Supernatural Streets brings together 14 Urban Fantasy authors to explore mysteries with a touch of Magic. The collection includes stories of psychic FBI agents, werewolf detectives, monster hunters, and an ordinary cop just trying to survive when the ritual daggers come out.
The anthology includes work by Dragon Award Finalist Declan Finn, Hugo Award nominated author Cedar Sanderson, best-selling authors Ryk E. Spoor and Julie Frost, and other fan-favorites and rising stars.
Contributors:Brena Bock • Paul Piatt • Bokerah Brumley • J. F. Posthumus • Mickey Dubrow (Allan Kemp) • Rob Reed • Declan Finn • Sam Robb • Julie Frost • Ryk E. Spoor • Amie Gibbons • Cedar Sanderson • A. C. Haskins • Dawn Witzke
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
"Supernatural Streets" is live!
It's been a long time coming, but I'm really excited it's finally here! A baker's dozen (plus one!) of some really great stories, including mine. If you've ever wondered how a psychopomp makes vacation plans, check out "Fed Ex"... then keep reading!
Happy Anniversary Baby!
Couple of things going on...
First - you might have heard that I am indeed running for president.
Yes, I am serious.
Yes, I have participated in a number of Libertarian presidential debates.
Check it out.
Second - you might have heard that there is a book in the works.
Well, not an entire book, but a short story in a collection called "Supernatural Streets".
Lots of good folks in this one, so keep on the lookout for the release announcement.
Third and finally - while there may not be a lot of content here any more (curse you, social media!) this old blog is still ticking over. Happy 11th anniversary to the Embedded Theologian. Please consume your favorite dessert today in honor of this momentous occasion, and if anyone gives you grief over it, let them know that some Random Internet Guy Running For President said it's OK ;)
First - you might have heard that I am indeed running for president.
Yes, I am serious.
Yes, I have participated in a number of Libertarian presidential debates.
Check it out.
Second - you might have heard that there is a book in the works.
Well, not an entire book, but a short story in a collection called "Supernatural Streets".
Lots of good folks in this one, so keep on the lookout for the release announcement.
Third and finally - while there may not be a lot of content here any more (curse you, social media!) this old blog is still ticking over. Happy 11th anniversary to the Embedded Theologian. Please consume your favorite dessert today in honor of this momentous occasion, and if anyone gives you grief over it, let them know that some Random Internet Guy Running For President said it's OK ;)
So, I Wrote Something
Well, actually, I've written a lot of things. First short story was released into the wild earlier this week. We'll see if it survives. I've got more things partially written and waiting for completion than a hen has teeth.
... wait. That's not right.
ANYWAYS. In the meantime, in between family and work and the presidential campaign and everything else, I managed to finish editing... THIS.
... wait. That's not right.
ANYWAYS. In the meantime, in between family and work and the presidential campaign and everything else, I managed to finish editing... THIS.
Kids-tested, Dad-approved!
Take a look, buy a copy, help put my kids through college. They've suffered for my art, after all!
Whoa
Putting together notes on projects for this year...
... I don't even want to think about how many universes I have dancing in my head right now.
... I don't even want to think about how many universes I have dancing in my head right now.
Chromebook
As I mentioned earlier, one of my goals is to walk a bit less, and write a bit more.
(It may not have been stated that way, but that's the way I'm thinking about it :)
With that in mind, I decided that I'd like to have a basic laptop that I can throw in a satchel and haul around with me on my walks. Part of the reason I've really started to enjoy walking is that it gives me time to think and gets my thoughts flowing. So in the past year, I've done more than a little bit of draft writing on my phone as I've been out and about... and, honestly, it's a pain in the patootie. Even with text-to-speech, it's annoying.
Enter the Lenovo N42 Chromebook.
It's light, seems pretty rugged, and weighs in at just a bit under three and a half pounds. Not a big deal, really. A few extra pounds will help me work just a wee bit harder as I go, and I'll have the ability to stop and write for a bit along the way.
More importantly, it's cheap. I like to walk back alleys. That's where the interesting stuff is. I've never been hassled, but if I'm going to be carrying around something, I'd rather it be a cheap Chromebook than a Mac Air or something similar. Plus, being a Chromebook, it's got sync capabilities with Google Drive, so I can write sans network connection then let everything sync up later when I get back to work or home.
The performance is decent. Some things seem to load slowly in Chrome, but for the most part, it's responsive enough. I'm writing this update on the Chromebook, in fact. The keyboard layout is slightly different from a Mac (and even a Wintel machine), but I'm not sure how much of that is the underlying OS, and how much is the fat that everything seems to be running under Chrome.
The keyboard itself is absolutely FABULOUS. It might turn out to be a flimsy piece of junk that breaks after a few weeks of used, but let me tell you, right now it's absolutely wonderful. I was worried a LOT about the keyboard. That and the display are the real reason for buying this thing, and a crappy keyboard would make writing a horrible pain. As it is, I'm barely even noticing it. They keys are just right - not too clicky, not too soft, not too stiff. Since this is a 13" laptop, too, my hands actually fit comfortably on the keyboard.
The display is nothing to write home about, but it is perfectly serviceable for doing text editing. Battery life looks like it's going to be pretty good, too. I started off plugged in until I got to a full charge, then unplugged to see how well the battery lasts. It's been about three hours of playing around so far, and the battery meter is telling me I'm at 88% with 11:25 left to go until I run out of power. That's pretty sweet.
Speaking of playing... the thing that sold me on a Chromebook was the number of available minimalist writing editors available for it. Anything that will let me do text editing would be fine, to be honest. My plan is to bang out some drafts, save them to Google Drive, then yank them into Scrivener for organizing, cleanup and editing. Heck, I could do all that (and have done that in the past, in fact!) as Blogger drafts. Having something a little more sophisticated than a basic text editor would be nice, though, so I spent the evening installing and trying out a few.
The built-in Text editor is just that. Looks a lot like Notebook with a little bit more oomph to it. If you're comfortable with that sort of thing, and are looking for absolutely minimal setup, that's probably all you'd need. I was interested in finding something just a wee bit more featureful, though.
Caret looks like a great little programming editor. I've used Sublime Text and Visual Studio Code, and Caret is very similar. I honestly didn't want a programmer's editor, though. Don't ask me why. Maybe because it feels too much like the tools I used day to day for work. I'm sure I could write in it, of course, but when I pop open something with that look and feel, my mind immediately goes to code. That's not what I want in this case.
Next in line I was going to try Writer. I saw a lot of recommendations for it, but it a quick look at some comments about it showed that they use their own servers for storage. To be very honest, I'm not comfortable with that. I've had some recent personal experiences where a change in ownership of a company has made getting backups of archival data difficult. You can export data if you buy the Pro version, but... you know what? No. I want something that will save to Google drive. I've already got my Drive synced to 3-4 different places, so even if Google decides I can't access it anymore, I at least have backups. I'll stick with that setup, thank you.
I ended up trying another editor called Calmly Writer. Very nice, minimalist, with just enough configuration options (including white-on-black text mode) that I felt like I could make it just what I wanted without feeling overwhelmed by options. It has the option to save in a bunch of different formats, including plain text, which is pretty much just what I want. So I took it for a spin, wrote a few hundred words, then said, "That'll do, pig. That'll do."
The very last thing I did was install Linux.
Yes, you can install Linux on a Chromebook now, alongside the Chrome OS... or on top of it, if you want to think of it that way. An install of Debian Linux runs in a container on top of Chrome OS, and you can start it just like any other app. It comes set up with a bunch of the usual suspects, including ssh and vim. That was completely unexpected, and very nice. I've got a couple of things I do outside of work to help administer existing web sites for a couple of non-profits, and having the ability to do it from this little Chromebook is really appealing.
So, that's the state of the world. Happy cheap little rugged Chromebook makes me happy. Because writing, and Linux.
... but mostly writing. Which is what I need to be doing now. Time to take this thing out for an extended trial... :)
(It may not have been stated that way, but that's the way I'm thinking about it :)
With that in mind, I decided that I'd like to have a basic laptop that I can throw in a satchel and haul around with me on my walks. Part of the reason I've really started to enjoy walking is that it gives me time to think and gets my thoughts flowing. So in the past year, I've done more than a little bit of draft writing on my phone as I've been out and about... and, honestly, it's a pain in the patootie. Even with text-to-speech, it's annoying.
Enter the Lenovo N42 Chromebook.
More importantly, it's cheap. I like to walk back alleys. That's where the interesting stuff is. I've never been hassled, but if I'm going to be carrying around something, I'd rather it be a cheap Chromebook than a Mac Air or something similar. Plus, being a Chromebook, it's got sync capabilities with Google Drive, so I can write sans network connection then let everything sync up later when I get back to work or home.
