Wired Reflections

A Bit Off-Track

2013-04-25T13:13:00.002-07:00

Another Ramble (or: Subdivided for your convenience)

So I decided to walk home from work yesterday. It's not a big deal: it's about 3 miles or so, sidewalks all (ok, well, most) of the way, decent neighborhoods and it was still light out. It was nice to be out and about with just my thoughts for a while anyway. I do wish I had sunglasses, but hey, at least I had a hat.

Did I mention I wear hats now? I dunno who reads this anymore, but it's become a "thing" so it's probably important to mention at some point. One of my friends out was really surprised one day when I didn't have one on, so I'm guessing it's kinda become part of my look now.

Ah well, story for another time.

Musings

So as it often does when my feet go wondering, my mind decided to take a similar trip. The thought process started as I was thinking about animals crossing pavement. It's always been an interesting phenomenon to me, to see a squirrel, so confident in the grass or on a tree, to become confounded as soon as its feet touch a road. A squirrel new to the concrete jungle will lose all sense of distance and need, and sometimes in a moment of sheer confusion will even completely lose direction. Meanwhile, squirrels that make their home (or find their food) within the bounds of human-dominate areas will have no problems, moving across it without a problem and often preferring it to the more earthy areas for quick getaways.

It's not a surprising revelation or anything, it's just fascinating. There are a lot of creatures who can hunt and track through movements felt on their pads of their feet. There are even more whose survival instincts are tied to it directly. The ground transmits vibrations from most any disturbance, and plants make it transmit even better.

Pavement has its limitations on such senses. It's much the same as putting a cup up to your ear; everything becomes muffled, but you can "hear" things from much farther away, in some cases almost miles. Metal is even worse, as the muffled effect doesn't exist; everything transfers, so anything that would get transferred through the metal is felt or heard anywhere along the piece. Wood, however, is a nice middle ground, as is tile and similar items; you still tend to feel everything, but the distance of transfer is far less, giving you a sense of your surrounding much like dirt but with a bit more detail. It's why raccoon, for instance, have a hard time crossing the road but will bolt through a house with no problem.

Some Background

Feeling movement through my own feet has been something I've done for a long time, a skill I picked up ages ago when I was trying to compensate for my poor sight and honed when playing soccer, studying martial arts and during meditations. It's actually a bit frustrating in buildings; movement transfers so well it's hard to stop being aware every time someone comes anywhere close. In fact, I've developed this horrible bird-like reaction where I swing my head to glance at almost every person I feel or hear come by if I don't immediately see them (which is all the time thanks to my lovely limited peripheral vision).

I've learned a lot of things through this "new" sense. First of all, it is my general belief that our tactile sense are HIGHLY underrated, at least consciously. It was once pointed out to me that, despite our dependence on our other senses, there is only one sense that truly defines our reality: touch. If we hear or see something in front of us, but we cannot touch it, we tend to assume it isn't real. If we haven't touched an object we know about, it seems separate from us, almost like we lose a sense of understanding. If we're not allowed to touch it, it seems above us or more important than us. There is so much inherent to our sense of touch that we don't even realize all the ways it affects our lives just on a subconscious level.

One of the things I learned through martial arts is how someone holds their weight and shifts. I can tell how aggressive someone is becoming, and sometimes even how they're going to address the aggression, through the ground they're standing on. A sudden shift of weight to the front leg indicates a charge, most likely using fists. Sudden weight on their rear leg often indicates a feint; a lighter weight can mean they're going to kick. Slowly, it became than that: it started to register as something akin to body language. A heavier tremor in the ground indicated anger or determination; a constant pulse or push suggested fear or trepidation; a solid presence, confidence.

Leading in

So as I was thinking about the squirrel and its senses (and I practiced my own once, trying to recognize cars and bikes coming down the road without looking or listening), my mind wondered to a few conversations I had held recently. One had been about a perception of auras, something I've understood but bought into only slightly. I've never doubted that the people who said they see auras do, in fact, remember seeing them, and I've never doubted their accuracy. I've just always viewed it as an intuitive empathy. Most people who read auras seem to get the same "read-outs" as someone who is genuinely empathetic or can read people.

The other discussion that popped in my head was one I had about synesthesia. The relationships we were referring to was about sound and sight, of course, as we were discussing music at the time. I explained that, in a lot of ways, mine was reverse of the typical musician who could see the music; I tend to relate people and objects to sounds I associate with them, and I will often recognize someone's voice before their face.

It was a strange pairing at first to be sure. However, as my thoughts started to come together, it seemed to be pretty obvious why both of these things popped in my head around the same time I was considering how one could receive more than just movement through the ground, but can also tell aggression, fear and confidence.

A New Curiosity

It was a slow thought, so I'm not going to say that it "suddenly dawned on me." There were a lot of implications to consider, and honestly it didn't seem very likely at first. The more I thought about it through, it was strangely starting to make more and more sense.

Aura perception, in a lot of ways, makes sense as an synesthetic response to an intuitive empath. In general, a lot of people don't have a cognitive process to explain intuition in any sort of way the mind will respond to in a comprehensive way. An aura would be a way for the mind to make sense of the input its getting without overwhelming the conscious mind with a myriad of sensory data.

There are a lot of different ways this could manifest too. Synesthesia itself can come and go involving both cognitive and sensory processes. Various inputs could "manifest" as these auras: things felt through your feet, changes in air felt through the hairs on your hand, the sound of their joints creaking as they flex muscles and even the process of figuring out body language could all be taken in by the subconscious, molded intuitively and manifested as an aura around a person. In a way, "aura perception" of other people could be a completely scientific process.

Strange Logical Movements

I began to wonder if there were other "supernatural" items that could be further explained through synesthesia. It made sense; as one considered the possibilities around people who are able to "see" things that others didn't, the idea that the brain is actually interpreting a different or generally unused sensory input as something one sees makes sense.

As I delved deeper and deeper into this train of thought however, it felt more and more "unreal". In seemed like, on the surface, a ton of different things (from future telling to ghost reading to prophesying) could be related, on the surface, to synesthesia. It started to become an excuse more than anything else; with how easily it seemed to fit into everything, it became hard to believe it fit into anything.

And then... I ran into some sleeping ducks.

I should mention: in general, I hate ducks. They're ornery, loud, aggressive and generally a nuisance who will actually get mad at someone for not feeding them once they've gotten used to a certain "standard of living." They're kinda human that way...

But these ducks were asleep. Their bills were tucked back, and they were perfectly arranged on the sunny part of a tiny knoll. For that moment, they were terribly cute.

I was able to get pretty close to them on the sidewalk without waking them, but then someone else came down on a nearby one, walking heavily and startled them. They all woke up and, after a quick honk from the leader, leaped into the nearby pond, continuing to make threatening noises for a good five minutes afterwards. This, of course, brought me full circle on the train of thought, as neither of us made much noise but he definitely walked heavier than I did.

In the end though, all it really made me do was think about how ridiculously in-depth I was being about the whole process. Being able to make sense of what these ducks felt through the ground wasn't something they think about; it's something they react to, like any other sense that might tell them when someone is going to attack them. Trying to make much sense of anything that helps one adapt to an environment or survive isn't as important as learning how to do so.

In the end, I decided to set the thoughts aside, to re-examine at another time. It still seemed logical for the original point, but I didn't have any ideas on how to figure anything like this out for certain, even if I wanted to. Still, having a new curiosity to delve into periodically is always fun.

And lucky you, getting stuck reading about it. Well, at least now I know where I can go to read about the weird stuff I think about around town.

On a side note (but still Final Fantasy related)

2013-04-08T14:10:00.003-07:00

Ok, so, now that I've got my more "professional" thoughts out of the way, there was this CRAZY idea that popped in my head for Cid in a future game that I thought was awesome. In this crazy idea, Cid (not the main character, but one that is in the party) is actually not an engineer as his normal iterations, but is instead a Blue Magic user and monster tamer. He is a single father, but his daughter left him a long time ago to become an engineer, unable to deal with the ridiculous menagerie her father had and instead turning to machines.

Of course, in the course of the game, you bring the two together, they reconcile and his daughter joins the group. As a result, the two discover some interesting theories: by combining certain tamed large, flying monsters (possibly mounts earlier, possibly not) and some advanced technology, it's possible to create Airships. The first one is a low-flying guy who can't cross the nearby mountains and/or won't go over the ocean, but eventually you get to tame bigger monsters and create airships that can fly over mountains and the ocean (but maybe can only land in cities or something). Eventually you get one that can carry the smaller one so you can explore the "big map," then drop down to the "smaller map" view on that first guy you got.

In addition, you can "level" the ship (specifically the smaller one, and moreso that it levels with you) so that it can get cooler abilities; new places to land, canons, things like that. Air battles occur much like airship battles in the other games, except that the ship itself is actually your "guest" character (see point 1 above) and can do some attacks on its own. In addition, Cid and his daughter can have special attacks that use the ship's abilities; Cid channels his blue magic to "command" the ship to do a special attack with his abilities, while his daughter's Magitech canons and such are replaced by the ship's canons, similar in theme but launched through the ship for a "bigger effect." The other characters would, of course, be doing more abilities a la Final Fantasy XIII where they leap over to the creature and attack it directly.

Ok, random aside done. Oh, if only I got to make the big bucks and put forward ideas like these...

Open Letter to SquareEnix

2013-04-08T14:09:00.003-07:00

I admit that I'm a geek, and more than a bit of a nerd, when it comes to video games. I started when I was very young, having two older brothers who had access to some ancient games that I can barely remember and systems with ominous names like "Odyssey" and "Adam." But my very first game--my game, one that was for me--was the original Final Fantasy. I had the Nintendo Power game guide and everything. I played that game for hours on end, and on more than one occasion I had to be told to put it down.

It's one of the crispest memories of my childhood. It took me forever to beat it, but I did love that game. It got me into so many other games like it, but more so than that it got me into storytelling through games. Final Fantasy was basically like a giant novel that you got to be the characters going through it. Sure, your path or destiny was set before you, but overcoming the trials wasn't about how cool the hero was that got through it, but the hard work and strategy you put into getting past it.

When I picked up the next game--Final Fantasy II to me at the time, but IV to those that "knew better"--I was a bit confused; I was expecting the next iteration of the Warriors of Light, but instead I get a new world, and a dark, brooding character to control that I never really understood. When I finally got FFIII, it made sense: these weren't really "sequels" as much as they were new stories in new places, an almost "alternate universe" with things are almost the same but also radically different. Needless to say, I became a huge fan of the franchise.

Now, I tend to be that kind of guy who buys into these kinds of things; I've got all the Stargate DVDs shows and movies, collected pretty much every form of Scott Pilgrim, read all of the Mass Effect books and comics, have shelves upon shelves of my favorite Manga... In this particular case, I still own all of the released Final Fantasy games on at least one platform (although admittedly not always the original one). I'm not ashamed; these games mean a lot to me, and going back to play them is like rereading your favorite book. Even years later, as new ones get released, I still play each one fervently; I'm a stalwart defender of XIII, as I loved the story and combat system (XIII-2 was AMAZING, by the way, outside of the main character's weird starting outfit), and I'm waiting anxiously for the final installment.

So to only have one game on the current gen systems, systems that have been out for years longer than any other generations of gaming platforms, is depressing to me. Worse is the idea of the company not making good money off of the last few ones; XIV and its recurring emphasis still seems to be a mistake to me, but other than that the games were good. I personally didn't really enjoy XII, but I've met quite a few defenders of the title and the gameplay itself wasn't bad.

So I write this letter in hopes, one day, someone in SquareEnix will look at it and go, "Huh." Really, that's all I want. This isn't some crazy list of demands. It's just a list of ideas that I think could go a long way towards revitalizing the series.

1) Throw back the battle system a bit. Three characters really need to be controllable, even if it's queued. I do love the action system from 13, but I think by slowing down the action a bit you can go a long way. In addition, the "queuing" issue could be fixed simply by making certain specific actions repeated instead of selecting them all individually; base spells are cast X amount of times (based on your action level), next level is X-1, X-2, etc. This would allow for faster choices without pounding the same button over and over.

Another way to make this workable is to add "Guest" slots. Besides your 1-3 party members, featured characters, whether they're summoned monster helpers, NPC guests or special equipment additions could make this interesting. They would not be controlled by the player, but their presence can be. Perhaps even the option to have multiple guests and choose (or have it random) which one shows up. Gives it a collectible feel, and helps control the action a bit more by having a character who will automatically act.

The emphasis on actionable content lately is fun, I must admit. However, I'm the first to claim that I often miss the old turn-based style of games. Well, Active Time Battles to be precise; I fully admit a full turn-based system would just be weird these days. Still, the ideal situation would be once again between these two extremes.

Here's my for-instance brainstorming: a turn-based system similar to IX with a twist. Do queued moves where characters take turns, but include interrupts and combo commands. Example the first: Character 1 starts casting Fire; character two's ATB is full, as is its Tactical gauge (or whatever), so he hits Fire as well with the Combo button instead of the Select button; the original spell is interrupted, and the two cast Fira together. (Ideally, Combos would be something other than just the next step, so maybe Meteo or Firaja or something, but my point is still made) Another situation: Main character's ultimate is charged, and begins their animation. The boss monster, its Tactical gauge full, uses its Interrupt: the animation freezes and the boss's foot crashes through a shattered-glass animation as the action is interrupted and the main character's ultimate move gauge is halved.

2) Characters need to be more unique than just their design. The last few games has gotten into this idea that characters are interchangeable when it comes to who's fighting with you. You pick your roles, and you pretty much just go through the motions regardless of who you're playing with. Their stories are all intertwined, too, so there's not chance to really get to know the characters individually; you form your attachment to the main character, and that's pretty much it.

