so long as it is precisely identical. The Guild is trying to sell an exclusive contract to the Imperial government—along with the contract to build these precisely identical rooms—in Imperial offices and Council Halls all over the Empire, in an effort to increase their visibility and reputation around the Empire so they can make a move to become a political player like the College of Magic, rather than just a trade organization. The PCs bring up the matter of security (wouldn't instant teleportation make it that much easier to assassinate important officials?) and the Rowe charges Bartlett to address this before they settle the contract.

Now knowing what the shipment was for, but still not what it was, the PCs decided to go investigate why the shipment was late. They go to Tradewind Caravan Company's Terasein office, and Jeanine and Mr. Katthwaite tell them that the shipment won't be coming in, because the caravan carrying it sent out a distress signal over a week ago and then disappeared. Also, a large section of road collapsed north of Terasein, making it very hard to travel the long distances between Terasein and the northern cities of the Empire. Piotrek accidentally becomes British for a moment, and Sord took a handful of lollipops from the bowl on Jeanine's desk before leaving.

The PCs decided to go investigate the caravan themselves, and found exactly what they expected. The road (and a good portion of land on either side) had collapsed into a big pit, and the caravan was inside it. Nearby there were two large graves that, when exhumed, revealed the bodies of two of the caravan horses - My Little Horsey and Pony Stardust. Sord had once worked with both of these beasties, and lamented appropriately. Bertram and Romie tried to detect magic, but any traces they got from the area were faint and old. Eckard noticed some faint tracks around the site that looked like they could belong to gnolls and hyenas, but they were at least a week old. The PCs decided to start digging out the site to see what they could find, and Romie summoned a phantom steed for Piotrek to ride back into town to buy shovels, since no one had thought to bring any.

While in town, Piotrek was tracked down by Lucas Lockhart, the Eleven Sons' "handler" for The Sly. Lockhart told Piotrek that Councilman Rowe was in the pocket of the Shadow Rogues, a powerful rival gang from Terasein's Chitonwa district. He suggested (ordered) The Sly to investigate everything the could about the teleporter project, the missing shipment, and Councilman Rowe, because if he was the one signing off on the project and he is at the Shadow Rogues' beck and call he is basically their ticket to an unimaginable amount of power, and that would give them an unmitigated advantage over the Eleven Sons and all their affiliated gangs (including The Sly). Also, it was gnolls that attacked the caravan, so that might be a good place to start to try to trace the events of that day.

Piotrek returned to the dig site and relayed this information to the other PCs, and they decided to go back to town and investigate. Gnolls are mostly nomadic (in part because their predilection for the taste of the flesh of sentient creatures makes them unpopular with almost every other race ever), but the Gunankoh clan has settled semi-permanently in Terasein and started their own gang called Fang Hard. They are not very prolific, but Fang Hard is under the wing of the Shadow Rogues.

The PCs barge into the Fang Hard headquarters and find no one there but a curmudgeonly old coot of a gnoll. They demand to know what happened and he says he doesn't know the details except that the order and the money didn't come from the Shadow Rogues and they should talk to Keegan Royale - he's the one who makes deals and takes contracts from other people. The PCs demand him to tell them where Keegan is, and he says no. Piotrek offers him some money, then smashes his hand into the table with a mace, and he finally tells them Keegan is at The Pit for PitCon.

The PCs go back to The Pit and find Royale in a sleeping drunken stupor draped across two chairs in a corner. They slap him awake and demand to know who gave them the hit on the caravan, and still hung over and drunk, Keegan tells them it was Councilman Rowe before throwing up and falling back asleep.

The PCs do a careful investigation on Rowe, but don't find much condemning evidence or strange behavior, except that he doesn't always go home to his own house at night. It turns out the second home belongs to Liza Casare, with whom he is having an affair.

The PCs break into Liza's house at night with the intention of interrogating her. Alvilág takes her cat, Mr. Flufflemuffin and holds him "hostage", while Romie casts Illusory Wall to "trap" Mrs. Casare in her room. Alvilág passes through the wall doing the "hellfire and damnation" bit that tieflings are so good at, and demands information, threatening the cat if she doesn't get the answers she wants. Mrs. Casare is in tears - it soon becomes obvious that she doesn't know what's going on, and begs Alvilág not to hurt the cat, or tell her husband Jeff about the affair. Apparently, she was not even aware that her husband had died on the job (Jeff Casare was the leader of the caravan that caved in on the way to Terasein). Just when things didn't seem like they could get any worse for Mrs. Casare, Sord pokes her head through the wall and asks where the lollies are. Having no idea what's going on any more, Liza breaks down completely into hysterics, and the PCs leave, deciding they should have gone after Councilman Rowe after all. Before leaving, Piotrek cases the joint and finds a wall safe behind an inexplicable Thomas Kinkade painting. Probably this one. There's nothing in there but some money stashed away as a "rainy day" fund, so they PCs leave without taking anything.