The performance is decent. Some things seem to load slowly in Chrome, but for the most part, it's responsive enough. I'm writing this update on the Chromebook, in fact. The keyboard layout is slightly different from a Mac (and even a Wintel machine), but I'm not sure how much of that is the underlying OS, and how much is the fat that everything seems to be running under Chrome.
The keyboard itself is absolutely FABULOUS. It might turn out to be a flimsy piece of junk that breaks after a few weeks of used, but let me tell you, right now it's absolutely wonderful. I was worried a LOT about the keyboard. That and the display are the real reason for buying this thing, and a crappy keyboard would make writing a horrible pain. As it is, I'm barely even noticing it. They keys are just right - not too clicky, not too soft, not too stiff. Since this is a 13" laptop, too, my hands actually fit comfortably on the keyboard.
The display is nothing to write home about, but it is perfectly serviceable for doing text editing. Battery life looks like it's going to be pretty good, too. I started off plugged in until I got to a full charge, then unplugged to see how well the battery lasts. It's been about three hours of playing around so far, and the battery meter is telling me I'm at 88% with 11:25 left to go until I run out of power. That's pretty sweet.
Speaking of playing... the thing that sold me on a Chromebook was the number of available minimalist writing editors available for it. Anything that will let me do text editing would be fine, to be honest. My plan is to bang out some drafts, save them to Google Drive, then yank them into Scrivener for organizing, cleanup and editing. Heck, I could do all that (and have done that in the past, in fact!) as Blogger drafts. Having something a little more sophisticated than a basic text editor would be nice, though, so I spent the evening installing and trying out a few.
The built-in Text editor is just that. Looks a lot like Notebook with a little bit more oomph to it. If you're comfortable with that sort of thing, and are looking for absolutely minimal setup, that's probably all you'd need. I was interested in finding something just a wee bit more featureful, though.
Caret looks like a great little programming editor. I've used Sublime Text and Visual Studio Code, and Caret is very similar. I honestly didn't want a programmer's editor, though. Don't ask me why. Maybe because it feels too much like the tools I used day to day for work. I'm sure I could write in it, of course, but when I pop open something with that look and feel, my mind immediately goes to code. That's not what I want in this case.
Next in line I was going to try Writer. I saw a lot of recommendations for it, but it a quick look at some comments about it showed that they use their own servers for storage. To be very honest, I'm not comfortable with that. I've had some recent personal experiences where a change in ownership of a company has made getting backups of archival data difficult. You can export data if you buy the Pro version, but... you know what? No. I want something that will save to Google drive. I've already got my Drive synced to 3-4 different places, so even if Google decides I can't access it anymore, I at least have backups. I'll stick with that setup, thank you.
I ended up trying another editor called Calmly Writer. Very nice, minimalist, with just enough configuration options (including white-on-black text mode) that I felt like I could make it just what I wanted without feeling overwhelmed by options. It has the option to save in a bunch of different formats, including plain text, which is pretty much just what I want. So I took it for a spin, wrote a few hundred words, then said, "That'll do, pig. That'll do."
The very last thing I did was install Linux.
Yes, you can install Linux on a Chromebook now, alongside the Chrome OS... or on top of it, if you want to think of it that way. An install of Debian Linux runs in a container on top of Chrome OS, and you can start it just like any other app. It comes set up with a bunch of the usual suspects, including ssh and vim. That was completely unexpected, and very nice. I've got a couple of things I do outside of work to help administer existing web sites for a couple of non-profits, and having the ability to do it from this little Chromebook is really appealing.
So, that's the state of the world. Happy cheap little rugged Chromebook makes me happy. Because writing, and Linux.
... but mostly writing. Which is what I need to be doing now. Time to take this thing out for an extended trial... :)
The Walking Man Walks On By...
December 29th, 2018.
That day's walk was five and a half miles.
Which put me at 2020 miles for the year. My lovely wife was with me for 370 of them, including the last dozen miles. I could never have done it without her encouragement.
A special thank you to Dawn, Bob, Marcia, David, Jon, Martin, Debbie, Aaron, Amy, Michelle, and so many others who were a constant source of encouragement.
Plus a VERY special thank you to Lori, Sarah, Cheri and the rest fo the folks down at Prestogeorge Coffee & Tea for keeping me caffeinated throughout all my travels
Some stats:
One way or another.
Here's to 2019!
That day's walk was five and a half miles.
Which put me at 2020 miles for the year. My lovely wife was with me for 370 of them, including the last dozen miles. I could never have done it without her encouragement.
A special thank you to Dawn, Bob, Marcia, David, Jon, Martin, Debbie, Aaron, Amy, Michelle, and so many others who were a constant source of encouragement.
Plus a VERY special thank you to Lori, Sarah, Cheri and the rest fo the folks down at Prestogeorge Coffee & Tea for keeping me caffeinated throughout all my travels
Some stats:
- Walked 338/363 days this year.
- Average of 5.97 miles per day.
- Twenty-nine days walking at the Pittsburgh Mills mall.
- Sixteen days where I did 10+ miles.
- Five pairs of shoes.
- Two half-marathons.
- Over 18,000 photos.
- Over 1,000 photos of abandoned clothing.
- Shed 15 pounds, and went through two new belts.
- Walk in 19 new locations for 2019.
- Lose 19 pounds in 2019 - get down to 180.
- Write 190k words in 2019 - 3700 words per week.
One way or another.
Here's to 2019!
Wow. Been a while.
Sorry for that. I've had a bit of a lot going on lately, you see.
Some things that are going on...
Some things that are going on...
- I've been walking. Like, a lot. Easier on these old knees than running. My goal is 2018 miles in 2018, and I'm currently at 1846 miles. On track to complete that. Yay!
- Oh, well. Walking is easier than running, but I've done some of that, too. Two half marathons, in fact. The first was - kind of - an accident (at least the running part); the second was to prove to myself that the first wasn't a fluke. (Spoiler warning: it wasn't! :)
- I've been working as a moderator/admin on another web site. Takes time. Totally worth it. We save lives, one person at a time.
- MY company got bought out. By the Evil Empire, which these days, seems to be the Least Evil Empire. Maybe even the Somewhat Cool For A Company That Age Empire. Liking it a lot so far, at least.
- I've been working on loosing weight. Approaching my goal of getting under 200 pounds for the first time in three decades or so.
- I've been writing. Like, a lot. Successfully completed NaNo this year. In fact, I ended up writing the story before the story I wanted to write, so I've got 70k of Book 1 written and about 30k of Book 2 queued up and ready to go.
So, yeah. A lot going on. For various reasons, I'm starting to think that FaceBook ain't the place to be anymore, so I've been checking out MeWe and generally liking the more quiet nature of life over there.
Goals for next year are still pending. One of them will be to publish something. Actually, I've got three somethings in the works. Let's see how many of them make the grade.
So, there you have it. Hopefully some more writing snippets will be going up sometime in the near future. My first novel is going to be a tender, sensitive book about a young man coming of age on the streets of Pittsburgh as he questions his childhood relationships, his family's strictures, and his place in society as a whole.
... nah, just kidding. It's about graffiti writers who kick the living snot out of creatures from Faerie that try to screw around with their city. Because if there's one thing that Pittsburghers hate more than Browns fans, it's eldritch horrors from beyond that make it hard to go shopping in the Strip.
Libertatem, Literarum, et Veritas.
"Freedom of letters and truth."
Oxford Comma, y'all.
Just making note of the date.
Oxford Comma, y'all.
Just making note of the date.
Redcap
Viano placed the glasses on the table, undid the seal on the bottle. Poured. The liquid was cloudy white, and smelled of anise.
Caprice waited until Viano was done. “It it true what they say about you, O’Malley?”
Patrick hesitated. “Some. I come when I’m needed, yah? I do what it needed, if it can be done. So long as it’s to do with the fata, with the fair folk.”
Caprice nodded slowly. “I think it does. Maybe. So I ask you to come. Three days ago, my daughter’s youngest, she did not come home. Her sisters say she was down by the river. When my Gianna went to look for her, she found this.”
He pulled out a small wooden box and opened the lid, then turned it so Patrick could see.
Inside was a scrap of red cloth.
Patrick reached out, hesitated. “May I?”
Caprice didn’t answer, just raised his chin. Patrick reached out and gently lifted the scrap of cloth from the box. It was faintly damp, still. He lifted it to his nose, sniffed.
The smell of copper.