Final Fantasy VI did this right. Sure, everyone in that game could learn magic, but every character had a uniqueness, a skill that only they could use. And not only that, but it was one that grew with you, something that made them unique but also special throughout the course of the game. You felt a special attachment with the characters you enjoyed using, you have personal investment in them, and when, in the end, you have a choice to pursue something important to that character, you do because the character is important to you as well.

The way that someone looks when they do the attack command isn't enough. To use Final Fantasy IX as an example, no one really got into Steiner because his moves weren't unique and didn't grow with him; his best abilities were borrowed from Vivi, who was a fan favorite. Zidane was even often overlooked because most of his abilities were just regular attacks and variants on it; only those who really got into the Overdrive system really enjoyed him, because he turned into a unique character with strategy at that point.

Interchangeable characters will end up becoming just that: interchangeable. Fans want to get behind their favorites. In Final Fantasy XII, a lot of people don't even remember most of the character names because, honestly, they were all the same. The only difference was in how you leveled the characters. As a result, you didn't really bond with any of them in the game, which majorly takes away from one's ability to really connect or enjoy a character themselves (There's also story issues that caused this in XII, but that's a different issue altogether). Unique moves, even if they're small in number, will allow this sort of bonding to occur once again. It's a lot of why Final Fantasy X still sticks in a lot of people games, despite what many people call the games "weaknesses" in plot and play (things I don't agree with, but hey, everyone's got their opinions).

3) Bring the iconic items back to the forefront. Fans of the franchise expect certain things from Final Fantasy. To name a few: crystals, chocobos, Cid, colors of magic, airships, summons, and Biggs and Wedge. Now, the emphasis on Summons and crystals has been pretty steady since IX. But Cid really needs to be back in the game. Airships need to be more than a way to re-explore at the end of the game. Chocobos need to be more than just that way to avoid fights; heck, it's be great if they DIDN'T avoid fights. Plot devices and ways to traverse come to mind; treasure hunting and riding games would be phenomenal. Breeding is out, but the rest is open; IX's chocobos were amazing and allowed for growth without the weird breeding system. A trading system would also be a lot of fun, or even a "red slip" option to try and race/gamble to earn new ones would be a lot of fun.

Cid needs to be refreshed a bit and brought back to his roots. The last few games have seen him take this switch in what has normally been a mainstay of his personality: An obsession with a hobby. More often than not, this has been with airships; however, his last few iterations have more been about personal goals or things of that nature. In addition, he really needs to be back as part of the party. It's been too long since Cid was more than just some guy who put the heroes on the right path; he needs to be front and center once more, a re-imagining to put him back in people's minds alongside the ones from IV and VII.

I really, really miss blue magic. I can't explain it well enough. The concept of color-coded magic is really fun, but there is nothing more memorable from the Final Fantasy series than all of the time spent trying to survive the attacks of monsters in an effort to steal the power for myself. It doesn't have to be big; in fact, that can be one of the unique characters, and there may only be, say, a dozen blue-magic abilities in the game. One way or another, though, it should be there. It's been the discussion piece of so many games before, the "badge of the collector," and it should be once again if you want people to really desire to dig in to the game (without some awkward, pointlessly repetative rare-spawn-based "hunt club" game).

4) Closed worlds instead of open corridors. This particular problem is specific to two games, X and XIII, although I would argue that XII had a similar issue. There has a been an emphasis on paths on the last few games which has been awkward for series. The Final Fantasy games have always been those of worlds, specifically of one that expands more and more as the game goes on. The game play has always been linear; you still need to accomplish A before the way to B opens, then accomplish C before you can go to D, etc. But this has always been limited by your methods of travel or by plot; since the onset of Final Fantasy X, this is instead limited by the fact that you literally have to go through A to get to B, then through that to get to C.

Everything seems to be limited to paths you travel in the recent games. For the XII argument, although the "paths" were set in worlds that LOOKED more open and you seemed to have the option to travel some of them when you "shouldn't be" yet, you were still just walking these limited corridors, and going off track was just to grab a treasure chest or two. Final Fantasy needs a return to fields; it's something that it's capable of doing. The beginning of the second half of Final Fantasy XIII proves this when you really start the side quests, as does many of the maps from XIII-2. The open field areas were amazing, and I spent more time in those two maps with the large open areas than any other area. The reason why: they were FUN, and trying to find all the interesting things there was a blast.

Let me say this plainly: Going down a side corridor in a tunnel to grab a chest is not exploring. Trying to keep track of what spawned in what region within a large map is a blast. Finding out a way to get past an impassable barrier and, by extension bringing in a second field (and in a lot of ways, a whole other world) is even more fun. And getting the ship to travel back and forth, and slowly figuring out how to get to new fields by upgrading my ship or chocobo or whatever... It's not really possible to explain the feeling of not only getting to explore, but the sense of accomplishment that comes from earning the ability to explore more. Getting access to new areas just because you passed through the tunnel on the way is important, don't get me wrong, but that shouldn't be the entirety of the game.

The problem isn't the linear gameplay. No matter what people say, we LOVE linear gameplay. Advancing plot is fun. Storytelling in a game is fun. And don't get me wrong: a lot of people love open world games too, but that's not why we come to Final Fantasy. We're here for story, and if you want a strong, well-told story, an open-world type of gameplay isn't really an option. The world needs to open as we advance, and we come to expect that from not only this series, but the genre we've come to love called JRPG.

There is a large difference, however, between linear gameplay and a linear world. Just like no world should exist in a vacuum, no world should ever exist in a line. Final Fantasy X was, literally, a straight line from beginning to end, seen right from the airship, with "dots" of interest out to the side. For the first half of the game, XIII was the same way, although the line wasn't quite as straight. And XII allowed a bit more space in the lines, but in a lot of ways, it was still just a series of interconnected corridors; not nearly as bad as the other two, but still frustrating.

5) That's pretty much it. Seriously, there's a lot of things you can do with these ideas and still make it work. However, I would greatly worry that, without these things, another game is going to have that difficulty of picking back up the franchise, something that seems to be desperately needed right now. Visions are awesome, and I really do love the games that have come out, but they're fun to me. The problem with a recurring franchise is trying to make sure that you appeal to those that love the franchise; the bonus is that if you do so, you can be sure to rake in the dough.

Artistic vision and creativity are important, but so are the efforts (and in some cases, concessions) made to your potential players. Some of the best exercises in creativity can be explored by having to do so within stringent guidelines, and there are times when its necessary (To keep it in the family, Kingdom Hearts is probably one of the best examples of this) in order to make something both interesting and successful. And that's what I really want back from this franchise, for it to be both interesting and successful again.

Conclusion: More Gin!

2012-08-29T22:39:00.000-07:00

The writing process isn't an easy one for me (at least when I'm sober). It requires a lot of sitting and staring into empty space, a huge chunk of motivation, and a ridiculous amount of willpower. I know the willpower things seems weird; after all, I like to write, so why is willpower involved?

Well, the answer is simple. I have about a dozen OCD-like tendencies I need to hammer down if I want to be able to sit down and write, regardless of how, what or where I'm writing. Every paragraph is like a battle with my own brain, not to mention the internal struggle of what to do with it when I'm done.

For starters, I have a mild (read: massive) obsession with efficiency. Efficiency translates different to me than others, however; most people--well, ok, most Americans--see efficiency as the least amount of effort in order to accomplish a task. In most situations, I see it as the most direct or least-time-consuming way of accomplishing something, regardless of how much effort it will take. There's a reason why I refuse to wait on parking spaces and will park WAY down the aisle if there's already a space open, as opposed to the asshole who will block 30 other people to get the space right next to the handicap spot, and it's definitely not because I'm considerate or nice.

Now internally, that takes a bigger twist. Not only do I prefer to do things in ways that use less time, I also feel the need to make the most effective use of every moment. Effective being a very relative term, of course; I don't want to necessarily get things done, but when I'm not getting things done, I should be relaxing, enjoying myself, calming my nerves or otherwise keeping entertained. Staring off into space attempting to brainstorm something out of nothing riddles me with guilt, as it feels like I could be making more effective use of my time, since nothing comes from it for a long period of time. Also invoking guilt for bad-use-of-time: rereading my own work, writing on anything in any format that is slower than 60 wpm (i.e., not a desktop computer, e.g. paper, tablets, phone), smoke breaks during writers blocks.

Oh, hold up a second. Have I explained that yet? That the vast majority of my OCD-like tendencies stem from deep rooted guilt that I have no control over? Yeah, that is AWESOME. I hate my brain sometimes. I mean, I say "OCD-like tendencies" because I feel guilty trying to say I have OCD when I don't have a degree. Hell, I feel guilty posting about getting shit done because I feel like I don't have the authority to tell people to do shit. To be honest, if this gets posted, I'm going to be amazed.

So that's my first internal hurdle to get over. To be honest, I'm writing about this right now because I couldn't come up with something else to write about and I started to feel bad about wasting time thinking about it. So blame having read this far on... well, everything explained so far. Holy crap, I think I just made my own brain implode.

The next hurdle I normally have to deal with is the whole perfectionist bent. I will correct every friggin' grammar and spelling mistake (except friggin', I love that non-word) as I go, assuming I notice it. Should I use parentheses to much, like this, in a paragraph, I must go and find another way to write that sentence before I can even finish the sentence I'm on. I did it just then. Seriously. Only because I thought the joke would be funnier if I didn't use a second parenthetical, but still. I can't stop it.

Finally, there's the defeatist bent. I'm constantly under the impression that most of the stuff I do in writing, or pretty much anything creative for that matter, gets me nothing and nowhere. I couldn't really explain why; I've had fairly consistent positive feedback, and at least a few writings have actually (supposedly) helped people out. Crap, see what I did there? I went back and put in "supposedly" after I finished the sentence. I can't beat the attitude out of me with a stick.

The good thing is, that is the point of these exercises. One of the things I'm slowly teaching myself is that writing is slowly becoming something I do for me, and not with this grand idea of necessarily doing something with it in the future. Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE to do something with one of my stories, or maybe a collection of the shorter works, sometime in the future. The thing is, I need to convince me that doing so is not my reason or motivation, just a pleasant side effect should I succeed sometime down the line.

Almost ten years ago, I hit a real low point in my life. I had hurt a few people that were really close to me, and I was unsure why. I had driven away some people that were having a negative effect on who I was, or at least who I wanted to be. It wasn't anything against them; they've each gone on and made someone else very happy with who they are, and in turn have become happier with themselves than they were with me. My problem was that I didn't understand my reasoning as to why I felt I had the right to cut people out of my life, to pick and choose my friends when it wasn't exactly an easy task to make new friends to begin with. I was more alone than I had been in a long time, and I only had myself to blame.

It was REALLY easy to get depressed. But getting depressed makes me feel guilty, because it's an enormous waste of time. So I did something about it: I started "dating myself." I went out to movies, took myself out to a nice dinner, went and did some touristy shit in Gatlinburg. Mostly, I just showed me that I'm cool to hang out with, and that I have every right to put actual, conscious effort into who I want to be friends with, and not just accept every person who ever nice to me, regardless of how they treat me or change me.

See? Sometimes the crazy works out for the best.

Anyway, it's that same principle I'm applying now. Typing this out actually has made me feel a little better; it's an expression of me that I don't do very often, mostly because I'm often uncomfortable talking about myself in much depth in person. When I do creative writing, especially when it's work or chapter or whatever I finish, I get a feeling of accomplishment; it's also why I set some goals for myself, to help facilitate that feeling. If I can keep that up, and establish in my head the benefit of everything I do here and on my other writing projects, I hope to eventually start writing without having to beat my own conscious brain down with willpower. Or liquor; that's worked quite well in the past too.

I just fixed the word "want" three paragraphs ago because I decided I wanted to be italicized instead of bold. I really think I have a problem.

Maybe I should just start drinking 30 minutes before I want to start writing. I'm too sober for this shit.

P.S. I think I've actually managed to actually write an entire rant that addresses the audience directly without using the pronoun "you" to refer to the audience. I know that seems so small, especially to people who normally write from the first person perspective, but I feel super accomplished right now, so shut up, you.

... I did it just then, didn't I? Sunavabitch.

No Place Like Home

2012-08-16T21:19:00.001-07:00

It's been longer than I like since the last time I sat down to write. Admittedly, it's at least partially a good thing, since the reason I haven't written is because I've been out and social a lot lately, something I've been lacking lately. Still, it's frustrating. I really hadn't realized how important writing was to me until I stopped doing it for so long. Now that I've gotten used to it again, I feel like my sanity somewhat hinges on taking the time to put something down in words, even if it's just some observations or sharing ideas.

I haven't got a new story idea today (not that that has stopped me in the past, most of those flash fiction thingies were made up on the spot without any planning), but I do have a few things I want to talk about. There have been quite a few strange occurrences and observations over the last few weeks. For instance, I've noticed an inordinate number of people still confuse the terms "introverted" and "shy." Well, not just shy; sometimes it's confused with introspective, other times with intellectual. That one really gets me, personally, but then it's not the only trait that is applied to that idea. They're assumed to be close-minded, dismissive atheists as well, so I guess I shouldn't be upset about shy.

I could talk about the car, and about driving, and the thousands of frustrations that have resulted from that. There's the strange occurrences lately involving uncharacteristically irrational reactions from many people close to me over the last few weeks, which has caused me to wonder if it's somehow my fault. There was the sudden realization there are a few things happening in my life right now that should be very upsetting to me, and yet somehow I don't have the capacity to actually be upset at things that directly affect me and only me right now.

Despite all of this weirdness, I feel compelled to talk about a singular occurrence, something that just came up and I simply can't stop thinking about.  And that is this strange neighborhood here in Seattle that I just arrived in for the first time. Seriously, my brain is farting more than my butt, and I've got worse gas than that 76 station of the interstate in the middle of Bumfuck, Kentucky.