The next morning the PCs put their plan into action to kidnap the Councilman. Piotrek abducts him as he makes his way to Council Hall, and Bertram uses his Exodus Knife to create an extradimensional space for the interrogation to take place. Eckard takes watch outside the interrogation "room". The Councilman compliments them on their professionalism, sits back comfortably, and takes charge of the situation. Yes he's having an affair with Lize Casare, and yes he ordered the hit on the caravan via the Fang Hard gang. Jeff had upset Liza by choosing to work and be on the road instead of spending time with her on her birthday, so Rowe had ordered the hit because he'd grown attached to the woman and hated to see her so neglected by her husband, and he saw this as an opportunity to get him out of the way. As an added benefit, the caravan was also carrying supplies for Bartlett, and the late shipment meant that he was in a weaker negotiating position, meaning that Rowe could pressure him to bring the price of the contract down again (and also implying that Bartlett had caved before, as the room was already under construction even though no contract had been finalized). And on top of that, if the Shadow Rogues started giving him trouble, he could deny them access to the teleporter room (which is the main reason they tried to "buy" the Councilman in the first place). It turns out that the balding, portly councilman was something of a mastermind in his own right. Seemingly impressed, Piotrek asked how the councilman would react if offered a counter-bid by the Eleven Sons. Rowe said he'd be willing to consider such an offer, and that the PCs should return to his office the next morning with more details about the offer.

Rowe then took his leave from the interrogation room, and the PCs went to go find Lockhart to get approval for the counter-offer. Lockhart gave it eagerly, and the next day the PCs went to go speak to Councilman Rowe.

Rowe was delighted to see that all of them had shown up, and immediately called a set of Twins (Brothers who had been specially trained to fight in pairs) to detain the PCs. Since the Brotherhood barracks were right by the front doors, the only way out seemed to be to get to the mostly-complete teleporter room and try to escape to another city. the Twins pursued them relentlessly, but between several rounds of delaying tactics and strategic use of an Arcae Gate spell, the PCs were able to get to the teleporter room before the Twins, close the doors, and activate the room.

When the PCs opened the doors again, it was dark. Lanterns revealed that they seem to have ended up in some sort of massive cave. The consensus was that the PCs needed to get back home so they could reorient themselves and figure out what to do about the Twins.

After exploring for a little while without really knowing where they were going, they crosses paths with a party of drow who were swaying and wailing and chanting "The Queen is dead, long live the Queen". The drow paid them no mind, and continued along their path. Several minutes later, Eckard and then the others heard footsteps approaching from behind. They turned to confront, and it was a male drow from the earlier party. He was carrying a white cloth (a sign of truce) and begged to talk with them. He'd been a part of the mourning party for over 8 days, and was sick of all the wailing and shrieking, but was afraid to say anything to the priestesses because of the ruthless efficiency with which they would respond to his complaint. According to the priestesses, Lolth had been discovered almost a week before, strangled and hung by her own webbing in the Demonweb Pits. After letting the drow vent for a while and let off some steam, the PCs asked him how they could get out of the cave. He said there was no exit he knew of, unless they wanted to try to use the Vestige of Old Nerath to get out. The problem, however, is that the Vestige is inaccessible at the center of the Cavern Sea, in the palace of the King Under the Mountain who has been sleeping for centuries and having mad nightmares, and as soon as he awakes he will attempt to use the Vestige to visit that madness upon the world. If the PCs are insane enough to try, though, the people that sealed the King Under the Mountain away scattered 6 pillars across the shore of the Cavern Sea that, when all activated, would both lower the water level so that the bridge to the palace was once again accessible and also teach them the syllables of a long-dead language they would need to activate the Vestige.

The six pillars—one of which teleported away when approached, another of which illusory and the real pillar was hidden some distance away, the third which raised and lowered itself to random heights, the fourth which existed only in a forest of other identical pillars, the fifth which was encased in a stone wall, and the sixth which didn't even exist at all until the other pillars had all been activated—proved a bit of a puzzle, but the PCs learned the words and began the process that lowered the sea so they could reach the King's palace.

The Vestige was on a platform high above dais upon which the King's throne sat, and his guards and vassals thronged throughout the throne room. He condemned the PCs for waking him, and then attacked them all in full force.

The PCs were surprised by the initial ferocity of the assault. The King blasted them with waves of madness, his guards with spears and axes and crossbows, and his vassals with their clubs and fists. The vassals were relentless, even sacrificing their safety and lives to ensure their blows landed on the PCs. The guards were as well, but they were heavily targeted by Romie as he conjured illusions of fantastic treasure to distract them from battle, and visions of armageddon to paralyze them in fear. Slowly, through expert archery, brutal sneak attacks, raging fury, powerful spells, and resourceful planning the PCs managed to work their way through the throne room, then up the majestic staircases leading to the Vestige, and by reciting the Words of Power, were able to fulfill their wish of going home.

And now Stephanie wants a sequel. At epic tier. I don't know what I'm going to do . O__O

Monday, May 16, 2011

writing snippet - driving (Rob)


Those who knew him would probably say that Rob had no imagination. Those who knew him best would probably tease him about how boring he was, and he needed to start playing video games or something. Rob was simply a practical-minded man, and preoccupied himself with the things around him, rather than engaging in flights of fancy. Elizabet kept telling him he needed to lighten up a little bit, encouraging him to “exercise those mind muscles.” In return, he’d just chuckle and make sure that the equipment at the station was in good working order. 