He reached out to put the cloth back in the box. He didn’t try to hide the trembling in his fingers. He closed the lid before silently taking the glass in front of him and tossing back the contents in a gulp.
He coughed, held the glass out before him until his hand stopped shaking, then raised his eyes to meet Caprice’s.
“Aye. This is that, it is. Nasty, too.” He hesitated.
“Say it.” Caprice’s voice was flat.
“Redcap.” Patrick shook his head slowly. “Your little one. She is not coming back, sir.” He swallowed, hard. “I am sorry.”
Caprice lowered his head. “I knew.” His voice was quiet, rough. There would be tears later, Patrick thought. Not now, though.
“I knew,” Caprice repeated. “There is nothing to be done for her, is there?”
He chose his words carefully. “Nothing for her, no.”
Caprice raised his head slowly. “For her. I see. For who, then?”
“For you, maybe,” said Patrick softly. “For your Gianna. For your family. More than that, though - for the other bairns, the little ones.“ He reached out, tapped the box. “This one, if he’s here, he comes to stay. Until someone drives him away, he’ll take the children, one by one. All the children. Italian, Irish, Polish, Hungarian…”
“Until someone drives him away.” Caprice closed his eyes. “What then, O’Malley? I ask you to drive him away, what happens? Will he come back some day?”
“Maybe. Yes. Sooner or later, yes. Someone gets careless, someone gets stupid, someone with a knack opens the way, and the Redcap will return. Worse. Others will know he found his way here, and they’ll want to follow.”
“Can you kill him?”
“It. Don’t dignify it by giving it more than that. No, I can’t kill it.” Patrick took a deep breath before continuing. “But… I can do better than send it back, I think. I will be needing some help, but I think I can make it so that it doesn’t come back, and nothing would dare follow it.”
Caprice wasn’t a dumb man. Patrick watched his face as it mirrored his thoughts.
“You’ve thought about this already, haven’t you?”
He didn’t deny it. “Yes. I learned from my father, and he from his. Every generation. Something comes through. The fair and shining folk trod heavy upon the grass of our world, and leave people broken and bleeding in their wake. We have always wanted to stop it, but never had a way.”
“You think you have one now?”
“With your permission? Yes. I need to talk to a few others, but yes. I can seal this thing away for good.”
“Permission.” Caprice’s eyes narrowed. “Who am I to give you permission, O’Malley? This is your work.”
“The forms must be followed. These ones… they are old. They wrap the world around them like a cloak, for protection. There are always openings, though. Ways to hurt them.” He kept his face impassive. “This one, it exists by rules that would let it be bound. Under certain conditions. If the moon is right, if the forms are followed.”
He met Caprise’s gaze. “If the ruler o’ the land allows it.”
He watched the gears turning. “The governor, you mean? Or the president? There is no way that that is happening, O’Malley.”
“Ah!” Patrick grinned. “Right thought. Wrong direction. ’Tis the undisputed ruler of the land that it is in, what matters.” He paused for a second, inclined his head slightly.
“Don.”
Caprise watched him carefully, stroked his chin. “That’s not a title I’d be throwing about, O’Malley.”
Patrick shrugged. “It is what it is. Right here, right now? Men don’t work unless you say. Those who disobey are… well. They find themselves in a right jam, don’t they?” He looked up at Caprise. “You’re the law here, Caprise. Judge. Jury. Executioner, if it comes to it.” He shrugged. “By the rules it lives by, if you give your blessing, I can pass judgement on it.”
“Can you…”
Patrick held up his hand. “Do not ask that.” He lowered his hand slowly. “With your permission, there’s naught that I cannot do to it. If I kill it, though… no.” He shook his head slowly. “The curse o’ the thing, at it’s death, would be too much. It would kill e’ry man, woman and child in this city. I will no do that.”
Caprise slumped. “What good are you then?” His voice was bitter.
Patrick smiled and leaned forward. His grin would have made Satan himself proud,
“I will nae kill it,” he said softly. “There’s a lifetime o’ Hell that can be heaped upon a creature before it dies, though. Mortal or fae.” He leaned back. “That, now. That I can do. An’ you say the word.”
Caprise blinked. “So you won’t kill it, but… you can torture it? Make it suffer?”
Patrick didn’t answer. Just smiled and nodded.
“Good.” Caprice’s voice was a snarl. He gestured to Viano. The young man topped off Patrick’s glass. Caprice picked his up, and Patrick did the same.
“To Anna, may she rest in the arms of the saints,” said Caprice, solemnly. “And to the O’Malley, who I ask to rid us of this fata. You will do this?”
“Of course. It’s what the O’Malley does. It comes with the title, sure an’ it does.”
TWO IN ONE DAY?!?
Yes, I know! Insane, eh?
Anyways - "Thrash Grass" from The Native Howl.
Tagging it here because this may be just what I need for a scene in Night Poll.
Anyways - "Thrash Grass" from The Native Howl.
Tagging it here because this may be just what I need for a scene in Night Poll.
Well, Now.
Ten year anniversary. Even if not much has been happening here lately, I've still been keeping busy.
Eldest is off at college.
The youngest two are playing basketball.
Company was acquired by a Big Name. Yes, you've heard of them.
Teaching an adult Sunday-school class.
Walked over 1000 miles last year. Pushing for 1500 this year.
A couple of other major (good!) health and lifestyle changes last year.
Currently editing "Terms of Employment" and hoping to submit it this week.
Next up is finishing "An Honorable Man", then a short called "Sacrifice".
Then I'll dive back in to Night Poll.
Have a cake on me, sir or m'am.
Eldest is off at college.
The youngest two are playing basketball.
Company was acquired by a Big Name. Yes, you've heard of them.
Teaching an adult Sunday-school class.
Walked over 1000 miles last year. Pushing for 1500 this year.
A couple of other major (good!) health and lifestyle changes last year.
Currently editing "Terms of Employment" and hoping to submit it this week.
Next up is finishing "An Honorable Man", then a short called "Sacrifice".
Then I'll dive back in to Night Poll.
Have a cake on me, sir or m'am.
Terms of Employment
It started far too early on a Monday, of course. Nothing worthwhile ever started on a Monday, but that doesn’t keep some people - eternal optimists that they are - from trying.
I was just settling in to my chair with a hot cup of fresh coffee, looking forward to a wonderfully unproductive day of catching up on some paperwork, when the phone on the desk buzzed. I sighed and picked it up.
“Jack!” Hansen didn’t even let me say hello. “I need you in my office.”
I sighed again. “Right away, sir.” I hung up the phone, looked longingly at my pile of nice, boring paperwork, then pushed back my old office chair. I took the time to stretch as I stood up, then grabbed by coffee and sauntered towards Tom’s office, sipping carefully as I went.
It was Monday morning, for crying out loud. He could wait a few seconds while I caffeinated myself.
Tom was flipping through his own pile of paperwork when I walked into his office. He grunted to acknowledge me, then motioned for me to close the door and have a seat. I kicked the door shut gently, then hooked my foot around an overstuffed chair that had seen much better days and dragged it into position so I could sit and stretch out my legs.
Tom’s a good boss. He continued to shuffle paperwork for a few more seconds to let me get comfortable and grab a few more sips of coffee. He finally found whatever it was he was looking for, and pushed the rest of the papers aside.
“Ever been to Pittsburgh?”
Tom’s not big on small talk, so I figured this was something job-related.
“Once, years ago,” I said. “Passed through when I was still a kid.” I took a careful sip of coffee. “I understand it’s changed a lot since then.”
Tom snorted. “You could say that. They have parks now, for one thing.”
I blinked. That was not the Pittsburgh I remembered. “Really?”
Tom nodded. “Really really.” He handed me the paper he had dug up. It was a color printout of an aerial view of - well, I was assuming it was Pittsburgh. There was a whole lot more green than I was expecting to see.
Turns out, I was half right.
“Oakland,” said Tom. “One of Pittsburgh’s neighborhoods. The blob of green in the center is Schenley Park. Golf course, swimming pool, skating rinks.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Phipps Botanical Gardens.”
I whistled. Phipps was a Big Name in our business. I hadn’t realized they were located in Pittsburgh.
I looked at Tom. “They having problems?”
“No,” Tom said slowly. “Or, rather, they may be. One of their workers was out for a walk last week, and claims that he found troll spoor in the park.”
I laughed. “No, seriously? Look at that place! How big is it, really?”
“Just under 500 acres”, said Tom, grudgingly.
I shook my head. “No way someplace that small could grow a troll.”
“That’s just the park area.” Tom sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “With the surrounding forests…”
“It’s still urban, Tom.”