For starters, I think this neighborhood is the inevitable epitome of every single stereotype about Seattle. There are 4 coffee shops on a single block, everyone looks like they're trying out for a Nirvana lookalike contest, and there's the weird air of "We're not poor, just broke" coming from everyone I pass. Despite the fact that I've scene pretty much every race of human here that I'm aware of, they all seem to be getting along fabulously (in both senses of the word), and looking around outside just feels like you're looking not at reality, but in fact at Instagram, specifically someone's profile who is of the firm belief that the sepia filter makes everything seem "gritty" and "real."

Seriously, everything I had ever heard about Seattle is right here. No air conditioning everywhere, pretentiousness practically oozes from the very walls, not to mention the people inside them, and there isn't a person here who hasn't been accused of furthering the liberal agenda. There's more tattoos then you can find at a Grateful Dead concert, and the number of hippy skirts is only outnumbered by the Jesus sandals and (admittedly kickass) light leather boots. It's tucked away in this little corner in the middle of everything, and yet somehow it seems like you can only access it by foot. God forbid you take a car here; if you somehow survive the tiny roads filled with buses and trucks, make it up all of the hills (and yes, it seems like every direction is always uphill from where you are currently), and finally navigate through the myriad of one-ways and pedestrian-only streets, hopefully you've figured how to park your car vertically, because every space is taken by q vehicle that looks like it hasn't been started in at least five years. Not out of neglect of course, but as a statement against the audacity of our culture forcing the need for environment-destroying, gas guzzling monstrosities.

Needless to say, I LOVE it here. The book store I'm sitting in is fantastic. I only looked at the drink menu in the cafe for a minute before I was pretty much told to hurry the fuck up so she could close in fifteen, the old shelves look like they're going to fall on me any minute, and there's a cacophony of voices that seem to be telling me that they're better than me, simultaneously but all in their own, unique way. There is a line that practically wraps around the store simply to get thirty seconds of face time with a celebrity whom I can only describe as internet-famous, and the walls are lined with tiny, self-developed color photos of local street signs and sights, priced as if they were shipped in from Italy. Even the store owner seemed snarky and at least mildly emotionally abusive.

I think I'm in love.

Thoughts in a Food Court

2012-08-04T16:10:00.001-07:00

Note @ Seattle, Washington

This was done in Evernote, as that's what I had and I was trying something new. Let's see how it works. :)

Perkie and the Steel Forest, 1

2012-08-01T21:59:00.000-07:00

It had been days since she had anything to eat. Gathering food in the wood had always seemed so easy, and the few times she had a rough time of it, she could always rely on her friends to help her out. It hadn’t worked that way since she stumbled into this steel forest; none of the trees seemed to produce their own food, and the only things she could find to eat seemed to be carefully guarded by humans or kept strange, bright baskets that prevented her from getting to them.

She came to the steel forest almost two weeks ago. It seemed like fun at first: there were stories about the humans who would come to the wood from there, but no one had gone to where they were from. Well at least not any that she was aware had come back.

The dare seemed innocent enough, but she soon lost her way among the giant trees and the criss-crossing pathways. No matter where she wandered, she never good find even a glimpse of her beloved wood. Sometimes she would see something she thought was it in the distance, but it was never it; the steel forest seemed to have its own small places of green and grass, but there was no hope of finding food or shelter among the small copse of trees.

She had resorted to stealing the human’s foods from their kitchens. She only learned that word a week ago, but it seemed terribly familiar now. The humans dedicated entire rooms to the process they apply to animal fats and vegetables to make it “palatable” to them (which was another word she recently learned, but she still didn’t quite understand what it meant). Until recently, she was able to still find berries or nuts that hadn’t been processed by the humans yet, but that seemed to be next to impossible the last few days.

She found herself staring at some slices of what the Cook had called “white cake.” They were some that were small enough to grab and sneak away without the humans noticing, but she found herself hesitating. She had taken a piece of the human’s changed food before, back when she first arrived, but she had regretted it ever since. Flying was so much harder after eating it for almost a day. She felt heavier, and although she eventually got used to flying again, she never managed to shake the feeling that she had been changed by the experience.

There was little else to be done right now though. If she didn’t eat soon, she’d faint; if she fainted, a human were surely find her, and if that happened, she would certainly be killed, or worse. They didn’t seem to like anything that came from the wood, and tended to chase off, hunt or kill everything they found that wandered into their steel forest from her home.

Many raccoons would come back from the steel forest, talking about the great food they would steal from the bins of scraps they kept by their trees, but these raccoons were always fat and lazy; not many lived for much longer after bragging about their conquests, either dying from the dangers of the wood or from the humans when they try to gather more food from the bins.

Still, she could remember the taste of the last meal she had stolen like this. The strange vegetables that had been dipped in some sort of oil and turned crispy-brown were strange, but good. They did little to compare to the sweetest berries she once had back home, but she could not find them anywhere here. Her stomach would not allow her to go much longer right now, and this smelled so much sweeter than the strange “fries” she had sampled before.

The Cook turned his back. With a flutter, she raced in, grabbing the slice from the leaf upon which it sat. She could lift it; she pulled as hard she could but only managed to break off a piece. She fell backwards onto the leaf, which surprisingly didn’t make the strange “clinking” noise she was used to hearing when she fell on them.

It took her a moment to realize that the leaf had been lifted, and was racing towards the same corner she had just come around. She saw the tiny, stubby fingers of one of a young human, seemingly holding the leaf above their head as they raced out of the room.

The leaf and cake stopped suddenly around the corner. She tried to come up with a plan, but wasn’t able to think of anything. The plate was lowered, and she found herself looking directly into the eyes of a young, female human.

“Whoa,” it said slowly, as its pupils widened. With only a moment’s pause, but without taking her eyes off of the faerie sitting in front of her, the girl grabbed a handful of the cake and began eating. She continued to carry the leaf out of the building, cake and faerie in tow, and sat down in a well lit but unpopulated alleyway and began eating more. All the while, she kept watching and smiling.

“Hi!” the girl said finally. “My name is Carrie. What’s yours?”

The faerie gulped visibly. She stood up on the leaf, bowing formally. “I am Percilla Piper. But please, call me Perkie.”

“Hi, Perkie!” The girl grabbed another handful of food with her stubby fingers, but instead of stuffing more into her face, she instead extended it to the faerie. “Cake?”

Perkie took a bite. It was sweeter than the sweetest berry in the wood.

And I Get By

2012-07-13T23:55:00.003-07:00

Comfortable.

There are many words which are commonly referred to as positive words that I disagree with. You can see my long rant on the word Hope for an example. Then there’s the fact that I find Moist to be mildly dirty (I blame How I Met Your Mother), and Pointless to be generally derogatory to ANYONE you may be having a discussion with.

COMFORTABLE. This word is the downfall of so many people, even so much as to be extended to peoples as well. Comfortable is a term which I believe has doomed great men to mediocrity, happiness to contentment, purposeful to a meaningless existence. It is comfort that decides that we are ok with the allotment we have been handed, comfort that drove us to believe that what we have is good enough, despite ideas that may drive us to be better than anything we had accomplished so far.

Comfort is what drives us to avoid achievement, to revel in in the idea of simply meeting the bar of expectation. And yet, it’s the very definition of the american dream. White picket fence, three bedroom house, and 2.4 children. The failure of sheepish conformity that defines America as the sad middle-ground of the first world and everything we come to define with what we expect from life.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to see what I can do to break out of my comfort zone. Admittedly, I SUCK at this endeavor. I still like my personal bubble (Uh, dude? You just brushed my arm. Buy me dessert or my wife will totally kick your ass.), and I still tend to watch my words around people I don’t know, especially in public. I can’t go a single day outside my apartment without taking a shower, and I still have to avoid every crack in the sidewalk less be attacked by a metric fuck-ton of guilt over the possibility of causing my mother harm.

On the flip side of that, I also try to travel to somewhere I haven’t been at least once a year, I moved across the county because I was simply done with where I was at the time, and I’ve gone out of my way to make new friends despite the fact that I hit 30 a year ago, a time when most people are instead settling in to habits and deciding what they want car they want to buy for their midlife crisis. Meanwhile, I’m planning the next big trip, debating the merits of our current town or moving away, and working my way up (admittedly slowly) towards swimming in the ocean after a 15 year phobia.

So fuck all of ya’ll.

Comfort is a false dream of settling, something that I decided against a long time ago before I ever met my wife. It came from a very solid foundation that unfortunately has been belittled by modern society but that I’ve come to a conclusion that is actually based in fact.

I’m awesome, and moreso than that, I’m as awesome as I’m willing to make myself. I deserve every single ounce of fucking effort I can put into every single thing I do, and saying that I’m not is only belittling myself and all those around me that care about me.

I (VERY FORTUNATELY) hit this realization a good while before I met my wife. I hit a nice stride where I started treating myself when I was single. I took myself out to dinner at fancy restaurants when I needed congratulations for a job well done; I went by myself to see a movie in a theater that I really wanted to see, regardless of company or someone vilifying my desire; I went on road-trips just to see people that I wished to see, regardless of whether I had company or any other preparations. I made a 10 year plan to move across the country slowly, stopping once a year in a pre-planned state with a good job market to work a menial job and meet people.

It was epic and awesome, and for the first time in a long time, I came to love myself without needing an outside image to confirm my own beliefs in myself.

So when I finally met my wife, I realized something that I don’t think many people did: She was actually someone who was perfect for me. She was not filling some hole I needed at the time, I was not settling for someone in order to avoid being alone, and I was not simply conforming to some societal standard of being a couple. I was completely whole and happy by myself. And she somehow made me happier. Not more complete, but more something that I could not have been should I have been without her.

This isn’t some belief in destiny, or fated to meet or anything like that. This was a simply one in a million chance that I was actually ready for, since I had taken the time to develop what that actually was.

Now I don’t think my way is the best way; a lot of people have met “the one” in their own special way. My point is there’s a necessity in breaking habits. No matter how you do anything, whether it’s meeting someone, taking a job, deciding what kind of food it is you really love, nothing will ever be your own personal truth until you break your idea of what’s comfortable or safe and actually make an informed decision based on experience, not inferences or references.

I’ve said this often, in hundreds of formats. Take a look at your worst case scenario. If the worst thing that can happen is that you have to pick up the pieces and start over, then take the risk. Starting over, in almost every situation, can lead to new perspectives that can give you a boost towards a happiness that is forever lost in the American dream of comfort.

Stop looking at the worst case scenario as a sure thing, and start looking at the good that can come from a 10% chance. This isn’t a speech to tell you to go gamble on the lottery. I’m telling you to gamble on yourself, to believe in yourself, and to believe in your own happiness, instead of the happiness you’re told is what you’re destined to get. Destiny or fate or karma, should you believe, is only a stepping stone. Who you are dependent not on what the universe gives you, but what you do with it.

Cave Johnson said it best in these regards. Make the universe rue the day it gave you lemons.

Lux Caelum I

2012-07-11T21:11:00.001-07:00

The view from the port window was amazing every time. From far enough way, the petty squabbles of the people below seemed so insignificant. The vast expanses of blue and white, green and brown, made it impossible to even imagine that a war might have been going on, soldiers killing soldiers or murder on the streets of some major city that was maybe a barely noticeable speck from this distance.

The elderly man smiled as he continued to stare out the glass. Even though he knew full well it wasn’t actually glass (one of the engineers on board explained it to him on multiple occasions but he could never recall the actual name), he still preferred to think of it as such. For some reason, the familiarity of the substance made him feel more at home than any sort of knowledge of the safety behind the science of what was actually there.

There was a knock at the door. The man smiled to himself. The knocking was another quaint insistence of his; the tone that the button outside created was so very impersonal. He preferred every guest to knock instead, as it often could tell him so much about what was on the other side. Before they ever came in, he could often tell who it was, what kind of mood they were, and sometimes was even able to figure out what they wanted.

Sure, the screen next to the bed that showed via strategically placed cameras what exactly was on the other side of the door, down to fluctuations in their body temperature and electronic equipment they have on their person, could have easily told him much of the same information. It didn’t feel right though. It was cheating, like a calculator on a math quiz or a map during a survival exercise. Depending on these machines instead of your instincts would only get you killed.

He laughed at his own train of thoughts. This coming from a guy who’s sitting in a space station, completely dependent upon the technology around him to keep him alive.

“Come in, Commander,” he said finally. The door opened a moment afterwards, and Commander Kelsee walked into the room. She stood just inside the doorway as it closed behind her, not saying a word until the admiral turned to face her.

He smiled. Her attention to the little details of protocol was why she was largely his main point of contact on the station. She kept track of everyone’s idiosyncrasies, managing to avoid offending anyone and learn almost everything about someone within moments of meeting them. She exuded perfect control, both over herself and others. Even him.

Most importantly, though, she was trustworthy. She believed in her ideals, and his for that matter, and that made her the most important part of the small team up here.

He turned around to face her. He found the habit of his former superiors to talk to their subordinates with their back turned to be exceedingly rude. It does not matter where you stand; you always stand there because of each person, alive or dead, that followed you there, and forgetting that was the fastest route to betrayal, or worse, complacency.

This time, however, he didn’t say anything immediately after turning around. Her knock was a little faster, a little higher than she gave when she was coming in for appointed rounds. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to know she had something to say. So he waited for her to speak first.

She hesitated before speaking. It wasn’t a good sign. “You have to teach me sometime how you can tell so much just from the sound of a knock.”

She was making small talk. Another bad sign. Still, he smiled his best disarming smile. “It’s easy enough to explain, but noticing the differences really just comes with time and attention. Regardless, I don’t think you came here to discuss knocking.”

Her expression didn’t change. It remained as unreadable as it did when she first arrived. He was reminded once again to never play poker with her.

“The engineers and physicists have gone over the numbers one more time. There’s no way around it; one way or another, we’re going to go out of orbit, regardless of how we use the maneuvering engines.”

He nodded, the grin leaving his face. “No way to get a ship out here to rescue sir?”

“No sir. Communication with anyone on the surface would reveal our position.”

“And the centrifugal plan?”