He had a soft spot for Elizabet. He wasn’t secretly in love with her or anything, at least he didn’t think he was, but he felt a definite fondness for the dark-haired woman.  He’d noticed that she seemed a lot less of herself recently, almost seeming harrowed, and had made an effort to pick up more late work at the station so that he could be around if something happened to her. That’s where he’d been tonight, why he was driving home at 2 in the morning. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but he’d done all the regular maintenance and Elizabet had shooed him home, insisting she’d be alright. He’d still been reluctant to go, but she was very persuasive. Or maybe he’d just been very good at letting her persuade him. He didn’t think their friendship was different from any other, but he felt obliged to admit the possibility that he might let her influence him more than he let other people.

It was too late to hit up Taveston’s and he wasn’t really in the mood anyway – his work and Elizabet’s health had put him into a more somber mood. Rob guessed he’d just go home. Late spring warmth had given way to late night chill, but for some reason he felt stifled in the car so he rolled down the windows and switched on the heat. The mingling sensation of warm air from the vents and pre-dew coolness from the windows played across his skin, raising the hair on his arms. The radio was tuned low, so that he could just make out guitars and drumbeats above the noise of the wind. God, I don’t think I’ve done this since college.

Rob turned onto Old Orchard Road and his mind began to wander. He may not have much imagination, but he had plenty of memories.  Sometimes he felt like maybe his life was a sequence of memories that got replayed, over and over again. He’d certainly lived this one before, driving down Old Orchard with the windows and the heat, the radio playing low, head all wrapped up about a girl. It hadn’t been Elizabet back then of course. Her name was Erin, and she was an old sweetheart – not the first girl he’d ever slept with, but the one before.

“…Widening the corridors, and adding more lanes…” a stray lyric made itself audible above the road noises. Damn it, Cake. That was a weird coincidence. Maybe I’ll tell Elizabet about it tomorrow. In the years since the night he had driven home from Erin's, Old Orchard had been widened. Now there were extra lanes where the honeysuckle used to grow wild.

He felt a sudden pang of sadness. It had been a couple years now since any part of this road smelled like honeysuckle. He missed it, and he didn’t know why. Rob took a deep breath, entertaining the absurd notion that maybe some of the scent was left. He knew there wouldn’t be, and there wasn’t, but he was still a little disappointed that there was nothing flavoring the night air. He pulled up to a stoplight with a sigh. This one was always red, no matter what time of day he came to it. What was the deal with that?

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Kid cousin - Chayla (writing excerpt)

Chayla took one last drag on the nubby Parliament clenched between her lips, then dismembered it in the cheap ashtray (stolen from the Waffle House before it closed), looked at it gloomily for a moment, then flicked it out the open window. Her kid cousin was coming by later that afternoon, and Chayla wasn't thrilling at the idea of a reunion.

She didn't have anything against the girl, personally. She had always been kind of quiet and kept to herself at the holidays, and always seemed more interested in reading than talking. Sure. Chayla could appreciate that; when Steve and Mark and the two Kathys (one of them kin by blood, the other by marriage) were all under the same roof, there was no telling what was going to happen...but it usually involved football or NASCAR, and lots of swearing. Was it two Thanksgivings ago the next door neighbors had called the police on them, reporting a domestic disturbance. The Burgens weren't their next-door neighbors any more. Even though Chayla'd had no involvement in the fight—was sometimes appalled at how her uncles had escalated the feud—it gave her a grim sort of satisfaction that her family had won. Steve had invited the whole family over for a cookout the day after the Burgens had moved out. On the front lawn of the newly-vacated house. Sometimes blood runs thicker than water, even when it shouldn't.

The girl, though, had come from a slightly saner side of the family. She read books and didn't talk much. Didn't seem interested in cars or sports. The had probably been in girl scouts. She probably went to church on more than just Easter, and didn't feel like a guilt-ridden whore afterward. She probably volunteered at the local retirement hom oon Saturday mornings, and did her homework on time, and got straight A's (except maybe in gym class). She probably played clarinet or flute in marching band. She probably knew how to make a fucking diorama. Actually, that's why she was coming by. Not the diorama, but because she was touring Trinity, the little private college on the other side of town. Chayla had never looked into it, but she suspected they had a literature program. She sneered a little, and reached for the cigarette pack again. Damn, empty. She fidgeted with the carton, tearing it into little pieces.

No, the reason she wasn't fond of the girl were extremely simple. They didn't have anything to do with convoluted family politics, or academic rivalry (Chayla had finally made it out of high school years earlier, and was content to put that part of her life well behind her), or even honest and true bullyish rancor (although she would have been a positively brilliant target for it). It was because she was tall, she was skinny, she was blond, and she was totally oblivious. As far as Chayla knew she hadn't ever even been kissed, and here she was getting ready to graduate. And what's worse, she didn't seem to care about all that. It was little putting a hologram of a sandwich in front of a hungry man. Or describing a waterfall to someone who really had to pee. Infuriating!

