Bottom Desk Drawer

"EDNOS"

2009-08-21T17:32:00.002-04:00

"I realized something this morning," Kay said over coffee. "I'm not happy with my weight right now."

Emme slowly flipped through the sugar and artificial sweetner packets. "Have you ever been?"

"No, of course not," said Kay. "But I had this epiphany--I need to start working out during the day. Like that should be my job now." She smiled, but her eyes were dull and tired. "I mean, I can't control the economy or my crappy ass job search, but I can control my weight."

"Kay." Emme pressed her lips together and then sighed. "Kay, that is like a textbook example of how people with eating disorders think."

"So?"

2009-08-03T16:22:00.003-04:00

When Novelists Sober Up Stephen King says he cannot remember writing “Cujo”, he was so loaded; but after his family staged an intervention in 1987, emptying the contents of his garbage onto his living-room floor—cocaine, beer cans, Xanax, NyQuil, Valium, marijuana—he quit, and the result was a marked slackening of tension in his work. One of the things that made “The Shining” such a great novel about falling off the wagon was that King didn’t know that was what it was about—it was written from inside the belly of an obsession. This is dead-on about The Shining--Jack Torrance is a magnified Stephen King (teacher with a drinking problem and in denial about it), and King didn't figure it out until he sobered up. However, I think a bigger problem with his later work is that he's Stephen Fucking King. Earlier in his career, an editor could say, "Look, we're going to trim this, I don't think this works, do some rewrites on this chapter". Now he can do whatever the hell he wants because there is nobody out there who is going to tell one of the bestselling authors of the last century what to do. Being fucked off your tits is associated with creativity, but I assume most creative types are like me: I've been able to write while rocking a buzz. Sometimes my brain has even worked its way around a difficult plotting problem while getting soaked in alcohol, but anything that doesn't immediately get written down is usually lost for good. And I'd say somewhere around the second or third drink, that's it. Any creative energy is getting channeled towards acting like a jackass.

As for anything more illicit, writing has never even occurred to me. I've certainly used one experience in particular in my writing, but I don't even want to think about what sort of gibberish I would've scribbled in the moment. Maybe I just fail at TRUE ART.

"Where Are They Now? (2)"

2009-07-08T21:39:00.000-04:00

"Sweetie, help Mama."

She was still an ageless beauty but the years, frustrated that they could not add wrinkles, had added additional voluptuousness until Aphrodite was past all hope of euphemism. "Curvaceous" collapsed under her, and even "Rubenesque" strained to enclose the rolling stomach, the expansive buttocks, and the dimpled elbows.

But despite her Olympian weight, she still had her tricks and glamours.

And despite the nature and indiscretions of the family, her son was mostly immune. "No."

"I'm only doing it for you, sweetie."

"How's it going to help me? He'll be dead in fifty years anyway."

"Sweetie, I think you're forgetting that if Mama isn't happy, no one is happy."

"Whatever."

"You've seen how much Father Zeus has suffered at my hand. Even now we're nothing compared to him, and you might even be less than nothing," said Aphrodite. "You know I can do things that will make the deepest, darkest pits of Tartarus look like...look pleasant." She waited, then added in a soft, pitiable voice, "You do love me, don't you?"

"Not this again..."

"I've always been afraid you're not capable of loving your poor, lonely mother," said Aphrodite.

"Lonely?"

"Emotionally lonely. Maybe you're just not capable of philia. And none of us really know how our children are going to turn out, so it's not too surprising," said Aphrodite. "And if you can't love your poor mother the way you're supposed to, I guess I shouldn't think about you being some sort of cripple and just be happy you didn't turn out like that poor Theban boy."

"What do you want this time?"

"Help Mama into her girdle like a good boy," said Aphrodite. "I'm sure this one has a lot of potential."

"Where Are They Now? (1)"

2009-07-01T21:25:00.005-04:00

"Mistress," rasped the crow. "The battlefield calls. The smell of blood--"

The pale young woman with dark, purple streaked hair glared at him from the couch. "What?"

"The smell of blood is on the air."

"It is as it was," said another crow. "Men die, and it is as the old times, when--"

She scowled. "No, it's not. And fuck the old times, Jerry's on."

"Mistress..."

"Mistress Morrigan, you must go."

"Go to the battle and drink of blood..."

"Pluck out men's eyes..."

"Feast upon their entrails..."

"Look, seriously, I don't know where the shit you guys have been--thanks, by the way--but it's over," said Morrigan. "I don't do that anymore. It's not even--nobody dedicates their kills these days, and I got cable."

"The feast!"

"Feast!"

More crows swarmed the window, squawking demands with out-of-use voices. Morrigan watched them apathetically. "Really," she said. "You're going to pull that Hitchcock bullshit on me? Get out before I eat your souls."

"Mistress longs for battle..."

"Thirsts for blood!"

"Craves--"

"Go your damn selves." Morrigan waved a hand. "Go, and be as my eyes and gnashing teeth or whatever."

Most of the crows left in a flurry of wings and cackles.

Morrigan glared at the three that were left. "Well?"

"Mistress, you must ride."

"I said no. I don't know if you noticed, but I haven't done that in years, and people still hack each other to bits or blow each other up." She turned back to the television. "Now fuck off. These white trash aren't going to watch themselves."

"Mistress--"

Fast as a swordstroke, Morrigan grabbed the crow and twisted off its head. She smeared the blood on her cheeks and forehead, then drew out a small, black wisp from its ragged neck. She inhaled the wisp of a crow and tossed the body in front of the other two on her way back to the couch.

"Piss. Off."

The crows pissed off.

"Unemployable"

2009-06-22T17:38:00.002-04:00

It seemed to be going well, but it always did until later, when it turned out that, uh, no, it didn't.

"How would you describe your classroom management style?"

Pause thoughtfully. Don't sound rehearsed, even though that's not really a problem at all. "I...I try to keep a good balance. You know, more Picard than Kirk. Using reason and intellect instead of just shooting."

"Uh-huh." Oh, right, they're taking notes.

Fuck.

"Sorry, I've been watching a lot of Star Trek lately. Metaphorical shooting. Although sometimes I wish I had a laser gun, ha ha..." Nobody else was laughing. "Eugh."

They looked at each other, then at the clock--fifteen minutes have passed. "Well, that's it for us. Do you have any questions?"

"No, but I'd like to say that I'd never...I mean, I'm not crazy violent or anything, and I really want you to know that I've never actually considered--okay, I've considered it, but...thank you. For...your time."

"Big Picture"

2009-05-30T15:09:00.003-04:00

"I think it's going well. I mean, as well as these things can go."

"Neither one of us is three hundred pounds."

"Or visibly a member of a hate group."

"Visibly."

She laughs. "You're not, are you?"

"Not enough time. An if it's been a rough week, I'm just too tired to actively persecute anyone. Aside from regular white guy stuff."

"No glasses."

"Contacts."

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"Okay, this is going to sound strange, but...nearsighted?"

"Yeah."

"What's your perscription?"

"I don't know...negative four, maybe? What about you?"

"Negative six, negative five and a half."

"Wow. You're blind."

"Nearsightedness runs in my family."

"Just my mother's side."

"Mm. What's your shoe size?"

"Uh, 12?"

She sighs. "Look, I come from a family with crappy vision and big ass feet."

"They don't look that--"

"I'm not fishing for compliments; I just have big feet. And I know this is a bit premature, but genetically speaking, I just can't take this risk." She stands, holding her purse in front of her with one hand. "I mean, we seem fairly compatible, and...look, the world doesn't need more alcoholic four eyeses stomping around."

"How did you--"

"My mother's family, and the fact that we went through a bottle of red in half an hour."

"Take Me Out"

2009-05-23T15:03:00.003-04:00

This story is completely, utterly, irrevocably true.

It was a fine spring morning in London in the year of our Lord 1902.

An airship, the royal red of HRH had just docked in Canary Wharf, and the ground-dwelling retinue had gathered in the skyscraper's triangle to greet their grim-faced, epically-bosomed sovereign.

The Queen descended, the foldable wooden steps trembling beneath her dignified stature. She roughly handed off her bloodied shield to one of her attendants and began to remove her platinum gauntlets.

"We are not amused," she declared. "One would like a cool drink and the head of that Austrian rotter!"

"Prosperina"

2009-05-16T14:23:00.003-04:00

Evil in men can be seen, but sometimes it's difficult. You have to look for that certain gleam in the eyes or a wicked smile at inappropriate moments. Otherwise it could be impeccably dressed, tattered rags, or just tacky--the over the top snakes and bats, black and red.

For some reason with women it almost always involves headdresses. Something about murder and mayhem makes a woman think, "I need a very elaborate, slightly sinister piece of headgear."

Prosperina's looked like something them incestuous pharoahs would have worn--except for all the black and not enough gold. An odd choice since there was plenty of gold down here, but something about the Underworld made people start wearing a lot of black and moping around.

Well, Prosperina didn't look too down. Pale, but that was to be expected, even among the living--or should I say the ever-living? And she was about three or four months in at this point.

She had that sort of manic grin which combined with a headdress made you think it was a good time to run or try to get any sort of transfer to the surface.

"There's going to be some changes around here, Minos," she said, and, Jupiter spare me, stood up. Definitely a very bad sign. "My 'husband' has...taken ill." She sauntered opver to a window and smirked as she looked out over the Plain of Judgement. "As we have no children, it only makes sense that I should assume his duties."

"Of course," I said. I'm not one to pry, but when your wife lives with you only by the grace of Jove and you're often too depressed to eat, it's hardly surprising there aren't any Princes or Princesses of the Dead.

As to whether or not Spring's Daughter is still a maiden, that's none of my concern. It's best not to ask any questions of a woman who's entered the evil attire and smirking out windoiws stage of life, especially when her sick husband's one of the Olympians.

He's probably fine--off sulking somewhere or locked up in a cupboard at worst--and, well, you don't argue with the child and wife Olympians any more than you argue with one of the Twelve. Not if you want to keep the shape you came in with and your descendents from accidentally eating each other. Which of course brings even more curses and pushing rocks up hills forever and being near dead of hunger and thirst when you don't even need food.

So me, I bowed practically to the floor--might be time for a bit of knee-hugging in the very near future--and said, "I am yours to command, O Queen."

"Good," said Prosperina. "My will shall be obeyed. In all things, Minos."

"In all things," I agreed.

And if she did manage some treachery, who am I to judge?

***

The King of Hades, Ruler of the Dead, and Lord of All the Riches Beneath the Earth stood on the shores of Neapolis and, laughing, tilted his white face toward the sun.

"The Electronic Leash"

2009-05-03T19:47:00.000-04:00

"Oh, shit."

There is something disarming about falling out of contact these days. No way to check e-mail, the darkened screen of a dead cell phone--now you finally know how all those people in 70's horror films felt when the car wouldn't start with the rabid dog pawing at the windows or the deranged hitchhiker squatting on the roof with his long fingernails.

The side of the road is a terrible place with no phone and all the mistrustful cars speeding by. You never stop for anyone either, but you don't think you look particularly threatening. You're helpless! You don't even have a cell phone.

"Aladdin's Journey"

2009-04-26T19:33:00.001-04:00

When people think of an elementary school teacher, they tend to imagine a kind, loving woman with infinite patience--an Angel of the House released into the working world.

Mrs. Valentine could only maintain the stereotype a faction of the time. For each hour of instruction, the students were lucky to get twenty minutes of gentle voiced 4th grade teacher and never twenty consecutive minutes.

"Move your card," she snapped. "Aladdin! Move. Your. Card!"

Aladdin dragged himself to his feet and headed toward the stoplight behavior cards on the opposite side of the classroom.

"Don't you dare give me that dirty look!" said Mrs. Valentine. "You move straight to a red card for that!"

Aladdin continued his trudge to the cards, shoulders slumped and with no protest.

"You look at me when I'm talking to you!"