“Not in our current orbit, sir. We are too far away from moon’s orbit to use it, and our air wouldn’t last long enough to use any other celestial body.”

He leaned against the table in the center of the room. The image from the camera on the bottom of the station showed clearly on the surface the table the land directly below them: a large city, hundreds of buildings and criss-crossing streets filling the entire. The older admiral stared at the table for a long time. He knew why he was selected to lead this mission, and he knew what he would decide to do in the end, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

“We’re all knew what we were getting into when we signed up for the mission, Sir.” The Commander spoke softly to him, as if to someone mourning. “You don’t hold responsibility for all of us; we all made the decision.”

“No offense, Commander, but you don’t have to press the damn button.”

“That’s true, Admiral. Although I will, if you won’t.”

The admiral stayed there for a moment, continuing to stare at the table. Minutes passed before he found himself able to respond, looking up at her. “You don’t have to worry about that, Commander. I know what’s at stake here.”

“It will save hundreds of thousands of lives, and bring--”

“Peace to people who have never known it, yes, I know.” He sighed. “But someone has to show respect for those that are sacrificing their lives to make peace happen. Both us up here, and those down there.” He gestured back to the table at the image on the table.

The commander didn’t respond, outside of a small nod. After another moment of silence, the admiral waved her away, and she left the room.

He sat down at the table, and stared out the window for a little while longer. Peace. It was easy to imagine up here, despite how impossible it was to achieve when he was below just months before. The irony of whole situation settled on him like a cloak of iron, snuggly holding him to the seat of execution.

He looked at the table once more. Then he closed his eyes, and stared at the keypad in front of him. He entered the code he had committed to memory long before he ever left earth’s atmosphere. There was only a short pause before the view from the camera turned white. The delay from the white-washed image and the view of the crater where the city once was took much longer.

He looked out the glass window once more from his chair, as it began to retreat much faster than he had expected it to. He knew they would be traveling fast as the weapon pushed back on the station, but distance was an illusion in space. A part of him was still hopeful up until a moment ago that help might catch up with them, but that seemed unlikely at this rate.

He stood up, heading out of the room. Morale was always at its worse when death is a certainty, and he had a job to do.

The Heart of the Princess

2012-07-07T20:32:00.000-07:00

She watched intently as the knight approached the castle. He appeared wary, but confident. She scowled. They came regularly, each one as smug as the one before. She grew tired of the charade, but a promise was made. Her closest friend--her only friend, really--asked her long ago to secure her away, to ensure none would control her life, that not even her family could decide watch direction she would take.

She loved her princess so. There was little she wouldn’t do should the princess ask. So when the princess asked to be taken away, to a place far away where none would look, she happily obliged. The castle they found was far from anything, long abandoned by anyone would care, a relic from a long forgotten war.

Still, they came to their doorstep. Many a knight found themselves daunted by the steep climb, unable to cross the moat, stopped by the unscalable walls. Still, they came.

Her princess asked for protection from the knights that sought her. She sought an army, but none would help a woman on her own, hiding from the kings and knights that sought her princess.

Instead, she sought a witch, a practitioner of power who would understand her plight. The witch offered her the strength to turn away any knight. She gladly accepted.

Man after man died by her decision, as she protected her princess from any who would seize her. Still, they came. There was no faltering; no matter how many she killed, no matter how much terror she caused in the hearts from all those who were once near, still they came. They each wore the same look. They knew to fear, but they still did not fear as they should.

Like many before him, he climbed the cliffs and forded the moat. He forced his way through the gate, and avoided the traps in the hall. She knew not how each learned how all the knights had learned such about her castle, but they did and she had not the hands to change them any longer.

As many before, he entered the chamber where gatherings were once held, staring at dais which still held an old throne, no longer in use. Unlike many of the most recent knights had, he waited at the entrance to the chamber, behind the vast doors. He knew the princess was in the tower as all who came before him did. She knew they intended to force her princess away, to bring the princess to a life unwanted. Yet this one knew what awaited him in the chamber, and waited.

She leapt down, spreading her vast wings to slow her descent, landing heavily below, crunching the familiar stone beneath her claws.

He smiled from his helm, his visor still open, showing his boyish face.

“Dragon,” he spoke, as if in greeting. He drew a long, thin sword from his hip, a large shield from his back.

“Good knight,” she replied. She snorted as the end, wisp of smoke coming from her snout that had become too familiar in the last year.

“I had heard you could speak,” he said, surprising her once again. “Must we fight? Surely you must grow tired of this.”

“I have my duty.”

“As do I. I must allow the princess to leave this place.”

She laughed. A lick of flame stretched towards the knight, but did not reach him. “You know not what the princess wants. Do not assume, good knight.”

He frowned, looking concerned. Then the look turned sad, and he closed his visor, raised his shield and stepped forward.

She lowered her head to be even with the doorway and let loose with a heavy breath. Flames enveloped the knight; afraid he might have ducked behind the doorway, she kept her head low, engulfing the hallway beyond in heat and light.

When she had no more breath to let out, she was very surprised to see the night directly in front of her mouth, shield held steadily in front of him.

She tried to pull her face back, but was too slow. The sword flashed out, tearing a part of her jaw asunder. She yowled in pain, rearing back. None before had managed to strike her so; they either died from claw or flame, or their swords bounced harmlessly off her thick scales. None had dared to attack the inside of her mouth.

Fear and dread filled her mind; this was not the same as the others.

She turned her head, to look down at where the knight was, but he was no longer there. She tried to close her loosely hanging jaw, but could not; it seemed the knight had done something that caused it to not function normally. She lifted a clawed hand to force it shut.

A white hot fire erupted from inside her head. Too late, she realized he was inside her mouth, waiting for the opportunity to reach her soft palate.

She howled, and fell to her side. The hot pain continued as the sword her tore apart from the inside. The fight had left her; she was in too much pain, and now she realized that she was dying.

The knight came forth from within, lifting her jaw from the ground with his shield, and walked around to her eye. He opened his visor once more.

“It is not I that misunderstood. I fear you may--”

Her body convulsed. She felt a new pain, one that she had felt only once before, when the witch gave her new form. She was returning to that form she once had, a year before she had spent so much time as a monster, a life she could barely remember.

“A woman,” he spoke, shocked as she appeared before her as she once were, naked and dying, her head almost destroyed and bleeding out from a gaping wound in her neck. “A curse, a trick most foul.”

She found herself looking at the boy, unable to turn away. He looked at her in pity. “I am sorry. If I had known, perhaps--”

Suddenly, the princess entered her view, leaping at the knight who dropped sword and shield to ensure that the princess did not fall. To her surprise, the princess laughed in the knights arm, happy to be received so gallantly.

“I knew, for many years,” the princess said, “that the only knight I would love, would be the one who would save me from a dragon.”

She lay dying, her life blood draining, her head feeling as if it were cleaved in two. Yet she knew no pain greater than the knowledge of this moment. This was her princess, the one she was born to, had served lovingly all her life. She had sacrificed all, her home, her family, her very body and soul for the protection and favor she had been asked.

Now her final sacrifice had been made. Her heart broke.

She tried to yell, to scream, to tell of the betrayal, to warn the knight of the evil that she now knew to lurk in the princess’s heart. Her mouth would not obey her. Her throat would not pass the air to form the words.

Her sight faded. She heard them, as if from a distance, moving about. The last sounds she heard, words echoing within the last remnants of her consciousness, whispered softly in her ear. The last words her princess would speak to her:

“That’s enough, Sophie. You may rest now.”

Sophie. That was her name, wasn’t it? It had been so long.

Dancer of the Red Stage

2012-07-04T21:36:00.000-07:00

The drums pounded, the flutes played their lilting melodies, the horns their counter bravado. It is unknown how long they had played; time had little meaning anymore. All the matter was the music was playing. All that mattered was that the dance had begun. Like every performance before, once the music began, there was little else she could think upon outside of her performance.

She had practiced and performed her dance thousands of times before. Not only physically; when she sat, when she ate, when slept, she thought only of the dance. Every flitting step, every flick of her wrist, all of it had become rote. She had memorized the feeling of every landing, the pressure on her ankles and the precise timing of every turn.

It is for that reason she wept during this dance. For the first time since she started dancing, she was forced to dance with a partner.

She should have felt elated; her partner was amazing, graceful, flawless. Every move he made ran perfectly counter to hers, memorizing in its graceful but simple movements, each touch between them guiding her lightly without stopping her, and she guiding him with every movement of her hips, their feet matching at every cross step and gesture.

In reality, however, all she could feel was pain and fear. She had never met one who could dance as well as she. Her performance, her future, was in jeopardy. There was nothing else outside of the dance for her. She was certain she was not getting worse; her performance was somehow better every time. She was told many times her dance was perfected, but somehow she managed to improve upon it every time.

This time, someone had matched her dance. Someone whom she had never met before managed to dance as well as she. In fact, this must have been his first time. He must be better! There is no other explanation in her mind then: he was there to take her dance. The only way to keep dancing is to outdo him.

The musicians were growing tired; the horns ceased their bravado, blaring indiscriminately. The flutes left their lilting, playing boring melodies of low notes. Eventually, even the rhythm of the drums faded; the musicians were exhausted, and could play no more.

Man and woman ceased their performance. They stood, facing each other, open space kept in between as they both heaved their chests, catching a breath they did not know they had lost somewhere in their movements.

“You dance beautifully,” he spoke between gasps. “I never thought to find such a performance out on the field, amongst so much ugliness.”

She gestured to the corpses littered around her. “I did not bring the ugliness. You did. Should you have not brought so many bodies with you, perhaps they would not litter the ground here. Then my dance could have simply continued on its beautiful stage.”

He smiled at her. It was full of warmth. “I could never have matched your dance, if I had not seen it before.”

Finally, she smiled as well. He was not better than her; he watched much, and like her, danced in his head often before performing. “You are wise, but foolish. My dance is inevitable for all. You will join the Dance, or you will become part of the stage as well.”

He nodded, although he did not show a hint of understanding otherwise. “There is another option. The music does not end at my home. You could come dance for me.”

She looked at the man curiously. Music does not end? This seemed unlikely. “You will die. All who come to my dance will die. Do you truly wish this?”

He laughed. “Not all dances lead to death, darling. Not all music leads to dancing. Don’t you wish to listen, dove? Music can be its own end, and dancing need not be done with a blade.”

She stood, staring at the man. Her sword, dripping with blood, now laid limply at her side. A drop fell on her foot; it was warm, and she could feel it move slowly around her toe, seeking the earth and solace, freedom and rest.

The director’s words were harsh, although she did not understand them. The drums picked up once again, the flutes played quickly, the horns bayed her to return to the dance.

The sword dropped from her side. She closed her eyes. She felt the music, deeper than she ever had before, and it felt good to listen.

The man came up to her, dropping his sword as did. He took her arms, and lead in her a dance--a different dance, one she had not done before. She danced with him, her movements not counter to his but with them. She had no name for the feeling it brought to her.

There was shouting, but her eyes remained closed. The music slowly died.

“It is time to go home, my swan. Your dance is now your own; you can open your eyes.”

She took her time, enjoying the darkness and the dance for some time, even after the music had ended. The light was far brighter than she remembered.

Last Wish of the Djinni

2012-06-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

The lamp looked to be something straight out of the stories. Covered in sand, sitting by itself in the middle of nowhere, gilded gold and gems adorning the outside. The young boy stared at it for some time, unbelieving what he was seeing. He loosened the wrapping around his face for a moment, trying to get a better look at it. Unable to contain his curiosity, he lifted the lamp for a closer look.

He first tried to lift the top off. It would not budge; unlike a normal lamp, the top seemed sealed. He got more and more excited; why would anyone prevent the top from opening, unless it’s not a normal lamp?

It took him two tries to get his courage up to rub the lamp with his sleeve, cleaning it off. The dust that arose from him made him cough, like a sudden sandstorm had come from the lamp itself. He dropped the lamp, shutting his eyes against the sand that erupted.

When he finally was able to open his eyes again, a man appeared before him. The dark-skinned, well-dressed man was missing everything below the waist, having it replaced by a small whirlwind of dust and sand. The cone cause sand to kick up at its base, but little else now.

“What is your wish, young one?” The man spoke in even tones, as if repeating something he’s said innumerable times.

“What do you mean?” the boy asked. He did not need to force the nervousness in his voice, although he did feign the ignorance.

“You may have any three wishes granted that your heart may desire,” the Djinn said with immeasurable patience. “You may never have more than three wishes, no matter what you say or do, and you may not give a wish to another. You may have anything that is within my power to give you; however, you may not wish to influence the mind or heart of another of your kind.”

The boy was smart, and thoughtful, and caring. He had heard many tales of the Djinn in all forms, from stories told in his town to things he read in books from foreign lands. Even the times he played with his friends, new stories of the Djinn would appear. None would end well for the one making the wish, and sometimes even worse for those around him.

“My first wish,” the boy said after much thought, “is for you to answer a question from me truthfully.”

“As you wish,” the Djinn said. His expression and tone changed little, as yet only showing patience.

“Is what they say true, that many have asked you of wishes, and it ends poorly every time?” The boy rushed his words, unable to disguise his hope that stories were just fables of caution.

“It is true, I am afraid.” The Djinn frowned, dejected at his own answer but pleased to deal with such an honest patron.

The boy stood with his bowed, obviously upset by the answer and wishing to take his time to decide just what his few remaining wishes should be.

“My second wish,” the boy said, raising his head to look at the Djinn in the eye once more, “is for you to answer another question from me truthfully.”

The Djinn looked at him, unable to hide the dubious expression. “As you wish,” he responded after a moment.

“Why? Why do people who have their wishes granted always regret it being so?”

The Djinn smiled. This was indeed a smart boy. “Because no person truly knows their desires; they only perceive problems, and wish for such things to fixed without effort. No one’s problems can ever be simply fixed however; no person’s life is so simple.”