Well, maybe it wasn't really that bad. After all, there was way more to life that sex. It's just that it was such a fun diversion. And it was maddening to see someone with all that potential so obviously wasting it. Aside from that, she really was a pretty alright kid. A little geeky, but, eh...what can you do about family?

The knock came on the door. Chayla dropped the mutilated cigarette carton and sidled downstairs to answer it. "Hey kiddo. how's it going? Come on in! How was Trinity?"

A bright smile flashed across Rose's face as she stepped into the duplex, then shrugged as she kicked off her shoes. "It was alright, I guess. Just another college I guess, you know? I don't think we could afford for me to go if I don't get scholarships or anything."

Which you will, Chayla snarked silently.

"But I guess it's a pretty good school, and the campus is pretty. The journalism and the American lit programs both sound kind of interesting."

Called it. Chayla chuckled. "Oh yeah? You'll have to tell me more about it. You want a drink? Got some PBR in the fridge."

Rose made a disgusted face, but there was a twinkle in her eye that made Chayla uncertain if she was serious or joking. "No thanks. I'm fine right now. Oh, but that reminds me. Mom gave me some money to order a pizza or treat you to supper or something, since you were nice enough to let me hang out for a while and take me home this evening."

Chayla tensed at the fridge, grappling the can in her hand. No one had said anything to her about taking Rose home. I guess she didn't have a choice, though. There was no way in hell the kid was going to stay here tonight, that was for sure. "You sure? No water or nothing?"

"No, I'm fine! I guess the tour was alright, but it was kind of boring and the tour guide was this junior, except it was just me and one other student and that student's mom so it was a small group, and the tour guide was just acting really weird and it was awkward and he wouldn't make eye contact and...I don't know. I just think he wasn't very good at it."

Chayla kept her thought to herself and dropped onto the other side of the ancient sofa, leaning against the armrest and crossing her legs. "Uh-huh?"

"That's...there's not a lot else, I guess."

Several moments passed, punctuated only by the sound of Chayla drinking.

"...I met a boy."

"At Trinity?"

"No. At the arcade."

"There's an arcade where you live? I thought the nearest one was in Madison."

"Well, there's not. Not really, at least. It's abandoned. Downtown. It closed down in the 70s. Seventy-eight, I think. I looked it up once."

"Huh. So, what's he deal and can you get me a discount?"

"Oh, shut up! Now you're making fun of me!" Chayla wasn't sure she'd ever seen someone smirk and glare at the same time before. Rose was an amusing mark.

"Well, okay. Maybe a little bit. But seriously, why were you hanging out in abandoned buildings? We haven't won you over to the dark side, have we?" Chayla mimed lighting a cigarette.

Rose made another face. "I found a pinball machine there. It still works, and I love it. I had never played pinball before. That's actually how we met. I was playing the machine, and I was really into it, and then when I lost I looked up and he was just there staring at me like he couldn't figure out why I was there."

"I bet it's because he couldn't figure out why you were there."

"You're doing it again. Making fun of me."

"Sure am." Chayla leaned precariously and set the half-empty beer can on the floor beside her. "But, for the sake of argument, let's assume this guy isn't a rapist or drug dealer, and I suspect you're going to tell me he's not homeless either, right? Because that's the other reason I can think of for someone to just hang out in abandoned buildings. And I can't help but think you're doing your damnedest to prove me wrong?"

"He's not homeless. I saw him a couple times at work before I ever met him. He wears some sort of uniform. He probably works at a restaurant or a store."

"You don't know?"

"We don't really talk about work."

Chayla's brow furrowed, partly out of curiosity, and partly because she was becoming increasingly confused. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but what do you do?"

Who had replaced her stupid kid cousin with this person who, while obviously still stupid, was teetering precariously close to being an adult? Chayla wasn't sure how she felt about having to get used to talking to Rose like she was a real person now.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Another day, another dream

Had another curious dream last night, although it was neither as detailed nor as interesting as some of my previous ones (see this account, and this one as well).

In the dream, I was coming from tech services because I needed to reference a book for some dire, last-minute book cataloging (Author note: can you think of any situation in which cataloging a book could be a heroic act that could ultimately save the world, or at least the lives of a few people? I can't, but it's a dream so let's roll with it), so I burst through the door and onto the mezzanine, which happened to overlook the school cafeteria. Of course, the cafeteria didn't look like a school cafeteria; it probably more closely resembled the atrium of a very nice hotel, but full of round tables and fashionable chairs.

Standing between two columns toward the front of the cafet-atrium was a guy with a mic and a guitar, about to perform some kind of solo charity concert. He looked like your typical American male singer-songwriter sort - tall, slim, stylish not-too-long-but-not-too-short haircut, and a vague lost expression in his eyes that could either indicate artistic and emotional depth or perhaps a gnawing uncertainty about where he is.