The other students avoided looking up, their eyes darting quickly to the side and back to folow this latest scene without being noticed. All work on standards review had stopped.

Aladdin turned to look at the teacher.

"I said move your card! Why have you stopped?" asked Mrs. Valentine. "Go!" She waved her hands for emphasis, the way an owner might signal to a dog, then placed her hands on her gargantuan hips with a scowl. "You are on very thin ice, Aladdin. Very thin ice."

Aladdin continued to the stoplight cards with a sigh. It was nothing compared to the nonverbal exasperation of a teenage girl, but it was as full of frustration as an eight year old boy could manage.

"That is extremely disrepectful! I am an adult!" said Mrs. Valentine. "You are a a child! And you need to remember that if you don't want me to call your grandmother!"

Aladdin had finally reached the behavior cards. He moved the red card--"Call Home or Letter"--to the front of his manilla pocket and turned to go back to his seat.

If he'd been a little older he might have had more control over his expression. Maybe he would've chosen to show her his anger and frustration anyway, but at this age and in this classroom, he had no choice in the matter.

"That is it!" Mrs. Valentine stormed to the phone. "The rest of you get back to work. You have ten. Minutes."

"Learning Experience"

2009-04-19T11:45:00.001-04:00

One of the most annoying things, other than the constant verbal abuse and severe ignorance, is how slowly the students go to lunch. Lunch, and they ooze slowly down the halls. Cows go up the slaughterhouse ramp faster.

Okay, it's not just lunch. They'll pack up ten minutes before the bell, line up at the door, and they still trudge out.

I don't know if all of them are going to lunch or just to another class, but most of them probably have lunch now. (First lunch is always the most crowded.) Either way it's been a rough morning, and I want them gone.

They trickle out, and I wait at my little table. My cooperating teacher puts things away and gets stuff ready for the next class.

Eventually he nods to me, and I go open a window. He joins me and holds out a battered pack, silently offering me a cigarette. I flash the full inside of my cigarette case. I can't stand his brand.

Once it's lit I inhale greedily, barely able to remember to get all the smoke out the window in my nearly instant euphoria.

"Damn kids," he mutters.

I nod. Next week I'm going to take over one of the classes. A few lessons here and there has been enough to make me seriously rethink where my life is going.

Maybe that's why I'm willing to do this instead of making a run for the loading dock or the back door or wherever the teachers and staff gather to smoke. No matter how Drug Free Zero Tolerance a school is, there's always a spot like that. Usually thanks to the cafeteria and janitorial staff.

But I'm just following my cooperating teacher's lead--even though you could make the excellent point that I know this isn't cool. And we've got a big thing of FeBreeze and air freshner, and I'm sure most people know but don't care. Or, just like with the kids, are too afraid of confrontation to bring it up, let alone do anything.

No, it can't be that second one. We're the dirty smokers poisoning children and, as I've already learned, we're always wrong even when we're right.

I feel light headed and wonderfully at peace with the world. I no longer care that 2nd thinks my shoes are the ugliest they've ever seen ("Did you wear those on purpose?") or that 4th is...Jesus Christ, I hate 4th. The only twenty people worse than 4th are the wretched little shits they crammed into 6th.

But 6th is far away, and my nicotine receptors are happily working away again.

My cooperating teacher flicks his butt out the window, and I follow his lead after a final drag. I know this is probably the stupidest part--leaving a small pile of evidence. (Whatever. It probably gets blamed on the kids.)

I always want more. I don't even want to think about the weeks when I'll be by myself, dealing with all the crappy behavior and whining and attitude. Right now, just sitting around making lesson plans and going to the photocopier and inflicting vocabulary on them makes me want to smoke two or three in a row.

Screw lunch--give me enough cigarettes and a place to stand, and I can wait until dinner.

"I've got to get the hell out of here," my cooperating teacher says.

I stop dowsing myself with clearance Secret Mystic Jasmine Body Spray. "Sorry," I say, "I just--"

He shakes his head. "This school."

Sometimes it's this school, sometimes it's this district.

I finish spraying my hair--I wonder if the kids have noticed that I'm much more relaxed when I smell like mystic flowers--and start spraying the room with Tropical Explosion.

Tropical Explosion smells like coconuts, artificial flowers, and other unidentified chemicals. The only positive is that it is a smell stronger than that of two cigarettes at the beginning of 5th.

At least I think it does. I don't think my cooperating teacher can tell anymore, and most of the time he doesn't bother to hide the smell on his clothes.

I don't mention it because I know he's going to say he doesn't give a damn shit. Guy who keeps a bottle of vodka under his driver's seat isn't going to care too much about getting caught smoking. (All I know about the bottle is that it exists. I have no idea how long it's been there or even if it's open.)

Time for 5th period duty. We're always a few minutes late, but Mrs. L never says anything about it.

Sometimes she raises an eyebrow or shakes her head or says that we stink. Today she says, "Ooo, you two are so bad!"

My cooperating teacher rolls his eyes. "You want bad?" He tells her about 4th.

I work on my weekly reflection. This week I've learned that I still need to find a classroom management style that works for me. I'm already out of good things that happened to me (I need three each week) or at least good things that I can turn in.

"Still haven't been busted for smoking out the classroom window"

"Able to go up to three hours between cigarettes without murdering anyone"

"Have not run out of the building crying"

"Still fairly sure I haven't made a terrible and expensive mistake (maybe)"

"Class"

2009-04-12T09:58:00.001-04:00

March 2009

"The last time I flew Virgin first class, they didn't even have a dessert on the menu!" She strokes her companion's hand with slow, seductive fingertips. Her fully done face still betrays the fact that her hair is blonde by the grace of a monthy appointment--although she may not have been blonde before she went grey. "Can you believe it?" She looks at the man with an expression somewhere between devotion and lust. "No carrot cake, no cheesecake--in first class!"

Her broad American accent sounds especially out of place in a shuttle bus on the tarmac at Heathrow. Behind her, three Iranian children talk to each other and their family in Farsi (I know both the nationality and the language because she actually asked).

Her grey haired beau nods sympathetically. No dessert--terrible!

Hopefully this airline will be better, and how aggressive the salespeople are at Boots. "They must get some sort of commission on these things," she says. "He just went on and on about how some celebrity loves this handcream. Same thing at the Boots in Oxford Circus." There are six pink boxes in a clear Boots' shopping bag and possibly more in other, less translucent packages. "Still, flying is so dehydrating." She pouts, being careful not to pout too much. "It was really a hard sell."

She continues to caress the man's hand, and he continues to listen attentively. Nautrally he says very little.

It is almost one o'clock at their destination where homeless men hover by ATM's, museum entrances, and Metro stations, holding out their dirty hands for any spare change.

And the recently unemployed and afraid of unemployment walk by just a little faster, straining even harder to avoid eye contact.

"SOL"

2009-04-05T09:51:00.000-04:00

When the new shirts are revealed--Mountain Crest High School We're Going Over The Top!!!--there is polite applause from the other teachers in the auditorium.

I wait for the ripple of shock from the history department or at least a rush of smothered laughter. Some small objection to that many exclamation points from the English teachers?

A few people begin to cheer, and I think it's time to sneak to the loading dock.

Ultimately the Valium in my purse is much closer.

"Habits"

2009-03-30T09:49:00.000-04:00

Giving in is like coming home. The taste is dry and awful, and the smoke seeps into ever corner of my mouth on its way to my lungs. It feels like my gums and throat are singed--

but then it reaches my brain, and those dusty receptors flare like cliched fireworks

Ecstacy to burn down the shame of failure.

I could get used to this (again).

I am Jack's shitty poem.

2009-03-24T18:20:00.003-04:00

It's standardized testing season again in one of the local districts, so I'm back in the classroom for government sponsored damage control.

(I really do hate NCLB and the resulting standards/accountability programs it spawned, but it has written me many a paycheck.)

The 4th grade classroom I'm in is starting poetry. They're tackling such a noble and difficult subject with the "I Am" poem.

As you can see from the link, an "I Am" poem is basically Mad Libs only less entertaining. You fill in the blanks with things that range from bland to ridiculous--you'll lose points if you put something real into a blank that has to be filled with something imaginary!--and it gets called a poem. Despite lacking meter, imaginative language, or anything else we could use to define poetry.

I don't expect 4th graders to know how to write poetry in any sort of consistent meter. I think being able to write decent poetry (let alone stuff that's actually any good) is an amazing skill, and it's not one that I have.

This, however, is barely even in the oddly spaced prose category. If you're going to inflict a format on students, there has to be a better one than this.

The example on the bottom of the linked page is tolerable (although the repeated line is no "Rage, rage against the dying of the light"), and certainly better than what I've seen taught. (And the teacher I'm stuck with would probably complain about the example not talking about the author and the fact that the "imaginary sights" can really exist. It makes me wonder if the intent was for students to imagine something outside the classroom, regardless of whether or not it could happen.)

"A Dialogue for the Morning After"

2009-03-22T09:38:00.002-04:00

"Well, well, well." The voice of my conscience is smug and nasal, like a more annoying version of Droopy Dog.

"Oh god...uh?"

"You're in your own bed, in case you were wondering."

"How the fuck did I get...uh." The last thing I remember is laughing and possibly saying something very, very stupid. Something like, "Fuck yeah kamikazes!"

"I hope you're pleased with yourself," says my conscience.

I've always wondered why it doesn't sound like me or at least my mother, but now is not the time for thinking.

I push my pillow further out of the way, stuffing it between the bed and the wall, and retch noisily. Nothing comes of it.

"I hope you know you made a complete fool out of yourself. Don't ask me; I don't know either." But it teases me with a small hint of something that makes me cringe. It's the sort of thing that seemed hilarious at the time or maybe it didn't because I'd already switched to autopilot.

"You know, a blackout means you're drinking too much."

"No, iss...my brain's. Brain's protecting me from...oh god I feel like shit."

"As you should." Somehow I got stuck with a teetotalling conscience.

I pull the blanket over my head, ignoring the hardened streak of what is most likely my own dried vomit. "Sleep it off."

"You're just avoiding the issue."

"Sleep it off. Sleep it off and then I'll never drink again."

"I've heard that before."

Sociopaths don't know how good they have it.

"The End"

2009-03-04T11:54:00.002-05:00

"Daisy Elliot."

"Sam Scott."

They shook hands.

"Heart attack," said Daisy.

"Bus," said Sam. "Bus crash. I was in it."

Daisy nodded.

"I always thought of an elevator," said Sam. "There was a cartoon where the main character got killed--it turned out to be a dream or something, obviously--and he ended up in Hell. So, he just got in the elevator and took it to Heaven." He smiled and shook his head. "Haven't thought about that in years. Probably couldn't get away with that now."

"Escalator," said Daisy. "I always thought of an escalator. I don't know how I thought people got up there before escaltors."

"Heart attack?"

"I just thought I was tired."

They looked at the wide golden stairs stretching up into eternity. There were small figures on higher steps, silhouetted in the bright pink and orange light of the Empyrean.

"I guess we'd better get going."

Each stair played a faint, pure musical note, and after the first thirty steps the breeze carried the smell of honeysuckles growing behind the playground, and the song made out of all the steps was wordless and familiar.

"Rapture"

2009-02-24T11:47:00.002-05:00

They were beautiful female figures--feminine, really, since they had a smooth Barbie anatomy. No nipples, and the hairless, solid V of a classical statue. Their hairless, poreless arms and legs gleamed in the light.

"You have been chosen, Jonathan Small," they said in not quite perfect unison, one falling slightly behind the other.

They smiled like commercial people. Their large violet eyes were blank. Their teeth were too perfect--straight and gleaming white.

He had been chosen, but there was no choice. They each took an arm, still smiling like Barker's babes, and lifted him into the sky.

One of his shoes slipped off, and, for a moment, that was his biggest concern. No matter where they were taking him, what was he going to do with only one shoe? He'd look like an idiot.

"End of an Empire"

2009-02-15T21:16:00.002-05:00

"Another gin and tonic, old chap?"