The boy thought about this. It was hard to understand, but he believed the Djinn’s word, and strived to do so. “So, then the problem is not the one who grants the wishes, or the nature of the wishes, but the desire to have wishes granted.”

“It is so.” The Djinn crossed his arms, wondering what the boy could possibly have for his last wish.

The boy nodded, a serious look on his face. “Then for sake for all who follow, there is only one wish that my heart will allow me to make.

“I wish that none that find this lamp, from this time on until time ends, will ever have a wish granted.”

The sandstorm below the Djinn died suddenly. He fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, gasping in pain, struggling to draw breath. He looked at the boy, anger in his eyes. The boy stared at the writhing Djinn, coldly.

“Do not blame me,” he told the dying form beneath him. “You could have told any of those before me what you told me. Perhaps they would have been wise enough to turn you down, perhaps not; but this is the only end for those of you who lay curses among us willingly.”

“Don’t believe yourself righteous, child,” the djinn said, with its final breaths. “Don’t believe yourself a savior. I am not the only Djinn; your kind will forever seek us, for they are forever corrupted, and must always see their folly.”

The Djinn finally let go its corporeal form, becoming so much sand and joining the desert around them in which the boy had found it. “Then I shall find your kin,” the boy swore to desert, “and I will wish them all to the Desert, so that ‘my kind’ can instead find their wishes in hard work and purposeful effort.”

He picked up the lantern, dusting it off. No further dust spewed from the lantern, no sandstorm erupted from within. He took its loop, running it through his belt so it hung from his waist, a reminder and trophy of his new quest of vengeance. He wrapped his head in cloth once more, and took the first steps in his new life and purpose.

Monkey Leather

2012-06-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

It seemed like such a simple thing at first. I mean, it was just a wallet. Small, brown, folding and unassuming, it sat there on the edge of the street, leaning against the curb as if it were placed there on purpose. All I was thinking of doing was picking it up, figure out who it went to, and either return it or bringing it to the police department.

I didn’t even have a moment to open it before it was snatched from my hands. The figure that leapt away only stayed in my sight for a moment, ducking around a corner. I shrugged; it wasn’t my wallet after all, and chasing after someone who could have easily arrived shortly before I did seemed like more trouble than it would be worth. The metallic sound from the alleyway meant that he was either jumping a fence or climbing onto the fire escape of the building, so either way I didn’t stand much of a chance catching him.

So you can imagine my surprise when, rounding the next corner on the same block, I find the wallet on the ground in front of me, lazily laying on the sidewalk as if it were tired of waiting for me. It took me a moment to notice the nearby pool of blood that didn’t quite make it all the way to the soft brown leather. I picked up the wallet once again and followed the path. Afraid to look but unable to stop myself, I pushed myself around the corner to look down the nearby alleyway. All I managed to see before I pulled myself back was a human body, broken on the ground, its head twisted at an impossible angle and far smaller than it should have been.

The police station was only two blocks away, and I don’t believe I have run faster in my life. I escorted an officer to the scene, explaining what had happened and handing over the wallet afterward. She was quite kind, doing her best to make sure I was ok after encountering my first dead body. After checking with a few people who were standing nearby, she insisted I go home.

Knowing she was one of the few good police officers I had dealt with in my life made it that much harder when I found her body near my front door, two small, neat holes steaming in her chest right near her heart. The wallet stood nonchalantly nearby in the grass, open curiously but with no signs of being disturbed.

I looked inside. There were few identifying objects; no credit cards, no license, just a few of those discount grocer deals and a few business cards, none of which matched. One of them stood out: a collectibles shop that seemed to sell leather items. Seemed as good a place to start as any.

The owner of the place seemed as confused as I was when I showed him the wallet. He did manage to tell me one thing before the display of swords behind him dropped suddenly off the wall, a well-honed katana slicing his hand off at the wrist, the wallet tumbling from his grip and coming to a gentle rest against the inside of my foot.

He told me that the leather was made from the hide of a monkey. It was enough told that I was not surprised when his hand stood up and ran off on its own long before the paramedics arrived to try and save him.

So please, guy with the gun outside the subway station, I’m telling you one last time, for your own sake: Do not take my wallet.

Rant at people ranting at ME3 ending

2012-04-02T10:50:00.006-07:00

Ok, if it wasn't obvious to those reading my G+ post, I'm a little peeved about this whole "Let's bitch at Bioware for the ending they put into the game that I love!" rant that seemingly everyone with the Internet as decided to get behind. it's absolutely ridiculous on many, many levels.

I'm not going to cross post it, so if you want to read my original rant, go here.

Let me put a warning here: I'm going to be spoilerific. The reason why I'm posting this on my blog is so that I CAN be spoilerific. For the most part, I don't think people are going to come read this unless they expect this, so if somehow, you've gotten this far and don't want to read on about the endings of Mass Effect 3, STOP READING NOW. Thank you.

Now, I've done a little more research, having a few more in-depth conversations with people, read a few blogs, looked up some rants on Youtube, checked out a few more of the endings myself, etc. I get it a bit more. I can sort of see why a lot of people are angry.

It's still REALLY DUMB. But I get it. If I made a bunch of stupid assumptions about what was going on without examining anything for myself, or decided to make enormous jumps in my conclusions as to what things mean, sure, I'd be pissed too. I'd be stupid, but I'd be pissed (but then, those two tend to go hand in hand pretty often).

There are a few, specific issues that have been brought up multiple times in multiple ways that I simply feel are inaccurate at best, and presumptive at worse. I'm going to start with the simpler ones.

There's been a lot of complaints that Shepherd's team somehow "miraculously" made it back to Normandy. Despite a clearing of the hot-zone you performed not too long ago, the fact that there are multiple Makos and other vehicles in the area, and the fact that the team all left you in the damn ship when it last exploded, seemingly everyone is SHOCKED that somehow, for some reason, your surviving team left for and made it to the Normandy while you died. Not sure how this is surprising, nor why people had to make up stories about teleporters.

Many people complained about the emotional connection, that they wouldn't have left it in that situation. Well, I'm sorry, but it came down to two things. Your team either saw you dead, or they saw you limp your way into the lift. The lift that took you to the Citadel, where you most likely weren't going to be returning to Earth unless the Citadel crashed. You limped through that damn place for the better part of an hour. It's not suprising that, when someone gave the order to retreat, your damn team beat feet.

The next issue I had is with people wanting to tell the little robot-child-thing off, shoot it or otherwise do something else than submit to the choices in that situation. My question is: what the fuck do you want Shepherd to do?? Bleed on it? It's a hologram! It's a program! It's NOT THERE!! You want to kill it? Well, low and behold, that's one of the GORRAM CHOICES!! Destroying the Repears destroys it too (and if you think about it, you're actually doing it the other way around: destory IT is what destroys the Reapers)! This isn't hard, people.

Seriously, what the hell else would Shepherd do in that situation?? Bleed out? The longer you wait, the more people die. Decisions are made. And when you're stuck in a room, dying, with a few decisions in front of you, not making a decision, or telling the child to fuck off without doing anything, is dying, and condemning everyone else to dying. Seriously, what else do you want? Getting three options (assuming you came fully prepared) was a bit shocking, in my opinion.

Ok, now to get all pseudo-gaming-science all up in this bitch.

First of all: This whole "People are stranded here" thing.

They have said MULTIPLE TIMES throughout the games--twice in ME3 alone!!--that FTL travel between systems is entirely possible. it just takes years, instead of seconds. The relays were a convenience more than anything else... In fact, some times when you escape a system from the Reapers, Evi says, "Faster than light jump successful."

So, they're not fucking stranded. If the ships they are using can use the stupid relays, they can use FTL. Granted, it's just gonna take the better part of a decade (for some, like the Quarians and the Geth, it's could take almost half a century, but they're the best equipped to handle it anyway). Seriously, if you think they're stranded their, either (a) you haven't been paying attention the entire game, or (b) you're stupid, and you're not thinking about it.

Ok, second: Joker running away.

First of all, if I saw a giant wave of destructive energy shooting out at me, and Shepherd was confirmed dead... HELL YEAH I'D RUN!! His loyalty is to the friggin' ship. That was made obvious at the beginning.
My only problem is that he was smiling when he got off the crashed ship. He should have been pissed, and definitely shouldn't be the first one off the ship.

Setting that aside...

The reviews and rants I have read lead me to believe that everyone assumes Joker went to a Mass Effect relay and jumped. Assuming he did so, yeah, this entire ending would be ridiculous. With this assumption, you also had to be assuming that Joker pretty much had to start running almost as soon as Shepherd got hit with the laser-blast-thing.

Ok, let's just assume this is wrong because it's stupid. Why would anyone write an ending where that kind of simple physics issue is overlooked? Heck, they even mentioned something in game about on-board sound-synthesizers that make it sound like an explosion happens in space when there isn't one (although, scientifically, that's still in question). If you take away that assumption, and just assume that Joker hit the ship's FTL when crazy-ray-of-WTF-ness started happening, it doesn't seem that illogical anymore, right? Why did anyone even jump to this conclusion?

To make it worse, the ending pretty much takes us by the hand, doing its best to try to show us that this didn't happen in a Mass Relay jump.

Three considerations: One, he's making adjustments and piloting. This means he is NOT traveling via the Relays, as that is near-instantaneous, and he's said before that he makes all adjustments for jumps before he touches the relay. Two: the beam *caught him*. No way it could do that in near-instantaneous travel. Three: The beam that caught him was a wave, not the destructive-looking-lazer-thing shot out by the relays, but the wave that came of the Crucible. That means he's not on the relay's path.

The only logical thing was that, as crazy shit started to go down, he hit FTL tried to escape with the fleet, and got caught in the blast from the Crucible. Regardless of which ending you choose, the subsequent change to Edi would mess with the ship, pull it out of FTL, and cause the ship to crash.

Ok, that is done.

So this pretty much reduces the complaints the fact that they haven't wrapped up everyone elses' stories (which I hope they do in comics and books, and not in this game, because I loved the other media), the lack of more variation in the endings (ok, seriously, I don't know what you were expecting here, high quality CG is expensive especially in design, and what they pulled off was great-looking, and IMO it all had to end somewhat the same way anyway), and the fact that the endings were color-coded.
I do have to admit, I am kind of irritated by the color-coded-morality endings (although I don't think they correspond entirely). Still, I understand why they did it: Because they took us by the fucking hand while trying to still do a decent, somewhat artistic ending, and we still didn't get it.

So shut up. However much I don't like including myself in this, it's our fault this crap is happening, and our bitching and whining just means we're going to have more Navis in our future.

Hope

2011-10-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

Man, I fucking hate that word.

Hope has this connotation, this idea in mainstream that it's actually a good thing. Where this came from, I have no idea, but it's used constantly to invoke some sort of positive response in people. In this time when our language is being redefined on a daily basis, when people are getting to the reality of what it means to "have faith" or what have you, why is "hope" taboo?

Dictionaries break down the word to even make sure that there's this idea persists. For instance, the definition: a "person or thing in which expectations are centered" seems like a valid, non-connotation-based definition until the example sentence afterwards: The medicine was her last hope. Seriously, how did this become the example? The last of the sick dying of the black plague was man's only hope for survival. There. An example that is much more "gray" than disturbingly positive.

You know what? I'm gonna redefine the word here. Screw the 40 different definitions for the word, I'm going to give one (ok, two, because you gotta verb it as well) that fits them all.

hope [hohp] 1. Noun. A desire that has no basis in reality to come true, but we wish for it to be so regardless. 2. Verb. The act of having hope.

Seriously, that's it. Let me break it down for you. Hoping is simply wanting something, but not having any idea whether or not you're really going to get it. Sure, you can work at it, do what you can to make it happen, but if any action you take would assuredly make it happen, then it's no long hope. It's simply an action (or for you physicists out there who probably aren't reading this, a reaction).

So in truth, it's just a baseless desire. Now THERE'S a word that has changed meaning in the last few decades. Used to be you could wake up in the morning and desire toast for breakfast. Now if desire is one of the first words out of your mouth in the morning, someone is bound to have a snarky giggle before you even finish the sentence.

What's to stop hope from having the same connotation? After all, most likely as your reading this, that guy nearby is hoping to have sex with you anyway. He's got no basis for this; he doesn't know who you are, what sexuality you may be, and probably doesn't even know how to start up a conversation. Hell, he's probably trying to get a look at what you're reading in hopes he can use it as an icebreaker. Won't he feel awkward when he sees the title and starts yammering about starving kids in Africa, or how his parents died, or 9/11.

We've taken the time to redefine Belief and Faith as modern-day consumers. Since Hope is really their relative, we really should not still be blindly considering it to be a positive thing. Hope is the waiting room attendee's hope that something will cure someone's cancer before they die as much as it it is the psychotic's hope that the next kill can stop the voices in his head. Neither has much basis in reality, neither knows for certain whether or not the actions taken can truly make a difference, but they both hope it's true.

Seriously, the only line between Hope and its ugly cousins is sacrifice. Hope can still maintain some sort of innocence only in the fact that it can be completely internal; one doesn't have to act on one's hopes, and in fact acting on it often defines it as something else, although it still remains a hope. The willingness to sacrifice someone else or someone else's hope turns it into a belief, whereas the willingness to sacrifice yourself or something you believe turns it into faith. One can fervently hope that the heathens will come to realize their ways are destroying the core of humanity; the believers gather followers and launch wars against their enemies with hopes of converting them through martial prowess; the faithful strap bombs to their chests in hopes that their sacrifice will teach others the evils of their ways.

Seriously, fuck that word. Every time I see it now, it just makes me angry. It's constantly used as a trap to elicit feelings of guilt for things that, in truth, we hold no real responsibility. Fuck sending money in some sort of hope that it'll do some good. If you really feel that guilty about starving kids in Africa, pack up your own bag of money and catch a plane. See how much good that bag of money will do out there. Or get a job working for the cause, and make sure the donations are going somewhere good. Then tell those you trust that you know this is going to make a difference, not simply hoping it is. Take away the hope and just it into a want. Make it something you can actually do something about, instead of hoping that your random donation is going to a good cause.