I slip down the mezzanine stairs and grab a seat at the nearest free table I can find (after all, I have to blend in with the crowd for this mission...right?), and it just so happens that my supervisor is sitting at the same table, along with a co-worker from a previous job, and a young woman my boss and I both recognize as a member of a dastardly ring of international library thieves (rare book thieves think small. These people steal entire libraries. Carmen Sandiego style, I guess). The former co-worker and the I.L.T. appear to be together, an item, but I'm not fooled; one of them is playing the other in order to get what they want.

I point this out to my boss, using a secret language known only to catalogers and librarians - a secret language that is apparently very similar to English, if you forgot what most consonants sounded like, and were trying to speak it in whale song (AN: I wonder if I actually "said" anything or made noise during this conversation? My former roommate once told me that I sleep-talk sometimes, and I wonder what (if anything) I may have said out loud!). Or Welsh. Even though co-worker and I.L.T. can't hear us over the music (he's apparently very well mic'ed), and they wouldn't be able to understand us even if they could, they're starting to get visibly agitated and it seems clear they are about to make their move. I.L.T. unwraps her arms from around co-worker's shoulders and stands up (she'd been sitting on his lap), and he's about to do the same. I tense up, ready to tackle someone or make a mad dash for safety depending on what happens, and then my alarm wakes me up and I never learn the end of the dream.

Oh well...at least the build-up was exciting!

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Dialogical graffiti

Bathroom stall graffiti is something we're all aware of, but doesn't come up in conversation too terribly often. Normally I wouldn't bring it up either, but there's some textual vandalism in a stall at one of my jobs that's actually kind of fascinating. It takes the form of dialogical comments (which in and of itself isn't terribly uncommon, I suppose), but instead of libeling people's sexual proclivities or dipping into the well of juvenile offensiveness, it's a semi-intellectual discourse about the contentious relationship between the science and religion.

The first comment seems to be a sharpie-based statement that reads "Biology certifies my belief that there is no God." The immediate response appears to be another brief (perhaps tongue-in-cheek) comment that reads "Theology proves my belief...that there is no me", and a third (which I assume is the most recent) simply reads "Jesus Christ, the cornerstone". Scattered around these core statements are other pen-, pencil-, and crayon(???)-scrawled comments that say things like "too direct", "smart person", and "like" (because Facebook is just too dang ubiquitous, y'all!).

I know better to contribute to the vandalism (because even though it's interesting, I'd still be engaging in defacing public property), but if that weren't a concern, I think it'd be fun to add some comments of my own to the dialogue. My favorite idea so far is "Positivism enforces my experience that only that which is observable is true. I have observed neither God nor evolution, but I exist. Therefore, I must have created myself. CONGRATULATIONS YOU GUYS. YOU JUST MADE ME A SOLIPSIST. D:"

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

writing snippet - radio (Elizabet)

"It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Elizabet cued up the CDC bit that Cindy and Shawn had given her earlier, and collapsed back into her chair. She'd been the "Witchy Woman" for almost a year now. She'd been delighted to take the spot, in fact, because she'd just gotten out of grad school and couldn't fathom what a normal person's sleep schedule was like, or how it could possibly apply to her. Play whatever seemed like a good idea, take requests (there were a few, but not usually too many), and make sure the studio didn't burn down. Not a bad gig at all.

A few weeks ago, she'd started getting headaches, some of them bad. Maybe they were migraines, but they never lingered like her mom's had. Just here, there, and gone all in the course of a night. Still, sound hurt. Lights hurt. No one else could take her spot for more than a night or two, though, and she was too damn stubborn to let the WDTZ go off the air during her shift. So rather than admit something was wrong, she started "flying blind" in the studio. Eyes shut unless she absolutely needed them, and blocking out as much of the music as she could. The "Witchy Woman" had always been secretive about her playlists, and that worked in Elizabet's favor now; she really had no idea what songs she was queueing until she worked up the gus to open her eyes and sneak a glance.

She'd never thought she knew the studio like the back of her hand, but she made out with minimal screw-ups (somehow), and no one had called to bless her out about her show sucking. Either she was doing alright, or no one was bothering to listen to her any more. At this point, either one of those seemed like they could be okay. Maybe she'd offer to pick up Rob's tab at Taveston's—the bar down the road—if he'd record her show one night so she could actually hear how the "blind" Witching Hour sounded.

Or maybe she didn't want to know.

Ugh, the PSA was ending. Time to get back to work. She dared a quick peek around, trying not to wince. "This is Elizabet wishing a happy Witching Hour to all you boys and girls out there, and we are back to cast a spell on you with this classic track from Beck."

writing snippet - radio (Chayla)

Chayla grinned wolfishly as the last haunting strains of music faded into the air. The DJ's voice crackled across the speakers of the 30-year old transistor radio, announcing the time. "It is now 12:14, and you're listening to the Witching Hour with Elizabet—the witchy woman herself—right here on WDTZ; music so good, it's spooky. That was Bjork you just heard, Regina Spektor just before it, and Lach before that. I'll start the music back after this PSA from the Center for Disease Control, and we'll see what kind of magic we can make with the next set, starting with...well, we'll just find out won't we?"