"Yes, thank you, Colonel."

"My pleasure." The colonel poured two glasses of gin with the slightest innuendo of tonic water. "Shan't get malaria at this rate, hmm?"

"Quite."

The two men sipped their drinks and considered India as seen from the colonel's veranda.

"I say," said the colonel, "as I was on my way to teach these savages how to enunciate correctly, I noticed this fellow who was quite impressively fat."

"Now there's a rare thing."

"And I thought there must be a way to taunt this wretched man for being so blasted corpulent."

"Indeed, colonel. Can't let these blighters running around, thinking it's fair play to be exceedingly portly or what have you."

"Quite right, my boy, quite right. And I thought, what if there was some sort of chant?"

"A chant, you say?"

"I mean, it's all very well to see such a creature and shout, 'Move along, fatty!' or 'You are too fat, sir!' But I think, as civilized people, we can do a bit better than that."

"What sort of chant, colonel?"

"I was thinking of perhaps suggesting that there were a number of pies."

"Yes?"

"And that someone had eaten them all."

"All the pies you say?"

"And that the person in question was our aforementioned fat fellow."

"I say, good show, colonel!"

Pardon my French

2008-11-19T11:12:00.003-05:00

Once again, I find myself writing characters who are explicitly English speakers. And the vast majority of them are also portrayed as monolingual (which, other than few phrases and scraps of vocabulary, describes many of the English-speakers I know).

This makes writing about time travel interesting, especially since my people seem to have worked out all those pesky 4th dimension issues.

For example, if I were to travel back in time, I should technically end up in this exact same spot and not King Arthur's Court (a few thousand miles away) or Golden Age Hollywood (a few thousand miles away in the other direction).

The Back to the Future movies follow this rule exactly, but I've largely neglected to think 4th dimensionally for various reasons. For one thing, it would require pinning down exactly where my English speakers live.

(I put a great deal of effort into not revealing where my last set of explicit English speakers lived. Of course, since their city includes the Parisian catacombs, the La Brea tar pits, London's St. James's Park in a remembered drug trip, and a Monorail, they don't really live anywhere.)

This group is probably American, although at least three characters could have slightly British speaking patterns.

But since I can't be bothered to think 4th dimensionally, the rule I'm really working to ignore is the "Everybody speaks English" trope. So, people going back in time to the Roman Empire or WWII Germany are pretty much completely fucked.

You could argue that almost no one has bothered to do the research is unrealistic, but how many people bother to learn a language before going abroad? And, given language evolution, someone who learned German in the future (at least fifty years from now, assuming someone invents a time machine tomorrow or something) probably wouldn't be speaking the same German as people spoke in the 1930's.

Latin's a bit different, but I assume there's going to be even fewer speakers in The Future. (Prove me wrong, Romaphiles.)

I've been "translating" for the most part, but the tricky thing has been having English speakers and non-English speakers talk at each other and deciding what is worth translating. I've decided--and my change my mind--to put some snippets of a foreign language in, which has led to Babelfishing.

For the most part it's been very minor phrases (or things I'm too embarassed to ask about, such as castration threats in Greek), but it's still probably not accurate. And, NaNo being NaNo, possibly self defeating since I'm robbing myself of at least two words per line of dialogue: "in [language]."

2008-11-12T09:53:00.003-05:00

This is probably a terrible year for me to do NaNo--I'm supposed to be finishing my student teaching this month. In fact, I should either be observing a class, grading papers, or making the last of my materials right now (or at least working on NaNo).

I'm falling further and further behind on my word count, and I should probably start looking for a job soon.

Despite this, I'm so happy to be writing again. I think during 6th block I'll go to the department office and write me a sex scene. Or kill somebody (fictional). Sky's the limit!!!

Tone Deaf

2008-11-10T09:44:00.002-05:00

NaNowise, I have no idea if I'm trying to be funny or serious. I also have no idea if this is a potential problem.

I'm also completely bored by my (original) protagonist. As far as I can tell, she's got no personality. I don't really have anything against her, but I can't say this fictional world is a better place with her in it.

God willing, the protag spot has shifted from Boring McDullAss to Nameless Crazy Bitch. Who actually is not that crazy, but I'm not sure how anyone else would react to her. I can't tell if she's too ridiculous or not quite over the top enough to justify some of this shit.

Not if you called them "stench blossoms"

2008-11-03T18:57:00.002-05:00

Given the need for multiple characters who (at this point) only appear briefly, I've already exhausted my "character name generating" abilities and have decided to start naming them after people I know.

Which isn't exactly new--I've named buildings, parks, and other geographical features after friends before, but usually just last names. I probably will alter the first names. I'd combine people, but that might make things even more awkward.

Although it'd probably be better to just make it a shout out in name only, I've found that it's almost impossible to avoid some personality bleed. While a friend doesn't necessarily act like or agree with her fictional namesake, I found the fictional version picking up some of the original's speech patterns. (The original might disagree.)

2008-11-01T18:25:00.003-04:00

Like an idiot, I did pretty much zero planning for this year's NaNoWriMo. So, it's November 1st, I don't have an outline, and based on my half-ass plan, I will probably need to do a lot of research.

Such as today, which involved looking up actual Roman names and more accurate versions of Biggus Dickus and Sillius Soddus (Mentula Maximus and Bene Futuis). Which still probably aren't that accurate, and may be changed so that English speakers can get the joke (Big/Maximum Penis and Good Lay/Fucking respectively)

On the other hand, I'm definitely sure that porcus festivus wasn't the actual Latin term for "sausage fest", but at least people can probably get that one.

In other news, I'm pretty sure I didn't win WOW's summer contest since the third week of October has based, and I haven't heard anything else.

Update in lieu of content

2008-10-07T11:54:00.003-04:00

Just like one of my last updates, I haven't been able to finish anything. And I don't even have much time to write.

I recently started something that at least let me know I might be wrong about never being able to write again, but it hasn't really gone anywhere.

"Contagion" has passed the first round of judging in the WOW! Summer Contest, and I'm still waiting to hear about the Steal from the Best contest. I'm also still waiting on the Writer's Digest Short Short Story Anthology I'm in, but I can't seem to find any contact information in my e-mail.

"More Public Domain Erotica"

2008-08-29T12:04:00.004-04:00

"I say, Holmes, what's going on?"

Sherlock Holmes took a long, seductive drag on his pipe before putting it aside. "Elementary, my dear Watson." He tore open his shirt, revealing a body as firm and toned as his brilliant mind. "I've got such a raging clue right now."

***

"Dorothy, you've always had the power to go home," Glinda said with a wicked smile. "Just click your heels together three times and say, 'I'm a dirty girl.'"

"All right." Dorothy's ample, totally legal bosom rose and fell as she took a deep breath. "I'm a dirty girl, I'm a dirty girl, I am a ditry girl!" As her clothes disappeared, Dorothy felt a strange thrill she'd never experienced back in Kansas.

"Yes, you are," Glinda purred. She tapped her wand against the palm of her hand. "Whatever are we going to do with you?"

A single tear rolled down the Tin Man's face. "Now why'd I have to go and ask the Wizard for a heart?" he said, "when I really needed was a hard on?"

***

Those Frenchies Seek Him Everywhere

Royalist that he was, it wasn't just d'Artagnan's famous Gascon temper that was aroused by the daring deeds of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Even the fact that one of them clearly lived in the 1600's and while the other fought the injustices of the French Revolution was no obstacle for the great friendship that quickly swelled their hearts and their loins; the sort of hot, sweaty, manly friendship that happened so easily in those romantic days, and which can barely be seen now in this lesser era where great heroes are few and far between.

***

Beowulf unfurled his finest weapon, made not of steel, but of hard flesh.

It was time to subdue the monster's dam in a way almost as pleasurable as battle.

2008-08-18T16:35:00.003-04:00

As I mentioned before, I've got some time on my hands right now, so I'm looking for short fiction markets right now.

I'd forgotten how miserably boring it is to scour Writer's Market, make sure websites are still active, and try to find something that would be a good fit. It's really making the "maintain writing blog and pretend to be an unrecognized genius" strategy seem much more awesome.

Last night/today I sent out somethings to a contest and two markets.

I won't hear anything from the contest until the end of September. Or I might not here anything at all. Based on what I read online from one of the recent contests, I don't know if it's a very good fit. Which makes submitting at all a poor strategy, but I'm a terrible judge of where some of my stuff belongs, and it is important to get stuff out there.

The other two markets seem to have quick turn around times. One of them is for stories under 100 words. It'd be nice to have somewhere to send those, especially if I start writing them once student teaching starts up.

Another problem is that all of my short work is too short--nearly all of it is under 2k, if not under 1k. I blame TV and video games for my depressingly short attention span.

I've also decided to keep a record of what I submit, when I submitted it, and who I submitted it to since I can't remember if I've sent out "Vertebrates" or just thought about it.

***
Speaking of Writer's Market, the 2009 editions are already out, which means my prize copies are already technically out of date.

I think the general rule is you can make do for at least 2 years (for example, I could squeak by until the 2010 editions come out), but short fiction markets also fold like nobody's business.

And, suspicion of junk mail lists or not, I did fairly well in the Short Short Story Contest. The real decision is whether or not to start looking at what I already have, or if I should wait until closer to the deadline(s).

Also, where's my anthology?

***

On the "Steal From The Best" contest front, apparently there were some spam issues, and it will still be a bit until judging is finished.

Other than getting glassy eyed while flipping through short fiction markets, I have no patience. I'm like Calvin waiting for the electric beanie.

2008-08-13T19:39:00.001-04:00

For whatever reason, not having very much to do doesn't make me very productive.

It's probably fortunate that I haven't become wildly successful since I've written fuck-all since my summer job ended.

Quitting smoking is probably a factor as well, but that's dangerously close to junkie thinking (the exact sort of junkie thinking that sends me right off the wagon. Or on the wagon. Whichever one means I'm smoking again.)

"Spoilers"

2008-08-07T17:38:00.000-04:00

[Second entry in Hazel St's "Steal from the best" contest. Several pre-readers wanted an introductory scene. I wrote one, but ultimately didn't like it.]

"I said I was sorry," said Brenda. She tapped her thumb against the steering wheel. "It was an honest mistake, and I really am sorry. Okay?"

Amber exhaled sharply through her nose. She stared straight ahead with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.

Brenda glanced at Amber, then back at the road. "I don't know what you expect me to do," said Brenda. "If I could do it over again, no, I wouldn't've said anything, but...seriously, this really isn't that big a deal. And I thought--"

"You might as well give up," said Amber, "because I am not speaking to you." She glared out the window for half a minute, exhaled angrily again, and turned to Brenda. "It was a violation of trust."

Brenda sighed. "I thought you already knew," she said. "Everybody kn--It's been on video for--It came out before either of us were born!"

"That doesn't make any difference," said Amber, "because I hadn't seen it. Why would I go see a movie I'd already seen?"

"Because it's a good movie? Because you wanted to see it again?" asked Brenda. "Any of the millions of reasons why people watch things multiple times?"

"You should've asked," said Amber. "And I think I would've mentioned it. I would've said something like 'Oh, I can't wait to see this again' or, or...don't try to change the subject!"

Brenda swatted Amber's pointing finger away from her face. "I don't care how pissed off you are--I'm driving."

"I hate it when somebody gives away the ending," said Amber. "Did I not make that clear?"

"It. Was. A. Mis. Take!"

"How would you feel if somebody ruined The 6th Sense for you?"

"He's dead the whole time," said Brenda. They seemed to be hitting every single red light--and heavy traffic--and she really wanted to get Amber out of the car. "Rosebud is the sled, the ship sinks, and Bruce Willis is dead. During the entire movie. Everybody knows those."

"Well, what if you didn't?" asked Amber. "And I told you? How would you feel then?"

"Now? If I had somehow managed to not figure out how any of those movies ended at this point in my life?" asked Brenda. "Whatever."