I hope you didn't read this hoping for some sort of positive twist at the end; but then, neither of us have any basis in reality for that, so screw it.

2011-10-22T23:29:00.000-07:00

There was a door inside my head.

I've gone on trips inside my own mind on many occasions. Some are more successful than others. Sometimes it feels like a simple exercise in imagination, but other times I can put myself into a state I cant only describe as a waking dream. I see people I don't recognize, places I've never seen, sometimes even creatures that are beyond even what I would believe I could imagine. I consider it a trip to my subconscious, a way for me to explore my dreams from the outside in a way. I don't have control; these aren't the "lucid dreams," I've had before. These are more of a viewing, a playback of something. At least, that's how it feels.

This was unlike either of those.

My eyes were closed, but I was still awake. I was in a meditative state of sorts, a technique for concentration that I've gotten better at assuming over the last few years. I'll be honest: I first learned it merely as a means to help me get rid of hiccups. Now it's useful in all sorts of situations, from work to normally uncontrollable anxieties. It also helps me get into a mindset that I can normally go on these little trips.

I blacked my mind. It's one of three ways I normally do this: blacking it out, filling it with light, or (if I've got a bit more time) picturing my thoughts being thrown into a fire. For stronger meditative states, the ones that tend to affect my physical body as well as my head, I use numbers and imagine them being created in fire and steel. This particular time, as I only thought to do so quickly, was a blacking.

When I first saw the door in my head, I was very confused. Blacking doesn't normally leave anything, especially not something quite as specific as this. Sometimes there are distractions and sounds that get through, but a large, wooden, double-door and frame, floating in the darkness? This was strange.

I pictured myself walking to the door. I'm still not sure how this worked, to be honest. I was aware in my mind that I was still standing at the door, but somehow I imagined what would happen should I choose to open it. This second me, the fiction inside of fiction, came to the and cracked it. All this me could see on the other side an orange dancing light like a fire, and eyes that stared back at me, through me. I gasped within my head, and the image was lost. I found myself once again outside the door.

I was unsure what to do. The door hid something. It felt like a necessity; I felt that behind that door, there was something important, a part of me that I didn't understand or accept or something. I went through my head, recognizing some of the strange and dangerous thoughts I've had in the past, but I did not move from in front of the door. Did I construct it? Did my subconscious construct it for me? I've done and planned terrible things in my past. What is behind that door that frightens me so?

Emotion started to make my concentration waver. I knew I didn't have much time, and it felt dangerous to throw open the doors when I could not spend the time to deal with what I might discovered. I turned, or, perhaps, it moved to the side. I cannot say for certain. All I know is I made movement to distance myself from it for now.

I opened my eyes. A face appeared surrounding my vision, as suddenly as the door appeared behind my eyelids. It was white and hollow, almost more of a skull than a face but it stretched and moved like skin. It wailed, silently, before fading into my peripheral vision. I closed my eyes, and I could see it again. I shuddered, wondering if this is a sign of a good decision, or a bad one.

I don't suppose I will know, until the time I open the door, and see which truth lies behind.

Projects in the Works

2011-10-04T15:14:00.000-07:00

So, just as an FYI: Yes, I am working on things. Big things. Things made of awesome and win. I think they are, anyway. I'm not dead, I'm not not-writing, etc., etc. I'm currently working on a long-ass post about a sort of origin-story on the Precipitous Bar and the Edge. Two different stories, one of which I've already started before. Not sure how I feel on it, though; I may hold off on that until I'm more comfortable on where it's going.

I'm also starting a new novel project among many other shorter ones. It's a bit out-of-the-ordinary for me, in that it requires some research on my part thanks to the fact that it mostly takes place in the here-and-now and deals with historical fiction. As I'm not a huge history buff, nor really that up on geography/current events as I should be, this can take some work. I'm looking forward to some of it, but more than anything I'm hoping I don't get burned out. Still, as long as I can get some framework down, I think this would be a good project to come back to periodically even if I lose steam part way through.

So fear not, all 2-3 readers of mine! I'm still here, and I hope I will have more coming in the near future. And yes, I'm pretty sure all of the stories to come will be supernatural in some shape or form; despite trying new genres, I don't think I can ever really get the supernatural completely out of my head insofar as the stories I like to tell.

I have, however, decided to stretch my writing muscles a little bit more. I've been doing a few game reviews and other random, often far-too-long posts on G+ recently, mostly involving dreams or funny anecdotes from life (you can see that here if you're so interested, just ask me to add you to my Video Games and/or Dreams circles). I'm hoping to get a few more of these kind of things going as well. I have a couple of options, I hope, to see what I can pull off, but we shall see. Hopefully, there will be more to come should that happen.

So yeah! Hopefully, within the next couple of days, I'll have the opening for the Foxfire Protocols (the novel project) up here to pique interest and get some feedback on the idea. I will probably post the first few chapters, although I may not submit the whole story to the blog. We shall see. Anyway, thanks for reading! The encouragement has been wonderful.

The Truth Behind the Whiskers

2011-09-30T12:10:00.000-07:00

(Edit: This somehow got put in Draft instead of Posting. Date should be 8/16/2011. Going to post now, as it's interesting to read at this point as I read back).

It's a personal revelation post! Feel free to ignore if you don't like reading introspective bull shit.

For those of you that don't know (which is probably not many people), I decided to remove the entirety of my facial hair this weekend. To some, I'm sure this is not a big thing, but considering it's been around a decade or so since I've completely removed the chin-fuzz, it was a big deal to most. Heck, it was a big deal to me, but I've had a hard time trying to figure out why.

So I take a look in the mirror a bit ago. This, in itself, is a bit strange: normally, when in front of a mirror, I'm either (a) blind, as I don't have glasses on, (b) washing my hands so I don't pay attention, or (c) shaving/trimming hair, so I'm only paying attention to details. Me standing in front of a mirror simply to look at myself is different. My reaction seems even more strange, though, as I realize that, for a moment, I actually recognize myself, a feeling I haven't had in a while.

For a moment, I'm terribly confused. I've had my face one way for years now, THAT should be the face I recognize. Why do I feel like this is face that I own, not the one I've worn for longer than I really remember (the years have kinda blurred, don't judge me)? I've really never felt like I was staring at a stranger int he mirror before, but there is definitely a sense of "self" I feel now. Before, I was staring a picture, a rendering, but now... Now that's me looking back at me.

Am I the Moon?

2011-07-30T18:36:00.000-07:00

She is the wolf, baying at the moon. She cannot reach it, but it comes to her every day. Her want to be with it grows and grows, until she convinces herself that it's not her that wishes for the moon, but the moon that needs her. She runs and runs, howling all the time, but gets no closer.

What is the moon? Well, that is no simple question. The moon is many things; a father or mother, child or sibling; it could be a foreign land, or a hard-sought career; it could even be an unrequited love or personal riches. The point is not what the moon is now, but what it cannot be. It is what is unobtainable, whether that be now or forever, and the wolf finds themselves consumed by the singular desire to have it, despite knowing it can never be.

I am but the rain. I grant the reprieve, however short, masking the moon for a moment, just the time to wonder about everything else. The shadows become aware of each other, the wolf wonders if the moon that hides itself is worth its laments. I fall upon the mountains, and become the river. To those that come to see me, I grant a truth: I bring a reflection, the way to see oneself that, perhaps, they have not seen before.

The wolf came to the waters to find her reflection, and the sustenance of the river. I am but a flow; I follow the path where it may lead. I do not know where I might go, but I know the end, when I must join the others once again and become indiscernible, until the day I reach the sky once more and begin again.

The wolf runs with me. I do not know if its for what I showed her, or what I can provide her, or if she simply loves what I am. She has not forgotten the moon, but she does not let it consume her; when she has the river, she does not feel alone, does not feel the need of the moon, but instead tries to find herself along the banks. I can only hope the path will wind, so that we may have more time together, so that I can watch her run even though I do not know why she does.

Too soon, I see the shore, the beaches that tell me my journey will be ending. The wolf still runs even as I join the ocean, runs into the waters in hopes of trying not to lose that which had become so dear. I lose sight quickly, as I am dragged into the everything. I wait to begin again, and I wonder: what will the wolf think of me? Will she believe I left her? Will she stay by the ocean, wondering what she could have done? Will she wait for the rain once again?

Or will she return to where she once was, howling at the moon? There was once a reflection, and now there is only the wolf. So what have I become?

Music in my Life

2011-07-11T23:43:00.000-07:00

In a conversation with a new friend today, I came across one of those strange moments of personal insight. It's always nice having moments like that, but today it was a little awkward. This is mostly due to the fact that it happened at work. The insight itself wasn't awkward, of course; it was the strong desire to turn temporarily introspective that made the rest of the day difficult. Still, each of these moments are like a large blast of positive energy in my psyche, so I decided I shouldn't waste the moment and try to turn introspective now, while I have a chance.

I should move on to the revelation. Don't expect anything profound here; move on if you want something huge. I spurt those out in person; these rants are mostly for things I don't expect people to be interested in (well, except you, obviously). Anyway, the discussion was about strange tastes in music. Mine is quite odd. Many of the people I know have very eclectic tastes. It's been curious to me; seriously, even my own taste in music confounds me. I like rap music. Shocking, I know. Sure, I don't like all of it, but then again I really don't like any certain genre, just a few performers within it.

So, today I had my moment where it all started to make sense. I realized that a lot of why I like so many different kinds of music is because of the impact someone (or, in some cases, something) who introduced some aspect of the music to me. I never realized it before because, most of the time, I only really noticed the emotional impact the music would have on me. Today, I managed to trace it back a little more, and found the destination interesting.

It was an interesting revelation; music has become a little more that it was even with the emotional attachment. Now, it appeals to every sense. It's strange now, as listening to music, which was previously just something I did when I was doing something else, has kind of evolved into its own activity. Thankfully, it hasn't restricted my ability to enjoy music as I previously did: many other personal revelations unfortunately came with a downside, such as my general dislike of the ocean (no, I'm not sharing that story right now, so don't ask). But now I have options: I can still simply turn on the music and work on something else, or I can actually just listen to the music and cruise the memories and emotions.

New positive insight. I can't help but enjoy it while it lasts. Of course, I suppose I could just go listen to some MP3s...

His Spider's Web, part 1

2011-06-06T01:49:00.000-07:00

Have you heard of the Jorô-Gumo? No, that's a silly question. Even if you did, it wouldn't make much sense here. My story reminds me of the creature, but not the myth. Although, I suppose it may be similar, in a way.

She was as beautiful as the myth said, in the least. So much so that I did, actually, think it was a trap. Not anything supernatural, of course. The locals from the town told many legends about the mountains, about how people go up and never go up, no trace of where they went and their tracks ending in open fields. So when you find an astonishingly beautiful woman in the middle of nowhere on the side of a mountain, it's not hard to think it a hoax.

Still, my curiosity was piqued. She did not approach me. In fact, far as I could tell, she didn't even notice I was there. That didn't fit the hoax: she was supposed to trick me, right? Promise me something, love or riches, and bring me into some sort of web to eat me, right? She did none of this; she simply wandered past, looking for something.

I followed her for a while, and things started to get a little hazy. I'm not sure why, but everything seemed sluggish. I won't forget what I saw next though.

She walked up to what at first looked like a fine, tightly-woven net stretched between trees. A rabbit had caught itself within web, seemingly recently. It struggled to free itself, and did so even more as she approached, but instead only tangled itself more. She reached down and stroked the creature twice. It slowed its struggle for a moment.

Her next few movements were quite fast, and all I could truly tell that happened was the sound a few snaps and her arms had moved in a blur. Less than a second passed before she had taken much of diaphanous thread and wrapped it around the poor creature. I could still see its outline underneath; although it could not move its body outside of a few frantic jerks, I could still see its beady eye moving around desperately underneath the strange cloth.

She then leaned down close to it, as if to kiss the beast. Although I could not make out what happened next, she certainly did something; as she placed the creature down on the earth, it spasmed even more, unable to move off of its side. Its movements quickly began to slow, however. I watched in fascination as its spasms become less violent, and eventually less frequent, until they stopped altogether.

Its one eye that I could make out kept darting this way and that for some time. I felt like it was returning to me, somehow knowing I was watching and pleading for help from the inevitable. It seemed like hours had passed before that eye stopped moving to stare directly at me, as I returned its gaze without pause.

It took me some time to realized that I did not feel revolt or guilt for what I had watched. My entrancement had come from a sense of awe and wonderment, an appreciation of beauty that made me want more. When I realized the source of my new infatuation had disappeared while I watched the last moments of the rabbit, I began to panic.

I was torn between darting off into the forest or trying to check the web, to see if it might lead some place. In the end, indecision kept me rooted for just enough time, as she came back for the rabbit with a few other bundled packages hanging lightly from her hand from a cord of the webbing. She put the bundle down and set to work repairing the hole in the web.

Her hands were fascinating. String formed of its own accord between her fingers as she pressed her hands together and pulled them apart. She played an elaborate dance that moved no part of her body, aside from her swaying arms and the rocking of her head as she watched, a smile across her face and humming from her lips that showed her own enjoyment of the task that pulled me happily in to its strange movements.

It wasn't long before I found myself humming along to the strange tune she sang. My own voice was not the surprise however: the surprise was when I realized the bundles, even the rabbit, were humming along as well, their voices lending a contrasting baritone that gave the song feeling more akin to a dirge than any sort of working song.