Chayla hated the breaks. Not that she particularly cared for the music, but the breaks were worse. The Witchy Woman put together incredible playlists, and played it like she thought of them off the top of her head. Chayla had never heard a disc jockey pull that off as well as she did, and she had listened to a lot of radio shows over the past few years. Elizabet never really played music that Chayla liked, but that was beside the point. Chayla didn't even want to try to imagine the hours she must spend going through the station's catalog. It was rarely the kind of music she liked, but it always worked. And more importantly, it always read.

The temptation to fidget with the radio dial was more and more powerful, but Chayla didn't dare - on this old junker, she'd never be able to get the station back. It was an accident she'd found this station in the first place, while looking for a local classic rock station James had told her about. One that didn't suck, he'd said. Besides, by then the PSA was almost over. That was the great thing about these little stations; they played commercials about as often as ska bands played sonatas.

The Witchy Woman's voice came back on the air, and she started to talk in the next song. Something she'd never heard of by Beck. Chayla huddled even closer over the card table, her ear trained intently to hear the opening riff while she unconsciously fidgeted with the ballpoint pen in her hand. The table was littered with scraps of scribbled paper, snack food wrappers, an torn-up cigarette pack, empty cans of diet Pepsi, and a deck of tarot cards carefully divided into seven different stacks.

Those were just for double-checking, though, and Chayla hardly ever used them any more. Somehow, Elizabet's playlists always gave good readings.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

writing snippet - becoming the game (unrevised)

Buzzers and chimes formed a raucus chorus and small lights blinked smugly as the pinball fell into the gutter. Again. Angel's look of concentration warped into an expression that was equal parts grin and grimace. "Rats. I'm out of quarters. Do you have any more?"

"No, I don't. I only brought enough for a couple games and I went before you, remember?"

Angel sighed and wistfully flipped the flippers one more time before coming over to sit next to me. "I know, but I wanted to ask anyway. Who ever knows when quarters will magically appear out of nowhere?"

"And maybe someday I'll be the queen of France," I teased, and hugged her shoulders.

Angel rested her head on my shoulder. "That would be horrible. You'd look funny without a head."

"So, um, I was just wondering... Why do you always go straight for the pinball machine when we're here? Please please please don't take this the wrong way, but you're not very good at it..." I tensed up, worried she was going to be mad at me for saying it.

She looked up at me.

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. That was really stupid of me. Awful. I mean..."

"Stop talking."

My voice quit. I was shocked; I'd never heard her use a sharp tone like that before. Oh boy. I must have messed up bad.

Angel looked at me with a smirk, and then her smirk broke into a wide grin. "I always wanted to try that on someone. Don't worry, I'm not mad."

I took a deep breath of relief. "Bene Gesserit witch."

"Enormous dork."

"I thought you were really mad at me for a second there. I was about prepared for emergency last rites."

"No, it's okay. It's a fair question. But I need you to promise you aren't going to think I'm weird or anything, okay?"

"Promise."

"Well...I'm becoming the game."

"Huh."

Angel's normal playful smirk clouded over as she searched for the words to express herself. "I mean, think about it. Pinball is a game that you can't win, right? Like, unless you wanted to play forever, you can't win. It's a game that's all about losing, right? Except...except it's not just about losing, it's about losing in the best possible way. But that's still about losing, if that makes sense. So, it's like you've got to learn the game, become one with it or something. Because it's a game about losing, and there are a million different ways to do that. So then you've got to become the game, so that there's no difference between you and the machine. And then losing doesn't bother you any more, because it's what's supposed to happen. And when it doesn't bother you any more, you can do what really needs to be done. So I don't keep losing because I want to or anything. I'd love to be able to top the high score list. Maybe some day I will, but I'm not going to do it by trying to cheat the game. I'll manage it by doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, by being the game. Does that make sense? Maybe? Sort of?"

"I think so. You're saying that if you learn all the ways you can lose, eventually you'll know exactly how to win, right?"

"No, that's not it at all." Angel frowned, the first time I'd ever seen her do that, and then sighed. "Maybe I'll be able to put it in better words someday. But until then, you'll just have to believe me, okay?"

I looked her straight in the eye. "You have it on my honor that I will take you at your word."

"Thanks." She rested her head on my shoulder again, and looked up at me with another playful grin spreading across her face. "Now are you SURE you don't have any more quarters?"