"Yeah, if you had," said Amber. "You'd be upset. Do you know why, Brenda? Because it's like...it's like rape."

"It is not like rape," Brenda said through clenched teeth. There might be a way to open the car door and push Amber out. If they were stopped, she probably wouldn't even get hurt.

Of course if she thought hearing spoilers for an old movie was like rape, there was no telling what she'd think of being pushed out of a stopped car. That was probably like the Holocaust in Amber's screwed up, melodramatic brain.

"You're only saying that because you already knew," said Amber. "You must be psychic, since you have no idea what it's like to have somebody ruin the ending for you."

"I know what it's like, but you're--"

"And you have no soul."

Brenda rolled her eyes. "Amber, I'm sorry, but you're being an idiot."

"No, I just have a little something called passion."

"Okay. Fine. You have passion; I'm a soulless monster. Got it."

"You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?"

"Amber, you cannot honestly tell me you have never heard anybody reference the end of that stupid movie."

"Well, I have now." Amber punched a few buttons on the radio and turned up the volume. "Thanks so much for that, by the way."

"Whatever."

"You owe me," said Amber.

"For what?" asked Brenda.

"For the ticket," said Amber.

"No."

"You're scum, you know that? You ruined a...a theatrical experience, Brenda. Does common courtesy mean anything to you?"

"Hey, Amber?"

"What?"

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

"Oh, that is just--"

Brenda pulled over and put on her emergency flashers. "Now unless you're going to act like a normal person, I want you out of my car," said Brenda.

"You're the one who's abnormal," said Amber. She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the door. It scraped across the curb, and Brenda could feel the veins throbbing in her neck and head.

"Don't bother to call unless you're going to apologize," said Amber.

"I'll keep that in mind," said Brenda.

Amber tried to slam the stuck door, then pushed it slightly. When the didn't do anything, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and stomped off.

"Jesus Christ," Brenda muttered. She wanted to scream something after her friend--something about how it was just a movie or maybe something a bit more cutting. But it was the middle of the afternoon, there were other people walking around, and somebody had to be the adult.

Brenda took a deep breath--still rehearsing something cruel to say to Amber--and jerked the car into drive. She slowly moved forward until the door was free and she could reach over to pull it shut. As she twisted the radio's volume knob down, she decided she didn't care to see where exactly Amber was going.

If Amber wanted to throw a hissy fit over a movie from the 30's, she could figure out the bus schedule or walk home or hitchhike. And since they clearly needed to avoid each other for a few days, Brenda merged back into traffic.

She was two blocks away when she noticed Amber's purse on the emergency brake between the two seats.

"Perfect," Brenda said to the bag. "Absolutely perfect."

Fortunately she had another red light to decide how soulless she felt like being.

"???"

2008-07-31T17:40:00.000-04:00

[First entry in Hazel St's "Steal from the best" contest. I'm posting this before judging has finished--and I forgot the title--so I may forget to go back and put the actual title in.]

Everybody called her George.

If she'd been a girl in a book, that would've meant that she always running off to do exciting things or go on amazing adventures. She'd correct people while barefoot, with her hands on her hips and her messy red hair hanging in her face.

But she had shoes--cheap, dull canvas sneakers--and boring brown hair. And even though she wasn't really A Girl Named George, a tomboy who was still sort of pretty if you looked hard enough, she wasn't much of a Georgina either. So adults called her George, and she had a boy's name without really earning it.

Every summer George and her parents and Hamburger the dachshund spent two weeks at the beach. They stayed at a house owned by her parents' friends, and George was convinced that it would be much better if it was her house and Hamburger was the only guest.

She and Hamburger would sit on the steps and look at the ocean--George wasn't allowed on the beach by herself--while the grown-ups drank white wine and laughed about all the things they weren't going to do because they were on vacation.

"This is the last time you'll see me with my face on for the next two weeks," said Mrs. M. She raised her glass and cackled like a witch as she spilled wine on herself.

"I think you've had enough," said Mr. M.

"Who cares?" asked George's Dad. "We're on vacation!" And they all howled like monkeys.

George hugged her knees and scowled at the ocean. She could see birds bob up and down on the waves.

"Don't even get cable," she said.

Hamburger lay down with his face between his paws. He was too short to catch a Frisbee, and her legs were too stumpy to chase a ball very far, but he was good to talk to.

A girl was walking down the beach. She had a big straw hat and no shoes and there wasn't anybody else with her. Lucky, thought George.

George had recently decided that, when she was old enough, she was going to run away and live all alone in the jungle. She'd build a treehouse and eat coconuts and do whatever she wanted. And she couldn't tell anybody about her plan because they'd just make fun of her.

The girl on the beach put a hand on top of her hat. The big green ribbon fluttered behind her, and her long blue skirt whipped around her ankles. It was too far to see how old she was--she could've been George's age, or maybe she had her own kids who didn't want to be there. But George felt like they were the same age, even if the other girl was wearing weird clothes.

George covered her ears as the grown-ups put on the vacation music. Every summer it was the same dumb thing, and it made George's stomach hurt.

Hamburger fell asleep with his chin on George's shoe.

The next morning George went to the beach with Mom and Mrs. M and Mrs. Peters. The three adults dragged chairs and towels and paperback books.

George sulked because Hamburger had to stay at the house. And because she had to wear one of her father's old T-shirts. It was too big and was from some TV show she'd never even heard of. Mom carried her towel, but George carried her neon green bucket and shovel.

For awhile she filled up the bucket, carried it back to the sand, and dumped it out. She could only go in the water up to her knees unless she had a grown-up with her, and they were sitting in their chairs and talking about getting tan.

George didn't tan--she burned. Sometimes she got freckles.

"...done something naughty," Mom was saying. She unwrapped her towel and held up a bottle.

"I want to go swimming," said George.

"In a little bit," said Mom. She pulled the cork out of the bottle--you could do it with your hands when it was sticking out like that--and drank.

"Can I have some?" asked George.

Mom wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the bottle to Mrs. M. "It's just for grown-ups," she said.

If she couldn't go swimming or have any wine, George decided she'd build a sandcastle. She didn't really want to, but it was better than just going in up to her knees.

It turned out to be a real ugly sandcastle. It was lumpy and lopsided, and George wished somebody would come and kick it down. When nobody did, she stomped on it herself.

"Somebody worked hard on that."

"No, I didn't." George turned around. It was the beach girl--George recognized the hat with the long green bow.

And she was the same age as George, even if she did have an old lady's hat and another long dress. This one was pink, and the hem was wet from going in the water. George could see bits of sand sticking to it.

"I saw you yesterday," said George. "How come none of your dresses match your hat?"

The beach girl shrugged. "I'm Cecily," she said.

"I'm George." After she said it she realized she could've used any name she wanted.

"I never met a girl named George," said Cecily.

George waited. Sometimes grown-ups said that her dad must've wanted a boy, or that it was such a shame that a pretty girl was stuck with a name like George. George thought it was a shame that anybody could get stuck with a name like "Georgina."

Cecily knelt down next to what was left of George's castle. "I'll help you make a better one," she said.

"I'd rather go swimming," said George. Cecily started to stand up, so she had to add, "But I can't. Unless my mom comes with me."

"Let's ask her," said Cecily.

George shook her head. "Making a sandcastle's okay."

Even before they started digging the moat George had decided that Cecily was going to be her friend for the summer. Because it wasn't fair for her to be the only one at Mr. and Mrs. M's beach house without a friend--except Hamburger, but he couldn't come to the beach.

As they finished smoothing the walls and started digging a narrow trench to the water, they talked about TV.

"Not at all?" asked George.

Cecily shook her head. "I've never watched any TV."

George was horrified at the thought of coming home from school and not being able to watch cartoons. "Jeez Louise, what do you watch?"

"Fish," said Cecily.

"I touched a stingray once," said George. "And I got to hold a starfish."

When the waves came in, water ran halfway up the trench before sinking into the sand.

"The holes are crabs," said Cecily. "So they can breathe."

"Huh," said George. "Our moat's busted." Her arms were bright red.

Cecily picked up the bucket. She and George ran into the ocean--only up to their ankles--when Cecily suddenly stopped and looked very sad. "I have to go now," she said.

George looked around. There were some people farther down the beach, and her grown-ups asleep in their chairs, but nobody seemed to be looking for Cecily.

"Now?" asked George.

Cecily bit her lip and nodded.

"Ask if you can come over later," said George. "Nobody'll mind. We're in that house." She pointed. "You can come over any time you want, and maybe I can ask if it's..."

Cecily hadn't gotten any bigger, but suddenly she looked a lot older. George had heard people say things like that before, but now she sort of knew what they meant.

"I don't think you should see this," said Cecily.

George covered her eyes and peeked between her fingers. It was bright, and the ocean smelled stronger, and everything tasted aquamarine. Just forget you ever saw it, she told herself. It's better than way.

But she couldn't, and she'd always wish she hadn't peeked.

And when it was all over, George was standing by herself by the edge of the water, holding her bucket with both hands.

She wrapped her towel around her shoulders--the grown-ups had fallen asleep in the sun--and went back to the house.

Later Mom would yell at her for not putting on more sunscreen and for leaving without telling anybody. And Dad would yell at Mom for letting her get so burnt. But it was awhile before that happened, and until it did George sat on the steps. Hamburger let her hold him in her lap and didn't complain when her tears fell on his rust-colored fur.

"Baby Rabies"

2008-07-19T11:55:00.001-04:00

Richard considered himself to be a fairly typical heterosexual man. However, Amanda's recent obsession with having a baby was starting to put a damper on things.

The ovulation calendar had been off-putting. The e-mailed links about sperm count and proper testicle temperature had been awkward--Richard no longer opened anything from his wife at work, and he had started to worry about his virility.

The large red circle on the new calendar and the "Let's Make a Baby!" banner definitely crossed the line.

Richard contemplated his wife as she sprawled across the bed in that sheer little red thing. He liked the sheer little red thing, with a generous helping of breasts and a teasing hint of ass, but he did not like Amanda's expression. He could tell she was only thinking about baby names and what color to paint the room.

And there was the catalogue of cribs and little outfits. This time she hadn't even bothered to place it on the nightstand or hide it under the pillow.

She saw him hesitating--he really did like the sheer little red thing
--and said, "Look, we've got to do it some time."

Richard was not entirely sure that this was true. "Well, yes, I do think we should do it as often as possible, but--"

Amanda wasn't smiling. "We've been over this," she said. "If not now, when?"

Richard had happily assumed that they had years for this sort of thing. Or that, if they had kids, it would just sort of happen at a time when they were completely ready for it. It wouldn't be scheduled, and it would not be conceived while his wife picked out items for the baby registry.

"I don't know if we're really ready for--"

"Fine." She threw up her hands. "I'll do it myself."

"That's--what?" Richard really needed some additional information on that one, but Amanda was already out of bed and looking for something in their closet. "How? Amanda?"

Richard carefully approached the closet. "It's just a lot of pressure to--could you at least get rid of that damn catalogue?"

She held out a plastic cup and smirked triumphantly. The cup looked disconcertingly medical--she'd been planning this. "I'll be looking at my paint swatches," she said. "Let me know when you're done."

As he stood there, alone in his bedroom with what was mostly definitely a sample cup, Richard realized that he was already pretty much done.

"Sabbatical"

2008-07-11T11:31:00.000-04:00

Personally, I only know one guy who went public. He really did it as an honesty thing--I've known Rick pretty much since I started this, and he's not the sort who'd do it for the money or the publicity.

Things have been awful for him. No privacy, crowds following him, people screaming at him because he wasn't there when their uncle/mother/fiance got hit by a bus or kidnapped by a supervillain. Or because he wasn't fast enough.

One thing nobody likes to talk about is that most of us aren't that fast. Maybe we can move a little bit quicker than the average person, but when it really counts, that's not enough.

Anyway, I know know why those people bother us and leave the SHNC alone.