She continued to hum as she gathered the bundles once again, the rabbit now strung along with the others. The smile on her face seemed to contradict the solemn music that came from the impossible harmony of spider and her dead victims. I could hardly keep track of my own thoughts as I watched her begin to move off and up a hill within the forest. Still, I managed to remember to stay hidden, as I followed my new affection.

to be continued

Radix: Races and Creatures

2011-05-10T17:53:00.000-07:00

I actually have a long document on a bunch of the races that are present throughout Radix. Aside from humans, which are present everywhere but only prolific on Aracanoc, each country has its own humanoid and monstrous races. The lines between "humanoid" and "monstrous" are blurred in some cases, but the point still stands. The document I have explains many of the races already, going over their origins (or what they thought was their origins, in some cases) and statistics.

However, the point of this blog is to get me writing, not copying and pasting. Maybe I'll include that here some other time, but for right now I'll summarize what I remember and try to concentrate on what wasn't in the document.

So, there's eight main "humanoid" races within the world (Humanoid is in quotes because a few of them, such as the Aequorians, only resemble humans in the fact they have two arms and two legs). I'll list put them here in the order of most populace to least. First listed, of course, are the Humans. Physcially, they're self-explanatory. They exist on every continent, although far more prolific on Aracanoc than anywhere else. They are considered adaptable but dedicated, and are often leaders within many organizations due their singled-minded devotion to causes. Most other races, especially on Aracanoc, have a healthy respect/fear of them, and tend to alternate between trying to avoid them, and trying to ride on their coattails.

Dwarves are the most populous race in Hydranatos, as well as they are the second-most numerous of races in Declaria, marking them as the second-most common humanoid race in the world. Although they *can* live longer than humans (lasting almost two full generations), most do not, as they tend to be adventuresome and brash, dying at ages that make humans seem elderly due to the damage their body undergoes in their youth. The exceptions lie within the highest of the clergy and noble houses of Hydranatos, where the strict training helps guide most of the young away from their impulsive nature in order to be upstanding citizens.

The Beastkin are the primary race within Declaria. On the surface, they look like short humans with broad frames. Each tends to take on an aspect of the animal or creature they bond with, a rite every beastkin goes through during puberty. Those that do not find themselves stricken with a sickness that causes them to waste away as they can no longer process food they eat. They are individually strong, and their time spent developing their kinship with a creature of the forest makes them a bit feral compared to most others. There are a number of them who have migrated to Aracanoc, although those present there tend to be "darker" in nature; Beastkin native to these lands usually have to find stranger creatures than those in Declaria at the time of their bonding, and this can have strange effects on their personalities. A Beastkin's lifespan is almost completely dependent on the creature to which it bonds; unfortunately, picking and choosing a creature is no simple matter, so factors like these do not have much weight.

Pennatus, a race of thin, pale human-looking people with colorful, feathered wings, are native to the mountains of Hydranatos, although there a quite a few of them in Aracanoc as well. They are considered a "war-like" race, although they tend to think of themselves as political: battles are often run between village to settle disputes of land or kin, but these battles are normally governed by codes of honor and propriety. Most Pennatus that are present in Aracanoc were forced there at some point or another, in contrast to the Beastkin who arrived there seeking power. Some Pennatus have a natural affinity to Elemental Magic that can manifest at a young age; however, due to some strange event in their past, this is viewed as a curse. Most any village along the mountain will expel any young Pennatus showing a natural inclination towards magic, regardless of stature or family upbringing. Exiles eventually find their way to Aracanoc, for training, hope or revenge.

Defams are one of the only two races on Radix which are not "naturally occurring" within the world, although many of them would be happy to debate their origins with you. Defams are originally animal familiars to a wizard that, through some strange magics either accidental or on-purpose, were given the intelligence and arcane knowledge of their masters, and shifted to a form that resembles a sort of half-human, half-animal form. Although the most common are rats, cats and snakes, all manners of animals from all over the world have known to become Defams, some far more exotic than others. Native to Aracanoc, Defams are unable to reproduce on their own (although some have been able to create others through a similar process to how they were made), and so are not found in other parts of the world unless traveling or relocating for some purpose. Defams, being magical by nature, live enormously long: none have been known to die of old age, but most tend to be somewhat fragile by nature, betraying the appearance of immortality.

Aequorians are widely considered the "rarest" of species, although in truth there are far more of them then they let the "flat-heels" believe. Most of them live within the enormous mountain in the center of Hydranatos, although quite a few live within the city (in fact, many of them hold high positions within the clergy), and there are always at least two that live near either end of each gate that supplies water to the other continents. Aequorians are amphibious, with elongated, webbed fingers and toes spreading from short palms and heels. Their skin is oily and shines in various blues and greens that allows them to blend into the waterways where they spend much of their time, and have bulbous eyes that sit near the tops of their heads much like a frog's. Their mouths resemble a human's, although not as wide and with thicker lips and their teeth are far thicker, especially farther back. They have no nose, instead relying on large, round "scent glands" located behind the small holes they have for ears. They're a very spiritual/religious people, having a much deeper and complicated religion and, in a way, connection to the world. As such, they're one of the only races with an affinity for learning two types of magic, both Celestial and Terrestrial. The few rare Aequorians who can practice both are normally revered as the wisest among them, elevated to leaders within their communities and hidden to outsiders.

The People of the Stone are tall, lanky and have greyish but subtly-pigmented skin. They're a slow moving but outgoing folk, overly friendly to the point of seeming pushy or untrustworthy to many others. Due to their heritage, they weight almost four times that of a human of comparable size; as such, they tend to be terribly fit, despite their thin builds and apparent laziness. They're native to Declaria but can often be found in the other nations. This is mostly because, once they get settled in an area, it's not always easy to get them out again. They don't tend to pursue powerful positions or magic normally, mostly because of how much they tend to annoy their teachers with their slow movements and fast talking, but those that do learn are often amongst the best, both because of the time spent learning to gain a deeper understanding as well as the amount of time one of the People can devote to the study. The People are the longest living of the "naturally occurring" races, the oldest having lived almost a millenia before finally "returning to the stone."

The Deadless are the other race that was not "naturally occuring", although their similarities to the Defams end there. Most commonly the end result of necromancy experiments gone horribly wrong, a soul will be reinserted fully into an undead body, causing it to become reanimated but completely autonomous and aware. The problem is that the soul, normally one of someone just recently deceased at the time of the experiment, rarely is the same as originally inhabited the body, causing some very strange and problematic situations beyond the simple fact they're walking around in a corpse. These occurrences happen far too often, due to the risky nature of trying to use Necromatic Elemental energy to create a semblance of life that goes against nature, but many wizards consider the rewards great enough to accept the risk. As such, Deadless, despite their very limited lifespan within these forms (normally only a few months and rarely over a year) have a strong presence within Aracanoc, although they are almost never seen outside the city. Certain Deadless, especially ones in bodies that are normally intelligent such as mummies, run into issues trying to convince others that they're not just another Undead. Still others, like the rare few that find themselves inhabiting the body of a vampire, find it hard to convince themselves that they're not, in fact, just another member of an undead horde until something happens to make it obvious (i.e., vampire deadless must still drink blood to live, but are not harmed by sunlight).

Ok, all for now. I think I'll come back and approach some monster races later.

Precipitous Bar, part 8

2011-05-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

Click here to start at beginning, or here to read the previous entry. Fair warning: don't start here if you want to avoid spoiling the story.

Harriet closed her door behind her and locked it. Dropping her backpack on the floor, careful despite happy she was to be rid of it, she stretched her shoulders. Despite the break during the drive home, her back still ached from carry the heavy thing for the majority of the week. Still, she got a lot done; she finally had enough material to finish her latest book.

Harriet still wasn't sure why she was so devoted to writing this book. The past few years had been kind, and she could live comfortably off the sales of her last few publications. Still, one isn't called the "premier name in entomological behavior sciences" by relying on one's previous successes. She had to keep getting out into the field.

It wasn't easy, though. Each trip out was a gentle reminder, and there was only so many times you can jump into a stream and start randomly walking downstream before your team starts to ask questions. Questions that you really do not want to answer.

Still, today was a good day. She had her needed material. She managed to catch two previously categorized beetle species for examination. And judging by the car parked outside, Victoria came home today.

Having her daughter living at the university during the day made this a bit difficult on Harriet. She felt she had just gotten used to having someone else in the home, and it being as empty as it was proved difficult at times. She had thought about getting a dog, but her work kept her out of the home for long periods of time now. She felt the travel was much more needed than the animal companionship.

Still, it was nice to receive visitors. Even if, in her mind, the "visitor" still lived there.

Harriet walked in to the kitchen where--sure enough--her daughter was rummaging in the fridge, hunched over like a thief trying to make themselves as small as possible.

"Well, I'm glad you don't feel the need to ask for food within the home, Vicky."

The girl jumped, barely managing to avoid hitting her head on the door. She spun around, obviously surprised and trying to look upset but failing. She couldn't help the grin that was crossing her face upon hearing her name.

"You know I asked you to call me Victoria now, Harriet," she said, one hand on her hip and one hand gesturing at her with the apple.

Harriet came around the counter between them to give the girl a hug. Well, maybe not so much a girl any more. "And I asked you to call me Mom. Guess neither of us are getting our wishes today, hmm?"

"Hey, at least I managed to stop calling you 'Miss Stanford.'"

"After you managed to ruin a few business dinners with extreme awkwardness, yes." Harriet pulled back from the embrace and looked at her. No matter how old she got, Harriet still pictured her as the girl she took out to the field ten years ago. "You look well. Classes going alright?"

Vicky rolled her eyes. "Like they're ever not."

Harriet took the apple from Vicky's hand. "Good. Then let's have dinner, instead of snacking. And I'm glad to see you're grabbing apples instead of the Jello in the back."

"There was Jello??"

Harriet laughed. Every day she was around Victoria she was reminded just how lucky she was. Things could have gone very differently ten years ago when they came back from the Precipitous Bar. Surprisingly, though, everything ended up being for the best. Well, mostly for the best.

"How is your dad?"

Victoria's happy demeanor slid for a moment. She managed to keep a hold of her smile, but a sadness entered her eyes. "He's doing fine, all things told. How did you know I'd gone to see him?"

"We spent a year together in a place where your feelings took physical form. You don't come out of something like that without being able to read each other a little better."

She nodded. There was more than once that the situation had been reversed, and she had caught Harriet trying to keep some sort of secret from her. Such as when Harriet was trying to figure out how to explain to a young girl what had happened to her father that she no longer saw.

"I think he's actually better. It's been a long time, I know, and I don't want to fall into the old hopeful habits. But he actually thanked me today."

"Thanked you? Really? Did he say for what?"

"For leaving. I think he's finally come to understand why I did, and what he did to..." she stopped at this point. The smile faded for a moment, but came back quickly. "It's hard, sometimes, to deal with all of this."

"You made the right decision, Victoria. You stood up to the abuse, the hardest step for someone in your shoes, and managed to stop it without it consuming who you were."

She smiled now, genuinely. "It only took me a year to figure that out, though. A full year in the Precipitous Bar. Strange how that worked out."

"On the contrary," Harriet said, grinning back. "It only took you five hours. It may have seemed like a year to the two of us, but only a few hours passed here." She crossed her arms, but kept her smile. "I thought we agreed not to talk about our time at the bar, anyway?"

"That doesn't mean I don't think about it. And don't tell me you don't, too. I can tell every time it does, and it's almost every time you see me." Harriet shrugged her shoulders, but didn't deny it.

"I don't..." Victoria paused, and her tone turned serious. "I don't think I've thanked you enough for everything you did for me when we got back."

"You have, actually. More than enough." Harriet locked eyes with Vicky, trying to make sure she realized her seriousness. It was a conversation they had repeated time and again; Harriet found herself wondering if Vicky would ever stop feeling like she was a burden. "I am so glad I had the opportunity to take you in when you needed me. Although, to be honest, I think we owe Evan's parents more than anything else. They made me sound like a hero at your hearing, and I don't think it would have worked out any other way."

"But if it wasn't for them, you may not have lost your job at the school." She suddenly seemed very distracted by something by her feet.

Harriet knew what she was leaving unsaid. Vicky felt she and Evan were responsible for the school board having her removed. It was a feeling Harriet had been trying to help Vicky fight since she was young. It wasn't a battle she was winning; Vicky suffered from a guilty conscious that was more stubborn than both of them put together. Still, she was obligated to try.

"You know, maybe I should thank them for that, too," she said, putting back on the charming smile. "Since I finally stopped teaching at that school, I've become very successful. I even got to teach at the university for a few years! I can't be too upset at the opportunities that have come my way."

Vicky nodded, forcing a smile that slowly grew into a real one. "Do you every think about it? I mean, really think about what happened while we were there?"

"Of course. I'm reminded almost every day." Harriet turned and walked over to the kitchen window, glancing out. "I still talk to his parents, you know. They haven't heard from him either. It still shocks me how well they took the news."

"Well, they weren't exactly surprised. Evan told him what he was doing from the beginning. Half their family had a tendency to disappear looking for this place. At least they knew for certain that Evan had found it."

"I suppose that's why they never pressed charges, despite pressure from the school board." Harriet sighed. It was hard thinking about Evan. For all the help she was able to give Vicky, she always regretted that she couldn't help Evan. "I wonder what he's doing now. It's had to have been close to twenty thousand years that have passed over there."

"Well, I wanted to give you a gift for helping me out all this time," Vicky said. Although Harriet wasn't looking at her, she could feel her excitement. "So, here it is. Now you can ask him yourself."

Harriet swung around. From the nearby hallway strode a tall man. He had slightly lighter hair, and his skin was so pale he almost seemed to be painted white. His ears stuck out at a strange angle from his head and came to points, and his nose seemed smaller than she remembered. But the eyes, the expressions, the rough cheekbones and pointed chin were all the same. The man standing before her was unmistakeably--

"Evan."

He smiled, the same broad smile he had used so many years ago when he lead Harriet to the fantastical world of the Precipitous Bar. Harriet walked over to him slowly. He opened his arms in an obvious invitation. Harriet found herself touching his arm first, trying to make sure he was real, before leaning in for hug. Evan's arms obliged gratefully.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came here for you."