He sighed and looked at me. “And it’s still someone from Phipps saying they found troll sign, Jack. They asked if we would send someone to check it out.” He shrugged. “Just in case.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “If there is a troll, that should be Penny’s bailiwick, right?”
“Yep.”
I smiled and looked at Tom expectantly, and he just returned my gaze. There was something… oh.
“Penny’s on vacation, isn’t she?” I couldn’t keep the resignation out of my voice.
“Yep.”
“Fine!” I closed my eyes. There went the week. “Whatever. I’ll go.”
I opened my eyes to find tom looking at me bemusedly. “You know I’d send you with her anyway as backup, right? Why the objection to going it alone?”
I shrugged. “Areas of responsibility, Tom. You know that. If it’s something that Penny should have been dealing with, and I have to fill out her paperwork, you know I’m going to screw it up.” I looked into my coffee glumly. “She’ll give me crap for weeks about it.”
Tom signed and shook his head. “Look, whatever - just go, OK? Get your kit together, I’ll authorize a vehicle, and however it goes, you’ll have it wrapped up by Wednesday at the latest.”
I stood and looked down at Tom. “With only a weeks worth of paperwork to do at that point…” I waved my hand at him as he opened his mouth. “Fine! No, I’m going. See? This is me opening the door. This is me stepping outside. This is me…”
“Getting assigned to counting tick populations in Maryland if you don’t shut up and get moving!” growled Tom.
He was smiling as he said it, though. Slightly. So I gave him one in return and went to put together my troll-hunting kit. Just another glorious day in the National Park Service.
An Honorable Man
“It’s probably just a matter of breaking it in,” said Haulings. Damian could see the unbelief in his face, hear it in his voice. He looked long and hard at his first mate’s scarred face, then shook his head.
“Don’t be blowing sunshine up my ass, Haul.” He lifted his glass, glared at the remains, then threw it back and slammed the glass down on the table.
Haulings shrugged. “Just trying to look on the bright side, Cap.”
“Tell you what, First. Go look in on the crew.” He took a breath, blew it out, and raised his glass to the bartender. “Another one over here!” He put the glass down and turned back to Haulings. “Get them… crap. Doing something. Keep them busy. We’re supposed to set sail tomorrow, and they’re all being good little scamps. They find out we’re stuck in port until I can find a magi to work the hull, and we’ll be peeling them out of every last lockup between the Fenders and the Flash.”
“Cap…” Damian could hear the warning in his voice. He waved his hand at his first mate, but didn’t turn to meet his eyes. Instead, he fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a coin, sliding it across the table to sit beside his empty glass.
“I’ll be fine. Another to lubricate the thinking parts, First. Then I’ll be back with you, and we’ll figure this out.”
He kept his eye down, looking at his glass. Haulings reached out, put a hand on his shoulder for a second, then slid out of his chair and vanished into the crowd.
Damian waited a second, then let his shoulders slump.
“Hard being optimistic, isn’t it?” said the man sitting next to him.
Damian jumped and glared at the fop who had snuck up on him. He and Haulings had been alone at the table… he was about to unleash his extensive vocabulary when he noticed the man’s eyes.
Piercing blue, verging on unnatural.
He slumped back, the fight gone out of him, and snarled. “Sayel.”
The man shook his head. Long curly blond hair framed a thin face with a button nose and full lips. He’d never seen him before. His lips quirked up in a shadow of a grin. “You always seem to know it’s me,” he said. His voice was low and syrupy.
Damian snorted. “The eyes. Fae can’t change the eyes.”
The man’s grin faded. “I have told you before. I am not Fae.” There was an edge to his voice.
Damian grunted. “Good. Now we’re both in a bad mood. Misery loves company, or so I hear.” The bartender came around, collected his coin, and slid another drink towards him. He pointedly ignored the Sayel and took at slug, feeling it burn it’s way down.
Sayel leaned back. “That stuff will kill you, you know. Is that what you would be known for, in death? ‘Here lies Captain Damian Black, dead from drinking the juice of a rotten plant?’”
Damian stoped with the mug halfway to his lips, and turned his head slowly to look at Sayel. “You told me last time that you did not know my fate.”
“Still don’t,” Sayel said cheerfully. “I’m speaking in generalities, of course.”
Damian sighed. “Of course.” He set his mug down anyways, perhaps a bit carefully. The anger was gone, replaced with weariness. “What do you want, Sayel? I’ve got things to do.”
Sayel raise a single eyebrow. “Like drink yourself into forgetting that you’ve spent far too much money on a completely useless keel?” He wave at the mug. “Please, don’t let me interfere.”
“Screw you,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Come to mock?”
“Little bit, maybe,” said Sayel. “Come to help, is more like.”
Damian couldn’t help it. He laughed out loud. “You? Help? Right.” He lifted his mug, took another belt, and started coughing. Crap. Maybe Sayel was right.
“Oh, I can’t help you.” Sayel lowered his voice. “I can direct you to someone who can, though. Someone who could take that badly-woven keel of yours and tune it for the Weave.”
Damian stared at him. “Sure you can.” He grit his teeth. Damn it all, but there was a spark of hope here. He owed it to his men to search out the truth of the offer. “What price, though, adruch? What would you have of me?”
“Nothing.”
He furrowed his brow and stared at Sayel. “Crap. There is always something.” He was surprised at how bitter his own voice sounded in his ears. “Always.”
Sayel’s eyes seemed to flare brighter. “I swear to you, Captain. On my Name, and the Name of the one whom I serve. There is nothing I ask of you, save that you hear me out.”
He looked at Sayel for a moment, then nodded quickly. “Speak.”
“In the Touring Quarter, you’ll find a poor ayloshea working on aristo’s hulls for a pittance. He does what he does for the love of his craft, and has sworn an oath to not make a coin from his labors.” Sayel tilted his head. “He has never done work on the scale you require.”
“Then what good is his name?”
Sayel winked at him. “I have it on the highest authority that he can do the work you require.”
To Damian, it was if the entire room had suddenly gone cold. A feeling of dread crawled up his spine.
“Highest authority.”
Sayel smiled slightly. “I do believe that’s what I said.” His voice grew cold. “Do you want evidence?”
“No! No.” Damian waved his hands. “Not needed. You word, as always, is impeccable and unimpeachable.”
“Excellent!” Sayel said, cheerfully. His smile was back. He reached into his doublet, and pulled out a thick envelope. He tapped it on the table, then laid it flat and slid it over to Damian, who looked at it as if someone had offered him a snake.
“You will find all the details in there, along with some suggestions of mine on how to approach him.” Damian could swear there was a twinkle in his eye. “The man himself may not be interested in money, but I think you are going to find this will cost you enough to make it hurt.”
Damian cursed, but his heart really wasn’t in it. Sayel got up to leave, and he reached out and laid his hand gently on his coat. Sayel stopped and looked back at him.
“Why?” He shook his head, leaned in. “We’re smugglers, Sayel. Why? Why would he help us?”
Sayel shook his head slowly, a slight smile on his face. “Honestly, Damian? You should know by now. He loves you.” His mouth quirked up in a slight grin. “I’d be lying, too, if I didn’t admit a bit of affection for you and your men. You’re a rebel and a rogue, by the standards of the world… but there are different and better standards, and by those, you are nothing if not an honorable man.”
Damian let his hand drop. Sayel smiled. “Jamal Jamar, Damian. Read the letter, and look him up.”
Damian glanced down at the cream-colored envelope on the table, then back up to Sayel. Or, rather, when Sayel had been standing. He was gone. Damian resisted the urge to look about. It would serve no purpose.
He sighed, considered his drink, then pushed it away. Instead, he picked up the envelope, slit it open, and pulled out the pages inside. He started reading, then shook his head, reached over and grabbed his drink anyways.
He raised his glass towards where Sayel had been sitting, before tossing back the last of it and settling down to read. After a while, he grunted. Sayel was right. This was going to hurt… but if he could pull it off, he’d have the only ship outside of the Empire and Fae that was capable of sailing the Weave itself.
He bit his lip. Sayel said there was no price… but there always was, when dealing with angels.
Burning Oak
Ap looked taken aback, but rallied quickly. “It matters not! You still consort with demons!”
Gobstab stopped kicking his feet against the side of the stove. “He’s kinda got you there, boss.”
“Ha! Your foul servant admits it!”
David cleared his throat. “Bit of a story there, actually.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. “I didn’t summon him. I won him playing cards.”
“Playing. Cards.” The disbelief was thick in Ap’s voice.