Monday, February 7, 2011

writing snippet - be careful with that knife

A careless moment, and the blade scraped crossways against the edge of my hand. Not enough to wound, but the metal sheared off the topmost layers of skin and the spot ignited into a dull sting as nascent flesh was exposed for the first time. The sight fascinated me; there was something about the neat, quarter inch long furrow in the side of my hand (barely deep enough to see, unless you could already feel it) that drew my rapt attention. The skin on my hand was normally level, and unmarred save occasional stains of dirt or ink. Recovered from the shock, a single slow drop of blood began to well up from the scrape.
I turned on the tap and help my hand underneath. I braced at the cold water running over my hand and washing away the trace blood, and again as the soft touch of a towel wasn't quite soft enough.
A little scrape—not even a proper cut—and I wanted to wrap my hand, protect it until it was completely healed. It's funny to think how vulnerable we feel when the things we keep inside don't stay in, or the things we keep on the outside don't stay out. Even if it's just the littlest thing.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

A (marginally complete) list of indie bands I will never start

Following is an approximately-complete list of every #indiebandiwillneverstart that I have come up with. Other people's suggestions not included - there were too many for me to keep track of!


enimy mine [[woo palindromes!]]
Roommates & Co.
Tribble Clef
Points to Anyone
Adaptive Reuse Design Collaborative
Predicate Text
Doss Pies
Great Fun Running
Come With Me To The Mountains
Cadent Rhythms
Shark Week Blues
Two Lonely Taskets
Armistice Picnic
Dawnward Spiral
Headless Dandy
Crude Madrigal
Clockworker's Comp
Standing Pants
Sleep Insomnia
Nylon Wafers
Posthumous Interment
Outspoken Tea Party
Seaside Nomads
Stitch to the Heart
Children of Warsaw
Pewter Eyes
masterworkswords
Papa Legba's Cajun Pizza
Zenith Fall
The Dank Lord
Bass Chapel Road
Liverpudlian Mooks
Dreidel Shakers
Yard-Cat Statue
Great Lyricists
Wren Fair
Bandito Smile
Videosynchracy
Romantic For Hire
Go Not Alone
Cameo Foreground
Coriander Transfer
10 Types of People
Obey My Dog
Bella Anthropologist
Down For Dollars
Java Pitches
Seasonal Wit
Espresso Guardian
Silver Seas of Gold
The Good Morning Connection
Seven League Hi-Tops
Soul Arrow
Pirate House Party
Puzzles
World is Bond
Handful of Magic Fire
Public Librarians
Ordinal Growth
Ellis Run
Andromeda Shine
Sound of Orange
Bismarck 2
One A Day
Baroque Effect
Apollo's Tears
Boston's Midnight Sun
And Found Wanting
Blind Doggerel
Toes Definite
Ten Cent Delta
We Are Now Friends
Earthtown
Cast In Darkness
A Home Video of Dorian Gray
Bastille d'Amérique
Good Morning Dave
Coriander Love
Tulsa Fashion Runway Machine
Coptics and Robbers
Lief Ericsson and the Marco Polos

Monday, January 10, 2011

Meditations on the cause

Earlier today, a friend posted on Facebook a personal response to news stories suggesting that Loughner—who is being held responsible for the murder of 9 people and attempted assassination of Arizona Representative Giffords—had been motivated by Tea Party ideology and rhetoric. My response was never made on that particular comment thread, but I decided I wanted to post it here (largely unedited, except for the removal of the first paragraph which on second glance wasn't as relevant as I'd initially thought) instead.

"Regardless of the gunman's condition, or his past affiliations, or what rhetoric may have informed his actions, one thing is absolutely true: ANY time is an appropriate time to critique the culture of violence in this country. Violent crime—while on a downward trend (http://bit.ly/7C4qtu courtesy of Bureau of Justice Statistics under the Department of Justice)—is distressingly normative. According to the DOJ, approximately 2 million instances of violent crime occurred in 2005, of which a bit over half were recorded by police, and only half of THAT number resulted in arrests. According to the same source, "In 2009 the NCVS (National Crime Victimization Survey) measured about 4.3 million nonfatal violent victimizations of persons age 12 or older. Violent crime victimizations were experienced by 17.1 per 1,000 persons age 12 or older." (http://bit.ly/hpXLZx)

Let's discuss media industries that, through television, film, and music, profit off the sensationalism of violent behavior, and perpetuate the myth of redemptive violence. Any sort of killing catches the public interest. The Tea Party also catches the public interest. Put the two together? Instant buzz that people will tune into, boosting ratings, boosting earnings. News media is biased toward profit, not toward politics.

Let's discuss how this country's legislature feeds off divisiveness and ill will to fuel both extreme rightist and leftist stances, intentionally leading people away from center ground where compromise and discourse are viable options.

Let's discuss how one of this country's most popular sports, football, being a simulation of violent encounter (Although for what it's worth, for the purposes of teaching football is an excellent analogy for warfare).

How about the Department of Defense being one of the largest indirect employers in the United States, providing contracts to companies that accounted for an estimated $26 billion in Massachusetts last year(http://bit.ly/fT6Z1j), approximately 10% of Florida's economy (http://bit.ly/fbUked), and likely comparable values in most other states. (There's an anecdote I heard a few years back that I can't confirm about a vote to reduce military spending by canceling a contract for a specific line of aircraft that had been replaced with a better model, but when it came to a vote the nearly-unanimous decision was to maintain the contract, because the contractor (I think it was Boeing) had spread their facilities so that widgets, parts, and sub-systems were manufactured in over 35 different states, and no senator was willing to risk being accused of voting to take away jobs from his or her constituents). So long as weapons are manufactured, reasons to USE those weapons will also be manufactured.