Harriet pushed away, looking up. "What? Why?"

He smiled. "I'm sorry to be abrupt, but I don't have a lot of time here; days pass there as I speak. The goblins have come in to the bar for the first time that any can remember. They demand their Hobgoblin return, that we bring her to them."

Harriet looked at him, confused. Victoria spoke up. "Don't you remember? That group of them called you Hobgoblin on when we were leaving. You said one goblin called you that as you entered the bar, too."

Harriet stared at her for a moment before nodding. She walked briskly into her room, Evan and Victoria following not too far behind. Evan was calling after her, obviously worried she was trying to avoid going.

As they came into her bedroom, Harriet threw a pair of large bundles at them. Evan quickly unwrapped his; it contained a large bow and quiver of arrows, as well as a long sword tucked into a thick leather sheath.

Victoria watched, confused. She unwrapped hers to find a set of daggers, and a fantasy role playing book. She hefted the book and looked at Harriet quizzically. "What is this for?"

"Focus," Harriet said, as she took a strange looking, cloth-wrapped wooden rod down from the wall. "You can use it to help you with your... Well, I guess your 'magic' that you use while we're over there." Pulling the staff apart from the middle, she drew two wickedly sharp looking blades from the sheaths contained within. The blades were thick, hand-folded steel; Harriet had spent a small fortune buying them ages ago, and now was very happy for the time spent training with them and keeping them in good shape.

"I can't go. I've got school in a few months! Who knows how long we'll be gone??"

"Even if we were there for a hundred years, you'd still have the rest of the summer to spend." She smiled at her. "Besides, you really want to miss your chance to go back?"

It only took Vicky a moment before she shook her head. "I miss it more than anything."

Harriet grabbed a few more things she thought might be important and stuffed them into the pockets of a long coat she kept for travel. It was light, but it covered a lot, and had enough pockets to hold most anything she wanted to bring along without looking too conspicuous.

It had been a curious few years indeed.

"So what do they want from me anyway?" Harriet asked as they made their way out the front door and to Vicky's car.

"C'mon, now, Harriet," Evan said, in high spirits. "You really don't think I'd come bother you here for anything short of slaying a dragon, right?"

Harriet laughed for a moment, until she realized she was the only one doing so. She looked at the two of them, both with serious, but excited, expressions. They stood there as such, standing outside of Vicky's car, sharing a moment of awkward silence.

"Wait, what?"

Fin

A Little Reflection

2011-05-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm coming close to the end of the Precipitous Bar. It was a strange journey, to say the least. I have had a tendency that, when inspiration hits me on something like this, to simply tell the story. It happens a lot, to be honest. I've made some efforts previously to try to write these sort of things down, but infrequently. I've always considered myself more of a storyteller than anything else, but as was pointed out to me, it's not that big of a jump to go from a storyteller to a writer.

The problem I used to run into when trying to translate the thoughts to the page was more of a time thing. The necessities of work, responsibilities, social life and an effort to relax periodically kind of restrained me from investing the time and effort that I would put in to writing. Honestly, let's face it: although you may love it, although you may enjoy doing it, writing can be stressful. Well, for a purpose, or to accomplish something anyway. Writing for the hell of it can be liberating.

Still, there's a lot of work that goes into getting a story on paper (or, in my case, on the intarwebs) that you don't have to worry about when you're just happy to tell people the stories. Fact checking, settings information, outlining/pacing the story... It can get crazy. Even the act of writing itself, trying to get the words down while the story is still trying to move in your head, can cause issues. You find yourself jumping ahead, or going back and fixing items instead of trying to continue where you are.

The bar was different, though. This was sudden; it came all at once, not like most of my typical stories. Granted, parts of it did still require fixing in order to make the story work, but it wasn't the slow business of trying to grow the story from a seed. It was awesome to come to it all at once, but it gave its own complications. Specifically, trying to get the story down (and not get burn out part way, my biggest weakness) without forgetting it.

The size of the story made it a bit easier, thankfully. And honestly, I didn't really concern myself with a lot of the issues I normally approach in most of my writing; I didn't worry about specific pacing, interest or really anything other than getting it down. Heck, I've even been lectured on grammar use in part of it, and I didn't go back and correct it. Yeah, I know. I didn't correct a grammatical mistake. It's like years of well-trained OCD, all down the drain.

In the end, though, I think it was good for me. I have a bad tendency to get burnt-out on writing in most situations; I don't tend to get a lot of feedback, positive or negative, on a lot of my fiction writing, so I tend to lose my drive to continue to do so. Non-fiction or personal writing, sure, but for some reason the stories get overlooked. Well, I assume they do; either that, or everyone is creepily quiet about it, which could be a good or bad thing.

Still, the point is, I've just about finished this one, and I finished it for me. I didn't really have any particular reason to do so (well, Shae did tell me she was growing impatient with waiting on more, but honestly I missed most of those comments until recently, anyway...), but I still managed to keep myself motivated and in-charge. Here's hoping that I can keep this attitude up. I've got a lot more I'd like to get done.

Here's hoping I can find my notes, too... I still can't find my folder with all my info on Deciduoh and Aeternus, and I want to at least include some pictures if nothing else. Ah well. Thanks for reading, if you made it this far!

The Precipitous Bar, part 7

2011-05-05T19:19:00.000-07:00

Click here to start at beginning, or here to read the previous entry. Fair warning: we're coming close to the end, so don't start here if you want to avoid spoiling the story.

Although their was enough light to see by within the maze of cages, there was no mistaking the bright opening as anything but the outside. The warm light of the eternal dusk seemed to beckon as Harriet found herself actually having to jog to keep up with Vicky's steady pace.

Evan managed to avoid being drug through the intervening space, getting his feet under him soon after they started out. Eventually, he managed to wrestle out of Vicky's grasp, looking perturbed but otherwise unharmed.

"Any idea on what to expect on the other side?" Harriet asked him as they crossed the last few cages. Some of them were occupied, but no one came close to them as they strode through. In fact, most of them cowered in the corner. Whether it was from Vicky's powerful display earlier, or the tight set to her jaw as her walk engulfed the land, Harriet had no idea.

Evan shook his head. "I honestly have no idea. I'm guessing that something is going to be waiting for us, though."

"Why do you say that?"

Evan pointed over to his left, about sixty feet down from the hole they were approaching. "That's where the exit is." Harriet's eyes widened as she understood his implication. "I'm guessing displacing that much stone made a lot of noise."

There was a loud wrenching noise from behind as Vicky crossed the threshold into outside. The change in light as they approached the hole was affecting Harriet's vision, so she couldn't see clearly inside the cave, outside of Evan coming up behind her. She instead followed behind Vicky, hoping that Evan would think to watch the entrance, and stepped into the evening.

They found themselves on a wide plateau made from the same red clay they had been dealing with since they arrived, about a hundred feet from the edge of a cliff. On the other side of the cliff there was only sky, with wispy, still clouds glowing in deep colors in the distance. The sun hovered unnaturally, perfectly still within a perfect painting.

At the edge of the cliff, straight ahead from where they stood, hanging over with only the doorway on solid ground, was a ramshackle old building. Stained but unpainted, it looked almost more like a cabin than a typical bar. Neon lights made the open door glow in a plethora of unnatural colors, and smoke danced along to a tune that wasn't heard, playing its own melody with the strange lights as it issued from any opening it could find in the building, whether it was the front window or the tiny crack in the wall on the side.

Standing between them and the bar was an enormous line of goblins. They were a strange sight against the sky, all sharing colors with the horizon behind them, ranging from deep purples to burnt reds and subdued yellows. They way they seemed to blend in with the background almost made them appear to be apart of the sunset itself. Perhaps that is the point, Harriet thought quietly.

In the center, directly in front of the bar, stood the tallest of them: the gray goblin, their new nemesis. He still wielded his same broadsword, but it looked different now. It had its own fire, one to match the strange sun behind them, a reddish glow that caused strange shadows to crawl across his features, causing him to seem even more menacing than before.

Harriet looked back over her shoulder. Behind them was only a large rock wall, about forty feet high. And through the hole nearby strode Evan, a large section of a metal pole tightly gripped in both hands like a staff, explaining the strange noise Harriet had heard. Seeing the crowd of goblins, Harriet expected him to pale; instead, he set his jaw and tightened his already white-knuckle grip on the staff.

There was a loud bang. Harriet turned back around to see Vicky, standing only a few steps away, hands positioned palm-to-palm in front of her chest as if in prayer. The noise seemed to center on her, but not quite. It's the like the noise didn't come from her, but actually flowed to her.

Vicky opened her hands, and the air rippled. A wave spread out from her, toward the crowd of creatures. As the wave reached them, they tumbled, knocked onto their backs and each other, becoming a tangled mess of leather, metal and flesh. None of them seemed able to regain their feet, although a few managed to prop themselves up.

None except the giant. He did not budge at all as the wave passed by him. His sword seemed to glow a little brighter as he moved forward, striding defiantly towards Vicky. Vicky extended her palm towards him, and a shimmering ball rocketed towards the goblin, but it had little effect. He swept his blade at it as it approached, and it simply ceased to be. His strange, thin mouth curled upwards into a smile as raised the weapon above his head and broke into a run, and a growl escaped them as he leaped the last few feet and brought the weapon down.

Harriet couldn't move, couldn't react. She found herself frozen, barely able to process what was even happening.

What are you doing?

There was an enormous ringing sound that caused her to start. Evan had managed to place the steel staff between Vicky and the goblin. The weapon had cut through the steel, but not before Evan manged to deflect the blow away.

I went to school for this, to teach. What's it matter if it's college students or middle school?

The goblin showed his teeth, grinning widely at the newcomer that he was after to begin with. His sword seemed to flare as he twisted it, taking a swing aimed at Evan's neck. He barely managed to avoid it, shoving his iron pole upwards to force the blade over his head and dodging the hot piece of metal that fell from the staff as another piece was sheered off.

You're better than this, Harriet. You've been doing research for your entire life. You should be in the field! Not stuck in the classroom with children who don't even want to be there.

Blow after blow Evan managed to hold the towering goblin off. Vicky had fallen back, eyes wide at the spectacle before her. Evan was starting to lose ground; his long pole was now down to only a couple of feet, not even close to the size of the sword it was barely managing to parry.

This is about those tests, right? Who cares what the doctors say. You could still have children. You don't need to do this.

The pole couldn't hold up under the onslaught. With one last ring, it cracked lengthwise, falling apart in Evan's hands as he stumbled backwards from the blow. The goblin took one giant step towards Evan, pulling the sword back and preparing to skewer him.

I care.

Harriet's was in front of goblin before she had even realized she was moving. Her hand was out across her body as she faced the goblin, and she had grabbed the blade of the sword mid thrust, inches away from Evan's body. She held it, perfectly still, as the goblin tried to wrench it free, pulling and pushing with both arms. The sword hissed around her hands, smoke coming out from either side of her hand. The glow slowly started to leave the blade.

She looked calmly into the creature's eyes. It registered again that she was looking down at it, and it was unable to break her gaze as its eyes grew wide once again, this time in recognition.

"You will not harm these children."

She squeezed her hand. The sword contorted, bending beneath her grip before snapping in half. The goblin staggered as the pressure keeping him from moving suddenly stopped. Having been forced to break eye contact, he stepped back and looked around. Harriet took a moment to see where he was looking.

The others were standing around, watching. Some had finally managed to stand up; others remained propped up on elbows or sitting, but all had their eyes fixated on the two of them. None moved to engage, though; in fact, they seemed to be looking on with pity, as opposed to fear or excitement.

The goblin tried to use the distraction to take a shot at Harriet's blind side, swinging the remaining half of his sword. He misjudged. Harriet simply raised her hand once again, catching the blade by the edge. With her other arm, she swung a closed fist at the goblin's head.

The goblin's feet left the ground as Harriet's fist crushed bone beneath it. He was sprawled on his back, still conscious and holding his face. He scrambled back and up onto his feet. He was panting, still backing up but gaining no distance. Harriet was advancing on him, although she barely realized it.

"Walk away," she simply stated.

He growled once more and lunged at her, bare-handed, like a football player going for a tackle. Harriet side-stepped and grabbed his arm with both hands. She spun once in a circle, using his own weight for a counter-balance as she gained momentum, and threw him as hard as she could.

The goblin flew through the air, over the heads of the onlookers whose gazes followed his trajectory, before bouncing once at the edge before disappearing over the cliff. The rest of the goblins turned slowly back towards the humans.

Harriet took one look back over her shoulder at the two children. Evan was holding his shoulder, and Vicky had regained her composure. She swallowed hard and nodded. Harriet nodded as well and turn back towards the bar. She began walking towards the bar, the two younger people staying close behind.

The goblins made no move outside of a few of them stepping out of the way. Harriet strode up confidently past them; she had a hard time feeling angry towards the strange creatures, but she wasn't about to let them harm any of them, either.

As they got close, Evan and Vicky broke out into a run. They quickly outpaced Harriet, who was trying to meet gazes to make sure they weren't going to be jumped on the way. The two of them burst through the doorway, only to stop on the other side, still visible.

As Harriet passed by, the closest goblin nodded while holding her gaze. "You won't be attacked again, Hobgoblin," it said. "Nor will your friends." It nodded once more, releasing his gaze this time and turning to the other goblins. He said something she couldn't understand, and the others started to make their way towards the hole in the wall.

Confused but satisfied, Harriet watched them leave for a moment before turning back to the bar. She walked up behind the two children who were still standing just beyond the doorway. They both were looking at a man standing behind the bar. He was older, perhaps fifty or so, with slender features and long, pointed ears. He was cleaning mugs with a supernatural finesse, tossing them in the air and wiping them with a cloth as they spun. Harriet found herself staring for a while herself at the spectacle.

"Uncle Todd..." Evan said, breaking the silence.

The strange man stopped his juggling and looked up at the new comers. A smile made its way across his face. "Oh! Hello there, Evan."