I opened my eyes. “Yes, I know. It sounds ridiculous. He was in the service of some idiot…”
“Raz’hal’al the Mad,” said Gobstab, wistfully.
“Right. Raz the Idiot. We got him drunker than a skunk, challenged him to a game with marked cards, and cheated like all hell to get Gobby here out of his hands.”
At his nickname, Gobstab stuck out his tongue at me. It was not a pretty sight. He pulled it back in and shrugged. “Gotta admire a man like that, even if he is a pain to work for.”
“You admit you desired his service!” shouted Ap.
“Not really,” I said. “Raz was, as I mentioned, an idiot. Leaving Gobby here in his service would be like giving the town bully a siege engine. No way that was turning out well. So we stole him, fair and square.”
“So he could serve you!” said Ap triumphantly. “Were you concerned, you could dismiss him!”
“Ain’t happening,” said Gobstab happily. “I’m bound to this plane until my summoner dies. That’s Raz the Idiot.” He stopped and spat on the floor. “Gah! Now you’ve got me doing it.”
“Well, he was an idiot.” I looked knowingly at Ap while I said that, just to get the point across. “So, yes, I could dismiss Gobstab. All I would have to do is kill someone. Not willing to do that.”
“Wuss.” Gobstab’s accusation lacked oomph. “He’s more interesting than Raz, in any case. Man’s teaching me more than I ever thought I could learn about torture.”
“Ah-ha! EVIL!”
I looked at Ap wearily. “You really haven’t learned, have you? Gobby, tell him how I torture you.”
“Oh, man. Where to start? I’ve lost track of the number of little old ladies I’ve had to help across the street. He makes me do children’s shows at orphanages. And the ‘scared straight outta hell’ messages he’s had me deliver to troubled youth?” Gobstab shuddered. “It’s crazy, I tell you. The man’s demented.”
Ap looked at me, confused. I shrugged. “Entirely different value systems,” I explained. “I’m just keeping him busy for the next few decades until Raz the Idiot manages to get his ticket punched.”
————————————————————————————————————————
I watched as Ap stumbled off into the twilight, headed in the general direction of Wolthaven. I looked at David and held out my hand.
He grumbled, but fished out a couple of copper pins from his pocket and passed them over. “The way he came at you with that sword, I honestly didn’t think you’d convince him.”
“And he did it telling nothing but the truth,” said Gobstab. The sense of disbelief in the little demon’s voice was matched by the confused expression on his gnarled face.
I coughed. “Most of the truth, at least.”
David chuckled. “You did leave out the bit about needing to preserve the Carrasone forests so Karl could build you an invasion fleet to take against Yarvan.”
I shrugged. “He never asked.” I looked at Gobstab suspiciously. “However, I am surprised that you didn’t mention anything.”
Gobstab chuckled, low and dark and evil. “Say anything? Are you kidding?” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Boss, his fate line and yours are tangled up every which way. Since you let him live, you’re going to be running into this guy over and over and over…” The demon stopped and looked up at me, grinning. “And you gave him money to buy a new sword! Tell him? Oh, no. This is going to be absolutely hilarious.”
I sighed. “Great. Fine. Whatever. We’ll deal with that when the days comes.” I looked at David. “Cup of tea, then we get back to burning the forest, and get the hell out of here so we can invade Yarvan.” I turned to walk back inside, and David fell into step next to me.
“You know, you really aren’t a very good dark lord.”
I stopped at looked at him. “Navy blue at best,” we said together, giving each other a half smile. I laughed and threw an arm around his shoulder.
“You, on the other hand, make an excellent minion. Come on. Let’s have a cup of tea before we get on with taking over the world.”
On Zombies and Clowns
“Bob?”
Jake’s voice was soft, and scared. I popped the magazine out of my M&P Shield and pocketed it before I pulled one from my holster and slid in into the mag well of my pistol. I’d already burned through one magazine. After this one, I would have to start looking for reloads… or a hand-to-hand weapon,
The later was not an appealing thought. Hand-to-hand meant “within bite range”, which is not where you generally want to be with zombies.
I slid the magazine home and pulled back the slide to chamber a shell. “What?” I tried to sound concerned. What can I say? Customer service training kicks in at the oddest moments. Even though we weren’t anywhere near the AT&T store that paid my bills, and we had random former mall patrons trying to eat my face, my first inclination was to treat Jake like a customer. Go figure.
“Why… why aren’t they… interested in us?”
I looked at Jake. In all honesty, he looked ridiculous. We were both made up for a night of lessons at Madame Trudeau’s School of Clowns and Japery. That was the official name, at least. Most of us students just called it, “The Clown School” and left it at that.
I took in his big, red, bulbous nose, his wild hair, his makeup-white skin. Even with his furrowed brow and concerned eyes, Jake looked ridiculous.
“No idea,” I said shortly, as I turned back to look out the entrance to the Nature’s Way store we had ducked into. It was full of Himalayan Sea Salt lamps, incense burners and…
… crappy knock-off, Japanese swords.
“Jake!” I barked. Jake straightened up, his neon blue hair bouncing amusingly. “Head towards the back, will you? They have swords back there.” Crappy, useless swords, I thought. “Sharp enough to stab, if we need to,” I continued. “Go grab a couple of ‘em?”
Jake looked around. He wasn’t the bravest guy in the world, nor the brightest. He was a clown, for crying out loud. Not even a clown - a clown trainee. I closed my eyes and shook my head. In a different world, I was hanging out with the Marines at the recruiting station down the hall.
In a different world, I was dead.
I opened my eyes and looked at Jake as I chambered a round in my pistol. “Go get the swords. We may need them.”
“Right. Yeah. Ok.” Jake sounded like he was trying to convince himself as he headed towards the back to the store. He pulled up to a stop next to the stand of rain forest sound makers.
“Um. Bob? There’s…”
He didn’t even get to finish the sentence before the zombie lunged up and around the display case at him. I recognized him. Gary had worked at Nature’s Way for the past three years, working himself up from clerk to manager to store manager. We’d spent more than a coupe of nights together, talking politics and hashing out the solutions to every ill of the world. Even though he was liberal as the day is long, the poor bastard deserved better than this.
So did Jake, really. I had to admit that. It was a grudging admission, though. If you offered me the choice between Gary and Jake a few days ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated, Gary was a hardcore liberal, true, but he was at least fun to argue with and made me stop and think once in a while.
Jake… Jake thought I was some sort of fascist wannabe because I had my concealed carry license and studied hapkido.
Jake also had a pussy hat. Enough said.
Faced with a marauding, brainless Gary, Jake froze. For some reason, though, Gary also pulled up and stopped as well. That gave me a second to look at him, which didn’t really contribute to the “Bob keeping the contents of hi stomach down” fund. Gary’s head was half gone, and from the looks of it, something had clawed his head open looking for brains before it got terminally distracted. The back half of Gary’s skull was open, oozing, and extremely unappealing.
I gagged, and brought the Shield up as Gary - well, what was once Gary - sniffed at Jake and looked confused. I sighted in on the remains on Gary’s skull, and paused before I pulled the trigger.
“Goodnight, man,” was all I could muster before I squeezed once, twice, three times. Gary’s head exploded in a fountain of gore, splashing Jake with various and sundry unappealing bits of grey matter before Gary’s body finally flopped over and collapsed to the ground.
“Gah…gah…” Jake made some gagging sounds, then suddenly and violently turned to his left and puked. He retched for a good couple of minutes, emptying his stomach completely. Just the I though he was done, he would turn his head towards me, hold up and hand, then go back to retching.
I guess getting somebody else’s brains in your mouth will do that to you.
I kept a look out while Jake retched. “What’s going on?” he finally spit out. He finished retching, and stood up to look at me, then asked the question I had been wondering about myself.
“Why aren’t they attacking us?”
I looked at him and shook my head. “I don’t know, man. I just don’t know.” The two of us were a sight, I knew. White face paint. Scare wigs. Fake rubber noses. Big clown pants and big clown shoes. I looked left then right, then over my shoulder, just as I had been trained in the hapkido dojoang. Aside from Gary, I didn’t see any unholy, marauding undead.
“Come on.” I gestured at the row next to him. “Grab those swords”.
“Right, right.” There was a pause as Jake looked around. “Anything else?”
I hesitated. We were in a mall, after all - the perfect place to stock up in the event of a zombie apocalypse. However I was also low on ammunition. We could get that for sure at the sporting good store on the other side of the mall, if we really wanted to. Trying to fight our way through would probably mean disaster, though.
I looked at Jake and what remained of Gary, and a thought came into my head. It was significant
enough that I paused for a moment to consider it’s implications.