SHNC--the Super Human Normalcy Committee. They were exposed to the gamma radiation, caught in the chemistry lab explosion, born on a distant planet, etc. And they're no good at acronyms, and they don't want to save lives.

Fair enough. It's not like any of us have to do--and there's times when I let a few things go just because I was too tired or just...

I'm not supposed to admit to this sort of thing, but the Big Boys have done it too. Sometimes we just need a break. And the ones who don't take a break when they needed it end up hijacking the WMDs and giving the speech about how everyone's going to appreciate them now.

Another of our dirty little secrets is that most supervillains started off as the "good guys".

We kind of want people to think we sacrifice a lot--and we do--but nobody misses every single Little League game or can never go out on a date. It's just like when you bring work home, and you're going to do it. It needs to get done. But around dinner time you just say to hell with it, or that friend you haven't seen in awhile is finally free.

Or sometimes you've already had a few, and that's not a good time to try to stop a train or fight your archenemy. Especially if your archenemy's had a few (nerves), because then it just gets weird.

Anyway, I've called in a few favors or taken a vacation--not the kind you think. I don't bring my costume with me, and, if there's some sinister plot afoot, I let the local capes handle it. If it's a "save the universe" sort of situation I don't play innocent bystander, but if they can handle it, I let them handle it. Especially in France.

French superheroes are good--I'm not about to slam a whole country--but they're very territorial. Especially if it's an American on vacation.

Back to the SHNC, they're on vacation all the time. And that's fine--sometimes I think those of us who dress up and save the world are at least a little bit nuts. But the SHNC wants everybody to know they have superpowers. They want to be able to fly to work, but not have to catch anyone midair.

And that's the ones who got the decent power set. I've got no idea what you'd do with super strength or aquatic telepathy in your normal life. Break stuff and not have to come up with an excuse I guess. And have somebody semi-interesting to talk to in the dentist's waiting room.

The thing that most of us can't stand about the SHNC is that they give us shit. They want us to unmask and be honest and out and proud.

I'm not ashamed of anything I've done, and I'm not really a big name, but if everybody knows who I am, I'm going to be in costume all the time. Metaphorically anyway.

It's different when you've never done anything--no established name, no rescues, no logo.

So, they're unrealistic, and they're just sort of dicks. Every so often they rip into the people who don't have any powers--the guys with mystical weapons or really good fighting skills or whatever.

Of course, if you're crazy and stubborn enough to do this when you don't even have to, you don't really care what the SHNC says.

And what gets me is that the SHNC doesn't say anything about the sidekicks. Every few months we get some dumbasses dressed up in crappy versions of our costumes--no powers, zero training. Our biggest fans who've decided to try to commit suicide in a cape.

(Most of us can't sew. And even those of us who can don't have the skills to make their own costume. It's a good way to tell who's completely new at this and if we're going to have to give them the Go Home speech.)

Sometimes we get an original--somebody completely unqualified who's decided it would be cool--but most of the names are taken. And a lot of it's because somebody just got a TV series or a movie came out, so here come the well-meaning kids in their Halloween best.

Most of us never see any money from the merchandise. We just get imitators/more potential hostages. Which is annoying, but you can also tell how popular you are. And you always remember the first time you're big enough to get a sidekick.

It usually happens right before they get kidnapped. They tell you how they've been studying your moves--it's less creepy when you're on the news most nights--and that they've trained. And then they fall in a trap or somebody sneaks up behind them. Sometimes they trip on their cape or their high heels.

That last one doesn't just happen to the girls.

But it doesn't always happen that way--sometimes they're smart enough to stay out of an actual fight or crime scene, but when it goes bad, it's an absolute nightmare.

It's only happened to me once, but that was the night I almost killed the Millennial Murderer.

I could've--the "killing would make me just as bad as them" thing isn't as widespread as you'd think. Yeah, there's some who'd never kill anybody ever, even if that's the only way to save the universe. Even if they traveled back in time and could actually kill Hitler without making things much, much worse, they still wouldn't do it.

And, you know, every single one of those sons of bitches pulls it off anyway. Not the WWII thing, because that's just ridiculous, but their "no killing solution" always works.

I've never really thought about having a full out code for that sort of thing, but I don't know if Millennial Murderer would've deserved it. I thought he did, but I don't know.

What freaked me out was that I was so pissed off, and I wanted to kill that asshole. And that's not good. Yeah, we get angry and we want to hurt these guys, but you've got to keep it sort of in check or people start asking those "who watches the watchers" kinds of questions.

If I'd been thinking about the pros and cons--like how many lives somebody like that could take out--I would've done it.

But I wasn't thinking about potential damage or lives lost/lives saved--I wanted to kill him because he'd just blown the head off some poor kid in high school who probably had a crush on me.

(That's usually what's going on when you see a male trying to sidekick for a female superhero--hormones.)

And that kid was in a crappy version of my costume, and I wasn't even able to get between him and the gun or push him out of the way fast enough.

I don't have super speed, and I'm not actively recruiting anymore than I'm encouraging assholes to get a gun and a stupid name.

So, I took a deep breath, and I did an arrest. (I think MM thought I was really going to rip his head off, or maybe he just really needed to piss all over himself.) And when it came to court, I put on my costume and testified.

The days of leaving a clever note and flying off to the next caper are done. Blame the lawyers.

But other than going to court, I didn't put my costume on for a month. I just went to my real job and felt like shit.

The kid wasn't the first one who died--we all know there's going to be a few we're just not going to be able to get to. But it was the first one who commandeered my outfit and my name, and that made it worse.

Finally, one of the others came to talk to me. We've traded SI's, so he wasn't masked up, and I really can't say who it is.

You probably think he gave me The Speech. The one about great power and coming to earth to save the normals--everything you make us say in the unauthorized stuff.

Nobody ever gives that speech. Unless they've got absolutely no idea what we are, and they're really talking about something else.

The guy who talked to me has a kid who got some of the powers. Maybe that gives it away, but the kid demanded to join the family business, and my friend's still worried and unhappy about that.

He just said he hadn't seen me--the other me--for awhile. And I said I just wasn't in the right mood, and I didn't know if it was time to just pack it up. And he nodded and said it happens--just wanted to see what was going on.

And we talked shop for awhile--bullshit stuff. He's got a bigger skill set than I do, and even some of our overlap stuff isn't really comparable. He's--and you'll probably figure it out, but it's no names either way--alien who came to earth, I'm freak accident.

Mostly we talked about redesigns. Everybody changes part of their costume every once in awhile--stuff goes out of style, you get bored with some of it, the thing that looks really cool is uncomfortable.

Little changes usually go pretty well, but sometimes people get completely new costumes, and it goes completely wrong.

Sometimes it's like high school--Dr. Justice or Exceptionella comes up with a new look, and it's just pure crap, and nobody ever tells them. We whisper about it at team meetings or during fights, but nobody ever lets them know we think they look like crap.

And just like high school you can't actually say anything to them because they won't take it well, and some of us shoot fireballs.

So my friend and I were talking about this kind of stuff. Mostly Mr. Wonder, who'd decided to put logos all over himself--chest emblem, belt buckle, boot tops, sleeves, pretty much everything short of a codpiece emblem--that's when I knew I was going to get back to it eventually.

Because it's bad sometimes, but you really don't have a chance at getting out of it. I don't know anyone who ever managed to stay retired for more than a couple of months unless they were dead and actually stayed that way.

I didn't suit up the same night we ragged on Mr. Wonder--it was still a couple of days after that and only because Ruinatrix started giving me shit--but I knew it was only a matter of time.

And I felt better once I was back in costume. Really great catching Ruinatrix in the act, especially when she decided she didn't want to go quietly. Reaching for some very expensive things, right in front of a live security camera.

Interview me while I'm in costume, and I'll tell you about truth and justice and that wonderful feeling you get when you save somebody. Or about wanting to use my powers for good instead of evil.

And that's true--I do think that way and that's part of it--but beating the shit out of some crap sack who thinks they can ignore all the rules the rest of us have to put up with? There are very few things that're better than that.

"Meeting with Godot"

2008-07-08T13:24:00.004-04:00

This is a fictionalized version of the final project for a summer drama class. Some of the dialogue is verbatim, but may not be in the time or context it originally happened.

"At the end, can we have Godot come? Because it just sort of ends."

Instead of actually running lines, Rose and her scene partner have decided to work on highlighting their scripts and completely missing the point.

"Um," I say. "That's...that's sort of the whole point of the play. That he doesn't...he never shows up. Ever." They stare at me. "Remember when we read it in class? On Friday?"

"I was half asleep on Friday," says Jenna, the scene partner. "Like I am every day in this class."

I let it go. Poor classroom management, but I've got an awesome monologue ready on poor attitudes and The Problem With Kids Today. I could easily fill the entire hour and ten minutes of class with it, which is not constructive. And it's still two months before my 27th birthday, so I am not ready to accept that I am old enough to go into Kids Today.

"That's the whole point of the play," I say. "Godot doesn't come--everyday Vladimir and Estragon wait for him, but--"

"Are they gay?" asked Jenna.

"What?"

"Vladimir and Estragon." She adds a "are you deaf?" eye roll. "Are they gay?"

"No. Well, they're as gay as they are straight." Maybe I should've just said yes. Then they'd forget about fucking up Waiting for Godot and react the way modern kids react to gay people. Not that I actually know what that would be.

"So they're bisexual," says Jenna.

I don't think we had bisexuals when I was this age--you just had to pick one or the other.

"No," I say. "They're...they're not really anything. They're just two guys who--two people--"

"Can I be a girl?" asks Rose.

"Yes," I say. "I mean, it doesn't really matter, since--"

"So we can have Godot come?" asks Rose. "It'll make me happy."

"That's..."

I should find something else for them. I should curse their former scene partner for backing out when she saw that she'd actually have to learn lines.

But it's too early in the morning, and I can't think of a reason for giving them another scene other than, "I really like Beckett's work, and I'm afraid you're going to ruin it."

"Yes," I say. "You can have Godot come."

I've been trying to convince myself that it doesn't matter what they do. As long as they go on stage and do something, Moms and Dads and Grandmas will be happy. They'll say how good the kids were and talk about how they've never known a big star before.

Now I'm wondering if it would be in poor taste to pass out a disclaimer: Ms. Larsen has a B.A. in English. She has taken courses in theater and Irish Literature. She is not a complete idiot and is going totally Pontius Pilate on tonight's performance of Meeting with Godot.

***

The next day I discover that, not only will Godot finally turn up, Vladimir and Estragon are essentially being portrayed as pre-teen girls.

"Can Godot be a fairy princess?" asks the student director.

I have two groups and each has a student director. This is both to give the non-performing students a chance to participate, and so I don't have to do it.

Sadly, the student director scam has been much more effective with the Godot group. I have largely taken over Pyramus and Thisbe--my rude mechanicals take direction so well--and their student director has stared blankly and then wandered off in the face of watching the scene and making suggestions.

I am trying not to make it obvious that I'm having a great deal of fun with Pyramus and not so much with Godot. And now...

"Can Godot be a fairy princess?"

If there is an afterlife, Samuel Beckett is going to kick my ass when I get there. And I'm not going to fight back or anything because I know I deserve it.

Well, not if James Joyce comes in. That bastard deliberately wrote Ulysses; I'm hoping something will happen to cancel the world's worst summer camp production of Waiting for Godot.

"If you're going to have Godot come, you can make him whatever you want," I say.

"Maya, you're a fairy princess!"

Even though I'm not going to get an erection and everything that comes with it, I'm seriously thinking of hanging myself.

***

"It's...it's a hot mess."

"Yeah, well..." I shrug. "As long as they do something...I could have them walk across the stage and bow, and the parents would love it."

"Yeah."

The class assistant and I are in the prop room. Godot is considering performing barefoot, despite the persistent rumors of nails on stage, and I have decided to make them a tree.