It might do well to bring up that, with Eisenhower, Johnson, and Carter as exceptions, every President of the United States since 1933 has been the target of at least one assassination attempt.

I PASSIONATELY maintain that there is never an appropriate time to engage in violence against another...although it is with great disappointment I acknowledge that until this belief is universal, the cycle of violence is unlikely to be escaped."

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The Hunt and the Prince of Falcons

((This started out as a short rhyme that came to mind shortly after waking up a few days ago, partly stirred by the recent news stories of mysterious en masse deaths of birds and sealife that have occurred. I posted the rhyme on Facebook and went about my day, only to discover later that my dad had responded to it with a rhyme of his own. From there, it evolved into an accidental collab piece, which, if it hasn't yet settled on a final form, is pretty darn close. Text is reprinted here in it's original form; the only changes are to formatting, and correcting one stupid typo I should have caught earlier))

Five hundred birds fall from the sky
And dead fish in the sea
The Prince of Falcons traveled west
To seek a reckoning
Fly Falcon! Spread your doom.
The reckoning is coming soon.

Across the dying wind and streams
The voice did keen, the voice did keen
And drew the Prince of Falcons on
To seek counsel from the Faerie Queen
Stoop now Falcon. Spread your wings!
Alight. Seek solace in your dreams.

Marble tapestries were hung
'Pon walls of silk and gossamer
Ensconced in silver glamered throne
He found the Queen and bowed to her
"Arise, Falcon!" Lift your eyes.
Alone you reign. Your throne the skies!"

The daughter of the Faerie Queen
Saw the Prince return to air
And tracked him with a weather eye
Intent to bring him back ensnared
Die Falcon. Like your kin.
In sacrifice we live again.

Cunning traps the daughter lay
To catch the Prince out of the skies
Never once this huntress wild
Had ever failed to fell her prize

Hundreds from the sky and sea
All gave their strength to empower me.
The Princess, she must not prevail
I cannot fall. I cannot fail!
Strive Falcon, against your fear
The reckoning is drawing near.

For an age the Prince has flown
And slipped between the daughter's hands
And still must fly, for her fey nets
Are cast about upon the land

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Excerpt: Reading at Night

I flipped through the folded pages slowly. I was trying as hard as I could to stay focused on the words in front of me, but I always had trouble reading for someone when they were with me. It was easily three times more difficult tonight because I was reading it for her, and double that because she was sitting right next to me. Maybe I was imagining it, but every word on those pages was contending for my attention against the warmth coming off her skin, every soft whisper of her breath. It was short—only three pages—but it might as well have been in Latin, as long as it was taking me to read it.

"Well, what do you think?"

I responded slowly, trying desperately to remember what I'd just read. "It's good. I, I definitely liked it."

Her lips smiled, her eyes gleamed with a knowing smirk that would cause me to stammer like an idiot and blush if I looked into them any longer.

If anyone else had given me that kind of I-told-you-so stare, I would have just gotten up and walked away. "Well, okay. I guess I have some questions..."

"Sure! what's up?"

"Well, you've asked me to read a couple other things and I don't think they're related, but some of the same names come up over and over again. Is it the same characters in all the stories?"

Angel played with her collar thoughtfully. "You know, I'd never really thought about it before. I guess they sort of are, except...not really? Like, the names represent a specific archetype or something in my head, so if there's a story with James in it, for example, he'll be similar to any other James, but not necessarily the same one? So, like, Lord James will be similar to James Jameson, P.I., but it won't be the same guy who's like 600 years old now. Even though I haven't ever actually written anything Medieval or a detective story..."

"That makes sense, I think. I guess the other thing I wondered about it why it's always raining. Isn't that a sign that something bad is happening when it rains? None of your stuff I've read is particularly sad."

I was staring at the empty space somewhere between the pages in my hand and her jean-clad knee when she stretched out, leaning back on her elbows, but I didn't have to see her face to imagine the smirk she was wearing. "They say you're supposed to write what you know. And it rains here. All. The. Time."

And like a switch had been turned on I started to notice the thickness in the air and the touch of chill, the dull hiss of rain against pavement seeping in through one of the cracked windows, the slowly fading dampness of my own jeans that made them cling to my knees uncomfortably. Damn, she was right. It had started raining this afternoon. It had rained two days ago. It had probably rained here every few days for as far back as I could remember, if I tried to remember.

"Anything else?"

"Huh? Oh, no. I think that's it. I'm sorry. I got distracted listening to the rain outside."

"It's alright. Just don't get too distracted. Rain makes people sleepy, and you're a lot more fun to talk to when you're awake." She leaned over take the folded pages from my hand, rested her head on my shoulder for a moment before she stood up and stretched her arms toward the ceiling. "I really do like it here, but it's always so dark when it rains. I mean, it's dark at night anyway, but with all the clouds there's no moon or anything. If it wasn't for us bringing it with us, there might not be any light at all. If this place could talk, I bet it would thank us."

I nodded dumbly, as though struck by the most profound thought that had ever come to mind.