I suddenly realized Jake was looking at me, his hands gently pushing the Shield away from his person.
“Bob? Come on back, man…. Bob?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, tight, then opened them again.
“I’m here, I’m here. Jake.”
“Yessir?”
I looked at my fellow clown. “We need to get to the sporting goods store. Arm ourselves. Pick up ammo. After that….” I looked at Jake. “I’m thinking our best bet might be the library.”
Jake frowned. It made him look ridiculous in his clown makeup. “The library?”
“Yeah.” I hesitated a bit. “Used to work there years ago, in high school. The place was built to serve as a bomb shelter. It can definitely keep zombies out.” I took a deep breath. “Couple of friends of mine that worked there, we talked about how it was the prefect place to hole up if the zombie apocalypse ever came.” I looked around at the shop, then out towards the main concourse in the mall where various individuals were shambling about in distinctly non-living poses, and nodded, half to Jake, half to myself.
“Seems like that’s where we are now.” I looked at Jake. “So. Sporting goods store, then the library. That’s my plan. You in?”
Pushing Past 50K
Dang if it isn't happening.
For a couple of reasons - sickness and family being two, the holidays being the third - NaNoWriMo turned out to be a wash for me, but it did encourage me to write, which is a Good Thing. I mananged to just about double my word count this month, which is a cause for rejoicing.
So, with that - here's another snippet for you, discussing long life, memory, and personality.
The walked along the edge of the tarmac towards the main building, Mike leading the way with she and Sophie trailing along on either side. She couldn’t help but notice that spite of his even words, Mike seemed annoyed.
“Is he always like this?” she asked.
“Coy?” Mike shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much. He’s…” he trailed off for a second, thinking. “Not flighty. That’s not the right word. Easily distracted?” He shrugged again. “Don’t know how to describe it. Sometimes he just gets an idea in his head, and he goes after it.”
“Sounds like ADD,” said Sophie.
“Maybe,” said Mike. “That’s just he way he is.”
She frowned, trying to recall… “You said something like that at the diner. Has he always been like this?”
Mike stopped walking, and she and Sophie stopped as well. He gave her a long look, considering, before he spoke.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I can’t remember.”
“How…” she stopped, shook her head. “What do you mean? I got the impression that you two have been friends for forever.” Mike raised his eyebrows, and for some reason, she found herself blushing. “For a long time, I mean,” she said.
“I know Coy’s talked doing stuff out in California with you during the gold rush days,” said Sophie. She cocked her head inquisitively as she spoke. “I thought y’all went back even further than that.”
Mike sighed. “We do,” he said. “Weren’t aways friends, but we knew each other. Thing is… Me and Coy, and folks like us. The long-lived ones.”
“The Methuselahs,” she said.
“Yeah. See, when it happens, you… you don’t always know right away. Sometimes you do. Take Alexi. He knew right away that he had run into something that changed him. It’s not always like that. It wasn’t that way for me, at least. Not for Coy, either, from what I gather.” He jammed his hands in pockets, and looked down at his feet.
“You just kind of… live longer, at first. I just thought I was in good shape when I was younger.” He glanced at her and gave her a wry smile. “Young men are stupid.”
“Amen,” said Sophie, emphatically. Amy chuckled, and Mike’s mouth quirked up in a small smile.
“Guilty as charged. Of course I was stronger, of course I healed faster than most people, but when you’re young, you just figure that you’re lucky that way.”
He pursed his lips and looked off into the distance. “Then you start getting older,” he said quietly. “Folks tell you that you’re aging really well, you don’t look a day over thirty. That sort of thing. You just figure you’re in really good shape, really lucky… then the people around you start dying.”
She glanced at Sophie. The sasquatch shook her head slightly, and said gently, “That must have been hard.”
Mike snorted. “A bit. That’s when you get a clue that there’s something different about you. You’re sixty, seventy years old, and you still feel like you did when you were twenty-five. Maybe the people around you start noticing, start giving you odd looks… so you move, maybe. Pull up, find someplace new to settle down.”
“Then, around the time you’re hitting the century mark, you realize that you can’t recall some things.” He half turned to look at her. “What your dad did for a living. What the color of your sister’s favorite dress was.” As he spoke, he seemed to shrink into himself. “Your mother’s name.”
She opened her mouth, decided that there was nothing she could really say to that, and chose to remain silent. In that brief glance from him, she had seem the same look in his eyes that her Dad did when he was remembering Mom. The pain of loss.
Mike was silent for a second, then sighed and straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Coy’s got some thoughts about it, and from what I can tell, it makes sense,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “We live a long time, but we’re still human. Only so much space up here,” he tapped his head, “and it eventually gets filled up. So whatever it was that you haven’t thought about in a long while starts getting dumped out, so you can put new memories in those buckets.”
“That… that sounds a lot like Alzheimers,” said Sophie.
Mike nodded at her. “Yeah. I think that’s the way it works for most people, actually. It’s just more noticeable with us.”
“So… what?” asked Sophie. “You just forget things?”
He grimaced and started walking again. “As time goes by, yeah. You get used to it, eventually. You compensate. Coy and I both keep detailed journals, for instance. It helps fix things in your memory longer - you remember doing something, then you remember writing about it, then you remember reading about it. Even with that, though, you find you can go back maybe forty years or so before things start getting fuzzy. Past seventy, and it gets really sketchy; you recall the big things, but little stuff is pretty much gone. Past a hundred, and, well,” he spread his hands, “that’s why we keep journals.”
“So you don’t know why Coy’s the way he is,” she said, slowly. Mike looked at her and gave a tired little chuckle.
“Know why he’s the way he is? M’am, I couldn’t tell you why I’m the way I am.” He shook his head again. “I’ve forgotten the things that shaped me, made me who I am today. I couldn’t tell you why I like horses, why doing things right and proper is important to me. I just know that that’s the way I am.”
“Isn’t that true for all of us, though?” said Sophie thoughtfully. “One way or another?”
“Might be some truth in that, Miss Sophie.”
They walked for a few seconds in silence before she put her hand out and touched Mike’s shoulder. He stopped and turned his head to look at her questioningly.
“That’s why you’re, I don’t know. Forgiving? Willing to give Alexi some slack,” she said, as she dropped her hand.
“Not sure what you mean.”
She frowned, trying to put the thought in order. “Empathy. Something… happened to him, but he can’t remember it. It changed him, though. And now he’s got to deal with being who he is, even if he doesn’t remember how he became that person. Kind of the way you and Coy have to, just on a smaller scale.”
“Huh,” said Mike. “I don’t think I would have ever put it that way.” He frowned, then nodded. “Probably pretty close to the truth, though. Mind you,” he continued, “it doesn’t mean I like him. He did break my nose, if you recall.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, believe me. I remember that. I’ve got my own bone to pick with him.” Her leg was still sore from the pummeling Alexi had delivered the night of the election.
“Still,” rumbled Sophie, “Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend.” Mike looked at Sophie quizzically, then back at her as she chuckled.
“If not, you can kill him without hate — and quickly,” she said, finishing the quote. “Heinlein,” she said to Mike by way of explanation.
“Hm. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then,” said Mike. “And let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
For a couple of reasons - sickness and family being two, the holidays being the third - NaNoWriMo turned out to be a wash for me, but it did encourage me to write, which is a Good Thing. I mananged to just about double my word count this month, which is a cause for rejoicing.
So, with that - here's another snippet for you, discussing long life, memory, and personality.
The walked along the edge of the tarmac towards the main building, Mike leading the way with she and Sophie trailing along on either side. She couldn’t help but notice that spite of his even words, Mike seemed annoyed.
“Is he always like this?” she asked.
“Coy?” Mike shrugged. “Yeah. Pretty much. He’s…” he trailed off for a second, thinking. “Not flighty. That’s not the right word. Easily distracted?” He shrugged again. “Don’t know how to describe it. Sometimes he just gets an idea in his head, and he goes after it.”
“Sounds like ADD,” said Sophie.
“Maybe,” said Mike. “That’s just he way he is.”
She frowned, trying to recall… “You said something like that at the diner. Has he always been like this?”
Mike stopped walking, and she and Sophie stopped as well. He gave her a long look, considering, before he spoke.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I can’t remember.”
“How…” she stopped, shook her head. “What do you mean? I got the impression that you two have been friends for forever.” Mike raised his eyebrows, and for some reason, she found herself blushing. “For a long time, I mean,” she said.
“I know Coy’s talked doing stuff out in California with you during the gold rush days,” said Sophie. She cocked her head inquisitively as she spoke. “I thought y’all went back even further than that.”