I'm cynical--they're probably going to complain, and I'm going to lose it--but a tree would make them happy. And it'll help me atone for resenting a pair of twelve year old girls who just want to put on a show.

Shit, I don't even know if they are twelve yet.

Amid all the mess and musty clothes smell of the prop room there isn't even a single Charlie Brown tree. Somehow none of the regular year productions have ever needed any foliage or, if they did, they went the scenery route.

So, we make one. We get one of the baskets and stuff it with fake ferns, stray leaves, and something brown and twisted that we can't quit identify. We top the whole thing with green and blue tinsel and call it a tree.

Our only set piece is also a hot mess. Even Linus wouldn't bother to give this thing a little love.

We're still howling with laughter as we carry our horrible tree and an assortment of black shoes up to the stage.

None of the shoes fit, but they're thrilled about the tree.

***

I spend the actual--and only--performance backstage, wildly flailing my arms to tell the actors to enter, exit, open the curtain, close the curtain, and project. At no point am I actually able to watch what they're doing as anything other than the person trying to make sure everyone's in the right place at the right time.

"I thought they were so good," says the school nurse when it's all over.

I wish the concession stand was a full bar.

"And that Jenna is just a natural," says the nurse. "Don't you think so?"

"Yes," I say, "I think she's...I think she's got the most innate talent of the class."

"Weren't they good?" asks the nurse. "Didn't you think they were good?"

I honestly have no idea.

"The Gentleman or The Tiger"

2008-07-05T16:11:00.004-04:00

An unfamiliar voice was singing in the shower.

That was the problem with Irish funerals--open bar. Everyone talking and drinking and then if you couldn't think of anywhere else to go...

Donna rubbed her temples. Actually, the problem was Irish-American funerals--the ancestors dragged their traditions and alcoholism across the Pond, they raised their kids and grandkids in the land of Prohibition and Puritans, and you just didn't have the training when it came down to a good old fashioned binge. Because you watched prime time while all the real Irish went down to the pub.

So you drank too much and--god, who'd still been there? How many friends and family knew she'd had a one night stand at her uncle's funeral?

At least the voice--singing the "most popular words" version of "Molly Malone"--didn't remind her of anyone. Friend of the family if God was merciful. Obscure second cousin if He wasn't.

Donna had been sad. She'd cried, but she knew in her heart that she hadn't been devastated. She definitely hadn't been grief stricken enough to semi-excuse getting shit-faced and...

Was it technically even a one night stand?

The strange voice had switched to "Thank You For the Music". Clearly no morning after guilt hangover. It was either for her--Jesus Christ--or a bit of personal applause.

At least she was in a hotel--that she'd booked ahead of time, sparing herself the shame of not coming back to a family member's guest bedroom.

And if you showered and changed, it didn't really count as the walk of shame. Unless it was about attitude.

She checked the bedside clock--still early. She never slept well in hotel rooms.

Maybe she hadn't done much sleeping. That was slightly better than alcohol-fueled grief--all the confused feelings and mourning coming out in a slurred blaze of free wine.

Thankfully there was no one left from the Old Country. They would've matched her, glass for glass, and still been standing when she staggered off to really make an ass of herself.

Something worse than friend or unheard of cousin occurred to her--waitstaff. Or officiant. But they'd probably seen this sort of thing before. They could have their pick of hot widows and other vulnerable mourners.

The water turned off.

Donna finger-combed her hair, wiped off the last of her smeared make-up, and prepared to greet her consoler in the too bright light of the next morning.

"E4Opening S--- and the Inconvenient Truth"

2008-06-27T15:38:00.001-04:00

[I wrote this as a birthday present for my father. Surname edited to keep my mom from getting mad at me. Al Gore's dialogue is largely inspired by his Futurama appearances.]

David “E4Opening” S--- took off his fedora to wipe the sweat off his brow. The leather jacket was a stupid idea—like engaging in an online chess battle when he wasn’t completely focused—but sometimes you had to look the part.

Whether you were stopping a man in or out of court, you had to dress the part.

“Well, Mr. S---, you may have actually graduated from Vanderbilt Law, but you don’t have my Inconvenient Weather Machine.” Al Gore smirked. Ever since losing the 2000 election, the man had gotten fat, but he hadn’t gotten any less smug. “It looks like climate change is man made after all.”

“In the 70’s we thought there was going to be another ice age,” said David. “People have nothing to do with it. The earth goes through climate changes all the time!”

“Even if you don’t believe in Global Warming, my lengthy slide show presentation should convince you,” said Al Gore. He pressed a button on his Inconvenient Weather Machine—set to “None Like It Hot”—and a screen came down from the ceiling. “I think a few hours of boring statistics should change your mind, Mr. S---. Just look at this prediction for the polar ice caps!”

No matter what was happening to the climate, some things never changed. For example, Al Gore was still an idiot.

“Why should I listen to someone who couldn’t even win his own state in—“

Al Gore’s eyes narrowed. “They stole the election from me, Mr. S---. Ask your daughters if you don’t believe me.”

“Well, consider the source.”

“Everybody knows the 2000 election was stolen,” said Al Gore. “I know how they all laughed at me. But who’s laughing now that I have this?”

David winced at the sight of Al Gore’s Nobel Peace Prize.

He should’ve rented a tux. James Bond wouldn’t put up with this kind of crap. “Why are you doing this?”

“Your wife should’ve been nicer to me,” said Al Gore. “You all you’ve been nicer to me—my father was a state senator!”

“My father was a chemist.” He pulled a small bomb—that also took high quality digital photos—out of his jacket, pressed the timer, and hurled it at the Inconvenient Weather Machine. “Say cheese, Mr. Vice President.”

Even with a recession and the end of film, Kodak still took care of its own.

“You fool!” Al Gore shouted as his machine exploded. “Do you know how much you just increased your carbon footprint?”

“We can’t all have a private jet,” said David.

“I have speaking engagements,” said Al Gore. “And you haven’t heard the last from me, Mr. S---. I’ll be back—with another Oscar winning documentary!”

David let him go. After two liters of Diet Big K Cherry Cola, he had more pressing concerns than Al Gore.

Let's talk about sex, baby.

2008-06-27T14:32:00.003-04:00

I am so sick of people following over backwards to say how they couldn't believe something was written by a man.

As far as I know it always goes this way--female protagonist/narrator, written by a man, everyone is very fucking surprised.

I have yet to hear of/encounter a female author being praised for writing a convincing male character. Usually you'll hear about how women just don't understand men--the character is either too effeminate or ultra-masculine (in an unconvincing way). Or women are simply expected to write male characters because male characters are the default.

I'm not saying that there aren't people who suck at writing the opposite gender. There are plenty of them, male and female, who end up with awkward stereotypes or wish fulfillment characters.

(And wish fulfillment isn't necessarily an opposite sex/sexual preference sort of thing. Authors are just as likely to create people they want to be along with people they want to be with.)

I can't really complain wish fulfillment. I've done enough of it--both blatantly and as a brainstorming exercise (what would I do if I could do this?)

A few years ago I mentioned that I was working on something with a male protagonist and someone asked if I felt I could do that. Up until that point I hadn't given it much thought--I was just going with what the character would do. The way things were set up, it was easier to take the male characters point of view than to risk too much of my female protagonist's and end up in a Kill Bill vol 2 situation (I liked the Bride so much better as a soulless killing machine.)

And that's still how I feel. If I start writing male characters as "this is a man and needs to act in a manly way" (or female characters as "this is a woman and needs to act in a womanly way"), it's just going to be a great big stereotype parade. And if it's really an interesting, believable character, that social/cultural stuff will probably sort itself out.

As for the book I'm reading right now, I am not overwhelmed by the author's sensitivity and deep connection to my noble gender. I mean, there's a lot of us, and we really don't all think exactly the same way.

(And based on this book and a few others, my male characters tend not to be perverts and/or rapists. Okay, there's probably a few perverts, but that's really none of my business.)

The Penal Colony

2008-06-25T15:38:00.002-04:00

I'm spending most of this summer working at a nerd camp.

I say this as someone who went to nerd camp myself--several stints at the Arts and Sciences Camp, an "Art Fart" at Girl Scout Camp, at least one trip through Duke's Creative Writers' Workshop.

Not that I remember having any homework. Or study hall. I think we may have been forced to play sports in the afternoons, but there either weren't any assignments or they were a bit subtler about it.

Right now I've only got the drama class, but I'm growing increasingly concerned about the creative writing class I'm taking over next session.

I came into this with the assumption that kids wouldn't sign up for classes like drama and creative writing unless they were interested in drama and creative writing. And I have gotten some good performances, but they don't really seem to be enjoying the process.

As an English tutor/teaching student, I've gotten very used to students having a different idea of "fun." And friends and family have had to remind me that, when it comes to making stuff up, I am probably some sort of freak.

Coming up against the "imagination wall" in drama class is frustrating/disappointing, but it's going to be an absolute nightmare in creative writing class. I mean, at least I can give out scripts and give direction--what in god's name am I going to do if I have writers who are too afraid of being wrong?

And the imagination wall is something I see a lot. Kids who, for one reason or another, are afraid of giving the wrong answer, even when there is no wrong answer. I've seen it a lot with tutoring clients, but I really wasn't expecting it here.

Odds and ends

2008-06-19T16:48:00.003-04:00

Other than "Health and Safety", I haven't been doing much writing since I started my summer job.

I'm still waiting to hear back from Hazel St. for the "Steal from the Best" contest. Since the judging was pushed back, I assume it'll be awhile. I just wish there was a slightly better deadline so I'd know when to say, "Oh, well" and move on to the next thing.

I could go either way on how much writing I'm actually going to do over the next five weeks. I'm really busy, but sometimes that helps. I start coming up with more ideas as a way to relax.

In two weeks I'll be teaching a creative writing class. That could also go either way.

"Feline Loyalty"

2008-06-19T10:26:00.003-04:00

The cat darted in front of K as they both went down the stairs.

"Stupid cat," said K. "If I break my neck, who's going to feed you?"

The cat meowed impatiently. A typical breedless tabby--no traceable lineage, but there was probably some Siamese in there somewhere.

K fed the cat, started the coffee, and went upstairs to shower.

***

As soon as the door opened, the cat whined and wailed.

"It's not din-dins," said K. She set down her bag and flipped through the mail.

The cat rubbed against her legs, purring and whining.

"Don't trip me," said K as they went to the kitchen.

The cat did figure eights around K's ankles.

"It's still not din-dins," said K.

The cat was plaintive, then irritated.

"I'm not going to feed you," said K.

K fed the cat and opened an envelope. "Who the hell would try to sell me life insurance?" She looked at it again.

The cat stopped eating and stared at K with wide, guilty yellow eyes.

"Weird," said K as she rubbed the cat's ears. "Must be a mistake." She glanced at the letter and held it up for the cat. "Look, puss-puss: I'm worth more dead than alive."

The cat sniffed the letter and meowed.

"But not to my little pusskin," said K. She gave the cat a kiss and dropped the letter in the trash.

The cat purred and ate her dinner.

"Health and Safety"

2008-06-13T19:41:00.002-04:00

My biggest fear used to be that, if I yawned outside or while eating something sweet, a bee would fly in my mouth and sting me.

I can't remember if bee stings on your arm are a big deal if you're not allergic, but you need immediate medical attention if one stings you in the mouth. And loads of therapy.

I saw it happen to a kid once. He wasn't very big, but I'm terrible at guessing their ages. They're all just sort of kids, until...

Anyway, a bee flew in his mouth, and he just screamed like he was being torn apart. Not that I blame him, but sometimes when somebody just screams you remember it. His mouth started to swell up really fast and...ugh.

But now that's only second biggest fear. Now my fear is that I'm going to collapse at CPR training and get turning into a practice dummy (ha ha). And everyone else'll get something better to practice on, and I'll be the Girl Who Couldn't Cut It.

I've completely lost count, my arms hurt, I'm dizzy from breathing into a plastic mouth to try to fill up a plastic bag, and--

"You're not doing it hard enough."