Mike sighed. “We do,” he said. “Weren’t aways friends, but we knew each other. Thing is… Me and Coy, and folks like us. The long-lived ones.”
“The Methuselahs,” she said.
“Yeah. See, when it happens, you… you don’t always know right away. Sometimes you do. Take Alexi. He knew right away that he had run into something that changed him. It’s not always like that. It wasn’t that way for me, at least. Not for Coy, either, from what I gather.” He jammed his hands in pockets, and looked down at his feet.
“You just kind of… live longer, at first. I just thought I was in good shape when I was younger.” He glanced at her and gave her a wry smile. “Young men are stupid.”
“Amen,” said Sophie, emphatically. Amy chuckled, and Mike’s mouth quirked up in a small smile.
“Guilty as charged. Of course I was stronger, of course I healed faster than most people, but when you’re young, you just figure that you’re lucky that way.”
He pursed his lips and looked off into the distance. “Then you start getting older,” he said quietly. “Folks tell you that you’re aging really well, you don’t look a day over thirty. That sort of thing. You just figure you’re in really good shape, really lucky… then the people around you start dying.”
She glanced at Sophie. The sasquatch shook her head slightly, and said gently, “That must have been hard.”
Mike snorted. “A bit. That’s when you get a clue that there’s something different about you. You’re sixty, seventy years old, and you still feel like you did when you were twenty-five. Maybe the people around you start noticing, start giving you odd looks… so you move, maybe. Pull up, find someplace new to settle down.”
“Then, around the time you’re hitting the century mark, you realize that you can’t recall some things.” He half turned to look at her. “What your dad did for a living. What the color of your sister’s favorite dress was.” As he spoke, he seemed to shrink into himself. “Your mother’s name.”
She opened her mouth, decided that there was nothing she could really say to that, and chose to remain silent. In that brief glance from him, she had seem the same look in his eyes that her Dad did when he was remembering Mom. The pain of loss.
Mike was silent for a second, then sighed and straightened up, taking his hands out of his pockets. “Coy’s got some thoughts about it, and from what I can tell, it makes sense,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “We live a long time, but we’re still human. Only so much space up here,” he tapped his head, “and it eventually gets filled up. So whatever it was that you haven’t thought about in a long while starts getting dumped out, so you can put new memories in those buckets.”
“That… that sounds a lot like Alzheimers,” said Sophie.
Mike nodded at her. “Yeah. I think that’s the way it works for most people, actually. It’s just more noticeable with us.”
“So… what?” asked Sophie. “You just forget things?”
He grimaced and started walking again. “As time goes by, yeah. You get used to it, eventually. You compensate. Coy and I both keep detailed journals, for instance. It helps fix things in your memory longer - you remember doing something, then you remember writing about it, then you remember reading about it. Even with that, though, you find you can go back maybe forty years or so before things start getting fuzzy. Past seventy, and it gets really sketchy; you recall the big things, but little stuff is pretty much gone. Past a hundred, and, well,” he spread his hands, “that’s why we keep journals.”
“So you don’t know why Coy’s the way he is,” she said, slowly. Mike looked at her and gave a tired little chuckle.
“Know why he’s the way he is? M’am, I couldn’t tell you why I’m the way I am.” He shook his head again. “I’ve forgotten the things that shaped me, made me who I am today. I couldn’t tell you why I like horses, why doing things right and proper is important to me. I just know that that’s the way I am.”
“Isn’t that true for all of us, though?” said Sophie thoughtfully. “One way or another?”
“Might be some truth in that, Miss Sophie.”
They walked for a few seconds in silence before she put her hand out and touched Mike’s shoulder. He stopped and turned his head to look at her questioningly.
“That’s why you’re, I don’t know. Forgiving? Willing to give Alexi some slack,” she said, as she dropped her hand.
“Not sure what you mean.”
She frowned, trying to put the thought in order. “Empathy. Something… happened to him, but he can’t remember it. It changed him, though. And now he’s got to deal with being who he is, even if he doesn’t remember how he became that person. Kind of the way you and Coy have to, just on a smaller scale.”
“Huh,” said Mike. “I don’t think I would have ever put it that way.” He frowned, then nodded. “Probably pretty close to the truth, though. Mind you,” he continued, “it doesn’t mean I like him. He did break my nose, if you recall.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, believe me. I remember that. I’ve got my own bone to pick with him.” Her leg was still sore from the pummeling Alexi had delivered the night of the election.
“Still,” rumbled Sophie, “Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend.” Mike looked at Sophie quizzically, then back at her as she chuckled.
“If not, you can kill him without hate — and quickly,” she said, finishing the quote. “Heinlein,” she said to Mike by way of explanation.
“Hm. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then,” said Mike. “And let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
NaNo NaNo
Since I've got a novel in flight, as it were, I decided to officially participate in NaNoWriMo this year. If you're so inclined, you can find me registered here.
At the start of NaNo this year, I had about 30k words written. I figured participating in NaNo would be a great way to push myself to bang out another 50k words, which should (hopefully) get me close to something that might resemble a finished story.
First week went really well. I was more or less on track, and ended up about 1k words short of my goal. Not to bad, considering that means I'd written 10k words (woohoo!) even in the face of having to take a couple of nights off for various activities, including our annual bonfire.
Then, of course, the election hit. If you've read my blog for any amount of time, you can probably guess that following the election coverage and the aftermath was a bit of a time sink for me.
Just as that started to settle down, I got hit with a head cold, which pretty much left me wishing I could just sleep for 48 hours. I actually gave that a pretty good shot over the weekend.
None of that was especially conducive to the idea of "butt in seat, writing".
So as of this morning, I'm currently sitting at 15k words worth of progress on my NaNo goals, which is around 8k short of where I want to be. Not bad, but I can do better.
One thing that I've learned from participating in NaNo this year: writing and editing have to be separate activities for me. When I started, I was researching and editing as I went, which meant that I was managing to write about 500 words/hour. Overall, they were pretty good words. Nice. Polished. They pretty much said what I wanted to say.
For NaNo, I've had to move to just writing - I pay attention to my use of the backspace key, and unless it's to correct a word or a misspelling, I force myself to skip it.
Sentence seems a bit awkward? Ignore it - I grok what the meaning was, I'll clean it up later.
Need to know what type of four passenger plane a private pilot might own and fly? Just make a note, come back and fill in the details later.
Can't quite figure out how to join these two passages? Eh. Make a note of that, forge onward.
Stalled wondering where this scene or conversation will go? Switch over to something else. Write a snippet that may or may not fit in elsewhere.
Whatever happens, just keep writing.
Just by making that effort, I've managed to come close to doubling my output - I can manage about 1k words per hour. It's difficult to sustain that pace - I can do 2-3 hours before I need to take a break and recharge - but it has definitely been worth it. My prose isn't as complete or as polished as I'd like, but the important thing is that the story is progressing. I can see things moving, What has been living solely in my head for the past year is now making it on to the page, and even if it isn't as nice as I want to eventually make it, it's there.
That's a good feeling.
What's even better, I think, is that getting my editing brain out of the way is helping me to realize things about my characters that I didn't even know were there. My writing brain says, "say this", my hands go tappity-tap-tap, and I think, "Where did that come from? I mean, it makes sense..." and now I have a reason why Coy's a flirt, why Mike is willing to give Alexi the benefit of the doubt, why Amy is unwilling to just pack up and go home instead of going on a wild goose chase down to North Carolina with a couple of folks she just met.
Long story short: NaNo is helping me, not just in terms of discipline in time spent writing, but in learning how to write in a way that I've not ever really tried. And I'm kind of excited about that!
Snippet
He was strolling through the open air marketplace of Vedna, thinking about getting something to eat, when his earpiece chimed. He tapped his phone to complete the connection.
"Cowal here," he said absently. Potato pancakes, maybe? No matter what star system you were in, potatoes were pretty much potatoes.
"Lieutenant," said Cory, his ship's AI. "Are you able to talk?"
He sighed. "Cory, I told you, they re-activated my commission just as a formality for the courier run we have coming up. You don't have to call me Lieutenant."
There was the barest of pauses before Cory replied. "My apologies, Commander Cowal."
Paul frowned. "Commander isn't any better. Or accurate. Just call me skipper, like you always have."
"I feel that would be inappropriate at this time," Cory said, hesitating slightly before continuing. "Captain," said Cory. "In any case, I am currently in receipt of..."
He didn't the let AI finish the sentence. "Cory, are you OK?" he asked, concerned. "You're all over the map. Run diagnostics, please."
"But..."
"Diagnostics. Now."
Cory hesitated, then said, "Diagnostic scan commencing. Preliminary report, all systems normal. Detailed diagnostics will be available in three minutes, Admiral." Cory rarely displayed emotion, but Paul could tell from his modulation that he was frustrated.
"Good. You may not have noticed it, but you've been using different forms of address for me," he said. "I'm worried you might have picked up something from one of the public nets..."
"SIR!" Cory shouted. Paul winced at the volume and cursed.
"If you would please let me finish," said Cory, hurriedly. "I am currently in receipt of military subspace traffic from the Coral navy."
Paul stopped, and looked up at the sky. "Wait, what? How..."
"Part of the encryption package we got for the courier mission," said Cory. "That's not important. I have been receiving real-time updates of a running battle in Coral space. A numerically superior force entered the system approximately 4 minutes ago, and engaged the fleet. Projected losses are statistically indistinguishable from 100%, Acting High Admiral."
Paul froze, and opened his mouth. He tried to say something, but words would not come.
"Based on those reports, you are almost certainly the last active member of the CNS Fleet still alive," said Cory. "In addition, 34 seconds ago I received what I presume is a final transmission from the CNS CARTAHENA," said Cory.
"Go," said Paul, quietly.
"Shortly after the attack commenced, they reported sub-lightspeed kinetic energy weapon impacts on the capital, Fleet Command, and all visible major cities." Cory waited a second, then continued. "Following the succession rules enumerated by the 194th Coral Tricameral, and in accordance with the Founding Charter and Constitution..."
"No," said Paul.
"... until such time as a more qualified survivor is located, you are to be considered the acting President and Commander-In-Chief of the Coral government," said Cory.
"Crap on a crutch," breathed Paul.
"Indeed," said Cory, dryly. "Your orders, Mr. President?"
We Interrupt Our WIP
Yeah. Dresden Files fan fiction.
It popped into my head this evening, and... well, it wasn't going to let me get anything else done until I had at least sketched it out.
My name is Leo Armitage Kozlowski. I’m a dentist. Not the new school type, with all the bells and whistles and flashing lights and computers doing 3D realtime modeling of your bite pattern. No, I’m old school. Picks, mirrors, wax impressions, fillings, all done by hand. Artisanal, even.
I should put that on my cards.
I have a couple of full sets of tools. Every dentist does - you need them to get through a typical day, since it would be bad manners and worse hygiene to share them around. Unlike most dentists, though, I also have some custom sets of complete instruments, hand-made from cast bronze.
They’re for my special customers.
See, nobody really likes visiting the dentist in the first place. I understand that. Heck, I’m a dentist, and even I don’t like visiting my own dentist. A regular cleaning is bad enough. When you know there’s something wrong, though, that’s a special sort of bad. When you call to make an appointment that you know, just know, will lead to drilling, filling, or - even worse - the juxtaposition of the words “root” and “canal”… well. Even I can get a little titchy.
So when something out of the Nevernever gets cranky and desperate enough to start asking around for a dentist, believe me, the last thing I want to do is go rooting around in some Faerie’s mouth with iron tools.
Yeah. Chicago gets deep disk pizza, the Bulls, and Harry Freaking Dresden. Pittsburgh gets pirogies, the Steelers, and the world’s only practicing Faerie dentist. Which might not seem fair, but Chicago will just have to learn to live with second place, I guess.
I was in the office early on a Monday, standing behind the front desk, going through the weekend mail. Bills, bills, bills, and… oh, yeah, More bills. I sighed. The life of an independent businessman. Well, there was an invitation to the annual ADA convention. In Detroit.
I was contemplating whether spending a weekend surrounded by dentists in Detroit would be a net positive or negative to my nearly nonexistent social life when the phone at the desk rang. I picked it up and cradled the receiver in the crook of my neck, keeping my hands free to continue sorting through the mail.
“Kozlowski Dentistry,” I said. “Kozlowski speaking.”
“Hey, Jinx,” said the voice on the other end. Manny Carlucci. He’d been my Council sponsor, way back when. When he found out what the guys on the ship had called me, he had picked up that nickname with glee. It wasn’t my fault that I was a wizard, nor that I hadn’t even had an inkling of the fact until I was 10 years into serving the Navy as a dentist. I was such a minor ability that the Council had debated whether or not I could really be considered a wizard. They had erred on the side of caution, though, so at the tender age of 33, I had found myself shanghaied into Council membership, whether I wanted it or not.
Yeah, yeah. I know. The irony of a Navy man getting shanghaied is not lost on me.
The name came from my ineptitude with, and general inability to be in the vicinity of, electronic equipment. Which I know is related to the wizard thing, now. My first decade in the Navy, though, things just tended to go wrong around me in interesting and sparky ways. I had eventually earned my Surface Warfare pin, but not until the Captain of the second ship I tried to qualify on had banned me from ever stepping foot onto the bridge or into the Combat Information Center ever again. Seems the radar techs in CIC had a thing about keeping their equipment up and running without having to put out electrical fires every few minutes.
“Manny,” I said. “Do I owe you money or something?”
“Or something,” he said. I could hear traffic noises in the background. “Just wanted to give you a heads up. Audit next week.”
I tossed the mail in the general direction of the inbox and managed to get most of it in the general location. I took the phone in my hand and closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Manny, they just did one a few weeks ago.” The Wardens were always on the prowl for incipient warlockry, and for some reason, they had decided that I was a prime candidate. Maybe they thought I was doing illegal dentures for Black Court vamps, or that I was doing bridge work for the wrong type of troll, or something. Whatever it was, I had ended up on somebody’s short list.
“Yeah, I know,” said Manny. He sounded apologetic. “There’s a new guy taking over the ward. Mallory. He’s doing the rounds, and wanted to start with you.”
“Any idea why?” I asked. There bell above the door jangled as someone walked it. I glanced at the clock. Nine o’clock on the dot. I didn’t have any appointments until ten, but we did get the occasional walk-in. I raised my hand in the general direction of the door to ackowledge whoever it was, and turned away slightly to keep the conversation with Manny private.
“Nope,” he said. “Probably nothing. Guys seems like the type to go in random order, just to shake things up.”
“Great,” I sighed. “OK, Manny. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“Told you you owed me something,” he said cheerfully. “Beer me later, man. Friday at Industry?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. “See you then. And Manny - I mean it. Thanks.”
“No problem,” he said. “Catch you later.”
I hung up the phone, put on a smile that I didn’t really feel, and turned around to greet my first customer of the day. “Sorry about that. What can I do for you…”
Yeah, I kind of trailed off. The woman standing at the counter was beyond striking. Easily six feet tall, with a narrow face, piercing green eyes, and long, red hair. She was bundled up a bit against the cold in a pale green leather coat that matched her eyes, and wearing a gold necklace that looked like it was studded with emeralds and opals.
All of which was secondary to what really made me draw up short. I generally don’t get many dragons as walk-in clients. By which I mean, I never get them.
Her aura was so strong that I didn’t even need to look at her with my second sight to know what she was. Her face was carefully neutral, which I think was her way of trying to be polite. It worked. If she had smiled at me right then, I’m pretty sure that mind hindbrain would have crawled out my ear and slid down my torso in an attempt to escape, gibbering in fear.
“… M’am?” I finished the sentence that I had started what now seemed a long, long time ago. I was distinctly aware that my voice squeaked in a way that I hadn’t heard since puberty. I worked on shutting down my second sight as tightly as I possibly could.
“Dr. Kozlowski, I presume?” she said. Her voice was melodious, beautiful, and nearly as scary as her aura.
“Yes!” I said, with a little too much emphasis. My mind raced. What was the protocol for dragons? Was I supposed to bow? Shake hands? Fall to the ground weeping?
She made the decision simple by holding out her hand. She was wearing a pair of black gloves. I looked at her hand stupidly for a moment, then took it gently. The corner of her mouth quirked up slightly as I shook her hand.
“M’am,” I said, letting go. I decided that absolute honesty was my best bet, took a deep breath, and spoke carefully. “I understand that I am in the presence of someone much, much older, wiser, and more powerful than myself. I beg you to forgive any slight I might inadvertently give, and to understand that if I do so, it is entirely out of ignorance, and not an indication of any lack of respect.”
She did give me a smile at that point, but I was ready for it. “I have heard good things about you, Doctor, from some… associates.” She tilted her head slightly in my direction. “Your honesty is refreshing, but I am not looking for a diplomat.” The smile faded. “I am afraid that I find myself in need of your services.”
I blinked, and looked at her, not with my second sight, but with my experience. She was doing her best not to show it, but… yeah. She was nervous.
I told you. Nobody likes going to the dentist.
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