I toss my hair back, out of my face. "I'm doing it as hard as I can." I want to sound confident. I may be a scrawny, feeble-armed bimbo, but I want to sound like a ball-buster. Like I eat pieces of shit like him for breakfast--and not in like a sexy way. Or like eating shit.

But I don't sound firm and in control--I sound whiny.

"Put your weight into it."

I shift position. I'm leaning into an armless, legless torso that's supposed to click if I'm doing it right. And, okay, maybe I noticed that it wasn't actually clicking, but maybe I was just in the zone. The life saving zone.

If my dummy were an actual person--and if he had more than a bald head and what's supposed to look like a human torso--he'd be dead by now. At least I'm supposed to pretend he's unconscious, so I can't really imagine that he's suffering or anything. Maybe he's already in fake victim practice Heaven.

I put my weight into and start over. One and two and three and...

Maybe collapsing isn't such a bad idea after all. It'd be helpful, and I would have to keep doing thirty/two, thirty/two until I'm too exhausted or my dummy sits up and starts breathing again.

"Rehearsal"

2008-06-12T23:12:00.001-04:00

During a lull in the conversation, after all the What've you been up to's and the How's works, she says, "You know, you don't need an excuse to talk to me."

She wanted to say it a few months ago, with slightly different phrasing, but hadn't managed to.

"Well, I haven't heard much from you," he says, but it's still light.

She smiles awkwardly. "I couldn't think of an excuse."

"This is the way"

2008-06-07T13:07:00.000-04:00

[This is the last of the stories entered into this year's Style Weekly Fiction Contest. Of the stories submitted, it's the one I like the least and easily the most pretentious. The contest judges apparently disagree, as this was the second story to receive an honorable mention.]

Like a heart beat the last parade marches down Claremont Avenue.

People stand on their toes, peering over each other's heads, as the marching band stops, the drums falling silent, and the men and women in their smart red uniforms and bright brass buttons stare up at the sky in horror.

Playing well with others

2008-06-02T20:22:00.002-04:00

A lot of my ideas lately have been more suited to a visual medium. Which is unfortunate, because I really don't have the ability to make that happen. I could try, but I wouldn't be happy with the result unless I was in the mood for stick figures (and that's just been so overdone by all the other self-proclaimed clever people who can't draw).

And my usual sort of writing is solitary. While I ask for and accept constructive criticism, I can always tell those people to go fuck themselves because I'm an artist and they don't understand my vision. I try to avoid these sort of things--I don't even like talking about my artistic vision--but I could. Anytime I wanted to, and what's the worst that could happen? I could tell the whole damn world that they're too stupid to understand the true meaning of my crappiest writing, and there's nothing they could do to stop me from writing it.

Doing this with a collaborator doesn't work as well.

This probably makes me sound like I'm incapable of working with anyone else, but I assume it's a difficult transition. Presumably both the hypothetical artist and I would be relying on each other to make up for the lacking skills.

And we both probably have our own ideas than transcend our skill set. I sort of know what the people/things I make up look like (although it sometimes it's only detailed enough that I'd know what looks wrong as opposed to exactly how they would look). And I'd assume that Hypothetical Artist would have some story ideas of their own.

"Poison"

2008-05-30T13:02:00.000-04:00

[This short received honorable mention in Style Weekly's fiction contest.]

Alice's mother had very old fashioned ideas and quite an extensive collection of interesting looking old bottles.

Alice never learned to read—a tragic end.

"Easter"

2008-05-23T13:03:00.001-04:00

The Magdalene folds in on herself, not sure if she's laughing or crying.

It'll be three days before the fear and despair crawling through her skin will be replaced with joy, the fiercest joy she's ever known, but even in sadness there's a voice singing in her head: He did it, he did it, he actually did it

She still doesn't know why her sides are shaking or if her face is wet, but there's a body to tend to (always the work of women whether sinners or saints) and more work that must be done.

Now a burial—later, the angels.

Chekhov's Gun

2008-05-17T15:17:00.000-04:00

[This one is potentially spoiler heavy for non-English majors.--KK]

"One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it."--Anton Chekhov, 1889

Although Chekhov's gun usually comes up in theater, I think it's even more important for prose.

If you're building a set, you've actually got to build it and come up with appropriate stuff to put on there. (However, if you've got a gun or some other weapon front and center and people keep looking at it, you should probably use it.)

With prose, the only things that have to be there are what the author includes. I'd say that any sort of weapon--gun, knife, poison, etc--that gets a lot of description time needs to be used at some point.

I don't think a subversion of Chekhov's Gun is inherently good. Every form of writing has picked up a lot of cliches, and I think there are some that you just have to go with, especially in something serious. Comedy has a lot more leeway and, if it's funny enough, you can humorously subvert almost anything.

In drama (as in serious material), I think you've got to weigh if the subversion is worth it. With Hedda Gabler's dueling pistols you either know or want at least one of those guns to go off. With Agamemnon you know he's not coming out of his house again--and how disappointing is it going to be if he and his wife stroll out of there, alive and well, a few beats later?

The problem with subverting Chekhov's Gun is that nothing happens. Regardless of how much build up you have--just a piece of set dressing or characters actively threatening each other--the reader/audience still wants something to happen.

The only slightly effective attempt to avoid the rule is still sort of disappointing. Character A pulls a gun on Character B. Character A, usually with hands shaking, aims the gun at Character B's face. A and B stare at each other, and perhaps B suggests that A won't actually go through with it (B can either be perfectly calm or begging for his life). A pulls the trigger...but the gun clicks harmlessly and doesn't fire.

In the jammed gun cheat, you arguably get all the fun of Chekhov's gun without actually having to kill anyone off. I use the word "cheat" because it's still not very satisfying, and often there is absolutely no follow up.

Although I have no personal experience with this, I think that trying to shoot someone--even if the gun malfunctions--is a pretty big deal. But in all the JGC's I can remember seeing, the characters go their separate ways. Nobody, not even A, alludes to the fact that A was about to blow somebody's face off, and B reacts as if someone holds a gun only a few inches from his face every day.

(All right, if B were Superman the lack of reaction would be a bit more understandable, but since bullets bounce off Superman's eyes, guns are fired until they run out of ammo)

With prose--and I don't think I've ever seen a JGC here, or at least not a memorable one--it's very difficult to maintain suspense without falling into "Where the fuck did that come from?" While anything that makes the reader where the fuck it came from must be surprising/suspenseful, that doesn't mean it's well done. And I think I'd prefer too many "Holy Fuck" moments over a reverse Chekhov's Gun.

"Obsolete"

2008-05-16T13:01:00.000-04:00

"What is that?"

He beamed. "It's a car phone. Never seen one of those before, huh?" He leaned back against the car with a satisfied smile. "Cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it."

She held up her slim, sleek cell phone. It was a bit unfair to call it a "phone"; it was also a camera, photo album, mp3 player, address book, miniature video game console, web browser, video player, and—if damaged—an objet d'art/paperweight. It was the lovely young cheerleader to the car phone's fat, awkward nerd.

"That thing's bigger than my landline," she said.

"Let's say I'm driving—in my car—"

"Duh."

"And I get a flat tire. Or the engine craps out on me, or—"

"I get it."

"All I have to do is—"

"Can you take that thing out of the car?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Brenda, Brenda, Brenda….It's a car phone. Car phone stays with the car."

She took in his pinstriped suit, gelled hair, and yellow tie. Her nose wrinkled at the slight glimpse of suspender under his jacket, and she gave the antiquated phone a scornful look. "The 80's are over, Mitch."

He lifted his car door open and sighed before turning to her with a sad, lost look in his eyes. "But why didn't anyone tell me?"

Style Weekly Fiction Party

2008-05-14T12:50:00.002-04:00

As much as it pains me to admit it, my sister was right: entries that included multiple objects did better in the Style Weekly Fiction Contest than mine.

Last night I attened the contest party at the Richmond Valentine Museum, the place where said objects live, and read the two entries that received honorable mention. You can find them under "Impending Doom" at the second link. Or, if you're patient, they are eventually going to appear here. (god bless scheduled posting)

There are also recordings of all of last night's readings up on the SW site if you would like to hear the soothing sounds of my--and other--voices. I have no idea what the sound quality is like because, although I do love to hear myself talk, I can't stand listening to recordings of myself.

"Chains"

2008-05-09T12:59:00.001-04:00

Edith, who wasn't greedy or cold-hearted (just determined), woke up to the sound of clanking.

Almost one—she'd fallen asleep only about an hour ago. Cocktails, schmoozing with the German investors—trying to get them on her side while letting them know that Edith Benzer wasn't some cringing little bimbo from Hicksville, Maryland.

And now—Christ, she had an early meeting in the morning (the spring campaign) and a flight to freaking Tokyo in the afternoon—and now there was clanking and rattling and something metal being dragged across the floor. Scraping the floor she'd paid good money for after working like a dog to get that money.

"Oh, for the love of—" Edith sat up, and there was Marty. Boardroom warrior, corporate berserker, dead from a heart attack at thirty-nine Marty. With chains and some small safes and a frigging piggy bank around his neck.

"Marty. Not that it isn't great to see you again, but do you have any idea how busy I am?"

Marty moaned and rattled his chains. "Edith," he wheezed, "I—"

"Seriously, this is a bad time for me, Marty," said Edith. "And if you're going to haunt me, at least show some god damned originality, for Pete's sake. Make it your own."

"Edith, I've come to warn you," said Marty. "These cha—"

Edith took her calendar from the bedside table and flipped it open. "You forged 'em in life, Marty. We all saw the Mickey Mouse cartoon." She grimaced as she skimmed the pages. "If we absolutely have to do this, I can pencil you in for March."

"You get used to it"

2008-05-07T08:06:00.000-04:00

A group of kids rushed over--I can't remember if my sister was with me or not. "Your cat did something bad!"

I looked up, and there was Garfield. He swaggered across the street with a limp squirrel in his mouth--a grey tabby version of a turn of the century hunter/adventurer.

He dropped the squirrel on the lawn, and the kids looked horrified as I praised him for it. Garfield purred, and I don't know if I ever bothered to explain to the kids that that's just what cats do.

***

Zoot was still an indoor cat when she killed her first bird. It flew through the front door, and she snatched it out of the air. The bird survived the first blow, but it didn't last much longer.

My father picked it up with a plastic bag and stuffed it in the trash.

When I came home and we heard the story of Zoot's first kill, I found a dead bird under a blanket upstairs. I checked the trash--the original bird was still there--and went upstairs to pick up another dead bird.

When a cat leaves an intact corpse--which doesn't always happen--you can use a paper bag as a glove. Put your hand in the bag, pick up the dead thing, turn the bag inside out, and throw it away.

It still isn't pleasant, but it's better than dealing with something that's been split open--sometimes Garfield would eat parts of them, and then he'd usually throw it up again.

But Zoot's second dead bird was still in one piece, and I had just enough time to think about how warm it was for a dead bird before it flew down the hallway.

We captured it in a box--Garfield taught us that it's much harder to catch something if you don't want to hurt it--and the bird went outside.

Zoot still hasn't killed her second bird, just a small dead rodent on the front steps and a similar dried up body under the piano, but she still has time.

***

When I arrive at a student's house for afternoon tutoring, one of their cats is chasing a chipmunk. All of the children are watching, and all of them are getting upset.

Three of them charge outside to rescue the chipmunk. One of them yells at the cat.

"Poor chipmunk," my student says.

"It's just how cats are," I say.

His parents are divorced and his father's remarried. The cats came with the second wife, so I'm not surprised that my student hasn't adjusted, but I don't know why his step-siblings aren't used to it yet.

I think about Garfield. I remember trying to save a rabbit--the vet put it down--and hating the cat for knocking over the sort of exotic pets I don't have the patience for anymore.

Once I sat on the top of the stairs, telling Garfield I hated him because he knocked over my anole's cage. Garfield purred and my mother told me that's just how cats are.

Now I'd rather remember my cat as a vicious hunter, proud of his trophies despite the shocked kids who're probably in high school and college, than as a thin, dying shadow.

There are some things you don't get used to.

No news is bad news

2008-05-06T12:53:00.003-04:00

I'm not happy about my entry for the 24 Hour fiction contest. If not for the fact that I'd already ponied up a modest entry fee, I probably wouldn't have bothered to send anything in.

It's not a time issue--topics are very tricky things. Sometimes I'll see one and just go off on it. If it's a good fit, the thing practically writes itself or at least I've got an idea I love to whip into shape.

But when I try to write to a topic I don't like--such as college application essays and forced autobiography--it's miserable. I have a hard time thinking of anything, and the end result usually isn't very good.

Wish me luck wih Steal from the Best (I don't think they've hit the deadline yet.) I'll have some Style Weekly contest entries for you later this week.

Some of you may have seen a slightly different version of this post earlier today. I got an e-mail about an event for Style Weekly fiction contest winners and assumed that, since I was hearing about the event but not that I was expected to be there, I didn't place.

This proves that being a woman of letters doesn't make one smart, as I later received a call telling me that two of my entries had received an honorable mention.

The non-winning stories will be making an appearance soon, but it might be awhile before I can post the two honorable mentions.

"Dare"

2008-05-03T10:58:00.002-04:00

"I mean, you don't have to do it," said Lexi. "If you're just a big baby."

I gave her my meanest look. "I am not a baby," I said.

Sometimes I really hated Lexi--I hated her dumb shoes and her dumb name and her stupid face.

But her mom was friends with my mom, and that meant that me and Lexi had to be friends too.

I thought you shouldn't have to be friends with somebody just because your moms were friends, but nobody ever listened to me. Especially big, dumb Lexi, who nobody liked anyway.

"You're acting like a baby," said Lexi.

We were standing in front of the big drain by my house. It was full of leaves and maybe water, and cats liked to go in it. I didn't know what they did, and they always came back out eventually.

When I told Lexi that it was her idea to go down the drain, she told me that's why I had to go first. Then she said I was a baby.

I crouched down and tried to see inside. There was no way I was going to fit, but if I just stuck my arm in, that might be enough. That might shut her up.

It made me feel good to think that. I wasn't supposed to tell people to shut up, but it was okay to think it.

I lay down in the road and started to reach inside. It hadn't rained for awhile, but the leaves down there were still wet. I hoped they were leaves anyway. But they probably were--not a monster or a dead body--and even if they weren't really leaves, I couldn't let Lexi know I was scared.

"Hurry up," said Lexi. "You're too slow."

With some kids I could've pretended something had got me, and they'd scream, and then we'd laugh about it later. With Lexi, she wouldn't care if I did get eaten by a sewer monster, and she'd just tell everybody I was a crybaby. She might even tell people I'd peed myself.

She was mean and ugly and a liar. I hated her, and I hated Mom a little bit for making me and Lexi be friends.

"I can't go any further," I said.

"Fine," said Lexi. She sighed really loudly. "I guess I have to show the baby how it's done."

I got up and started picking leaves off my arm. I watched Lexi put her arm in, then her leg, then her whole right side was gone. Pretty soon, all of Lexi was gone.

I was pretty impressed. I hadn't thought she'd fit.

I didn't hear anything--not even a splash or a thump or a shriek. I waited for Lexi to tell me to hurry up or call me names, but she never said anything.

After awhile I went back to my house. Lexi didn't.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go

2008-04-26T13:05:00.004-04:00

I do have something new for you, but it needs more time to ferment. And, despite this missive, I honestly am getting my ass kicked by school assignments.

But I just wanted to say that today I'm doing a short story contest. And that--before anyone could possibly accuse me of sour grapes--I don't know if I care for it.

The "must be written in a day" deadline I'm fine with. It saves me from having to pull something off here or fretting over what to do.

As for the rest, I've just gotten my topic e-mail. It seems very...cutesy hostile, if that makes any sense. Smilies, ~'s, and asterisks mixed in with repeated warnings that if your entry isn't in the right inbox at the required time, then you'd better take it up with your ISP.

I get that some people are lying assholes. And that otherwise okay people are much more likely to become lying assholes on the internet, but all of this is putting off a fairly honest person like myself.

Some of the rules/mistakes seem to indicate a complete lack of faith in 95% of entrants. Again, internet, but how many total cretins are willing to pony up an entry fee? (I honestly don't know. Based on the guidelines sitting in my inbox, it could be more than I'd think.)

"Bad Timing"

2008-04-05T15:34:00.002-04:00

This was originally written for a writing contest. Unfortunately, it turned out to short. By about 800 words.

If anyone had come into the apartment, they would've seen a purse tossed just inside the door
and a trail of clothes leading to the bedroom: two sets of sneakers--one new and small, the other
large and battered; a T-shirt with a clever slogan about New Jersey; a neon pink brassiere; a halter top;
jeans; the matching panties; a denim skirt; and, just outside the open bedroom door, a pair of
tighty whities.

Not too surprisingly there were a pair of nude figures writhing on the still made bed. The
pillows had hit the floor, and the comforter was starting to slide. Neither the man nor the
woman noticed.

The air smelled like alcohol--of course--and was starting to smell like sex.

Because of the times we live in, there was an open drawer in the bedside table and a condom
wrapped flung on top of the fallen pillows.

And the writhing was more rhythmic, with a pair of long, feminine legs wrapped around a sweaty,
masculine back. As on many such legs, there was a tattoo of small colored stars on one
ankle.

Deities were invoked in a gasping chant, fingernails clutched the back...and then everything
came to a shuddering stop.

The woman opened her eyes and looked up at the man with an expression of frustrated shock.

"Uh, we had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh..." the man grinned sheepishly, "everything's
perfectly all right now. We're all fine here, thank you. How are you?"

She pushed him away and covered herself with a corner of bedspread. "Get out."

Apparently she wasn't a Star Wars fan.

Next stop the Albert Hall, cross fingers

2008-03-30T17:03:00.004-04:00

I've been doing the contest circuit lately, so it'll be awhile before I can post any of my most recent stuff.

After some (brief) deliberation and friends' comments, I've decided to send in all five of my entries for the Style Weekly fiction contest. Even the stuff I'm still not completely 100% on. But I get up to five entries, I have five entries, so what've I got to lose?

I've also submitted two entries to Hazel St's Steal from the Best Contest which will hopefully do well. One of them had the required line added in after the fact (because I completely forgot what it was while I was writing it). And the other received mixed reviews from friends and did not get all of the edits I considered. I added--and discarded--an opening scene that just felt too heavy handed.

Sadly, this recent contest activity is probably just because I placed in the top 25 for the Writer's Digest Short Fiction Contest. Which I'm very happy about, but I'm going to have to seriously think about trying to sell/promote my work again.

Thanks to my performance in the WD contest, I've now got the 2008 Writer's Market for short stories and literary agents. Since these are expensive books that I got for my entry fee--and get replaced/updated every year--I should probably take advantage of it and start doing the submissions thing again.

But I have enjoyed being lazy and just posting things here. It's free, I can write whatever I want, and sometimes thinking about the markets makes me try to write something that "fits" and I don't think that ends well.

But I also want some exposure. Money would be nice, but I am a comment/feedback/attention whore. Like most creative people, even though actors seem to be the only ones who actually admit it.

"Priorities"

2008-03-01T19:40:00.002-05:00

Ms. Kendall was enthusiastic--something you really don't want in your English teacher.

Her idea of "fun was bizarre and often involved writing or really stupid projects--posters and models and other kid's stuff. A lot of them seemed to require a huge a mount of work and possibly a big budget. And creativity.

Ms. Kendall was big on creativity--she probably didn't have a wedding ring because she wanted to marry Imagination or something.

Fortunately it was really easy to distract her. Sometimes with enthusiastic teachers they never want to talk about anything else.

When Ms. Kendall got distracted it was usually more boring stuff, but at least you weren't expected to listen. There wasn't an SOL for two magazine guys getting into fist fights or whatever she thought was really interesting about punctuation.

Ms. Kendall's idea of "interesting" was just as messed up as her idea of fun.

Some of us thought it was really sad how she seemed to think that real life people--other than English teachers and maybe the school board guys--actually cared about spelling and apostrophes and whether or not Shakespeare was actually written by a guy named Shakespeare. (Ms. Kendall said something about the historical Shakespeare--whatever that meant--not being smart enough to write his plays, and that it was most likely the Earl of Who Gives a Crap. Not that she could tell us why they didn't put that Earl's name on it instead of Shakespeare.)

We were doing literary terms. Again. Just like we did every single year for absolutely no reason. And Ms. Kendall was getting upset--again--about a bunch of words nobody would ever use in real life (unless they were stupid enough to get her crummy job).

"People," said Ms. Kendall, "personification is giving human traits and attributes to non-human things. 'The wind howled' is an example of personification. The chair groaned, the wind whispered through the trees--those are all examples of personification." She held up a bunch of papers. "A talking dog is not an example of personification."

"Why not?" asked Aiden.

"It just isn't," said Ms. Kendall. "The chair groaned is describing the sound the chair made. A talking dog is...it's just a dog that happens to be talking."

She kept going as she handed out papers--all of them covered in green ink.

Green ink was supposed to be nicer than red. Most teachers liked to say something about that whenever they gave stuff back. Like they were doing us a favor because they used a different pen.

"Mickey Mouse is not an example of personification," said Ms. Kendall. "He's an example of anthropomorphism. Anthro--" She slapped a paper on a desk. "--man." Another paper. "Morphos--" And another, "--shape."

I hadn't bothered to do the assignment, so I was surprised when she put something on my desk.

It was a piece of notebook paper with my name--not in my handwriting--at the top and a big zero for the grade.

Ms. Kendall really needed a hobby or cable or a boyfriend or something to do with her time. And she still kept saying how busy she was and how much work she did, and then she'd do something like this.

"Anthropomorphism," she said again. "When an animal or other object is given human traits, habits, and appearance. Talking, wearing clothes, going to work, et cetera. Very close to personification, but not the same thing. Close, but no cigar." She grimaced slightly. "Or whatever we're supposed to say now that doesn't encourage smoking."

She walked back to the front of the room and hovered by the board, like she was trying to decide if she wanted to write something down.

"To repeat, Mickey Mouse is an example of anthropomorphism. Spongebob is an example of anthropomorphism. Bugs Bunny is an--"

"What?" asked Taylor.

"Bugs Bunny?"

"What's that?"

Ms. Kendall looked like somebody had just kicked her dog. "Bugs Bunny," she said again. "Cartoon character. He's a tall, grey rabbit. Says 'What's up doc?'"

Nobody said anything. A couple of people shrugged. I slid my cell phone out of my pocket--no texts.

"None of you know who Bugs Bunny is," said Ms. Kendall.

"Guess not," said Sierra.

"I have failed you as a teacher," said Ms. Kendall. She half sat, half fell into her chair. "Your cultural literacy has been completely neglected."

"Hey, we can read!"

"Jeremy can't."

"Man, shut up!"

Ms. Kendall just sat there. Eventually Cody asked, "So, are we going to go over this or what?"

"Just...read quietly. Or work on homework for another class," said Ms. Kendall. "I don't care."

We got to watch cartoons for the next two classes which was better than what we were doing before. Even if they were old and Ms. Kendall seemed to be totally gay for them.

"This is one of the finest pieces of animation ever made," she said. "I think that everyone should see it at least once in their lives." And then we watched a bald Viking guy who talked funny chase a rabbit in a dress.

But some loser told their parents we were just watching cartoons or the principal found out somehow, so we had to go back to literary terms. But I guess Ms. Kendall thought it was worth it now that we knew that Bugs Bunny was some gay rabbit.

"Contagion"

2008-02-28T23:29:00.003-05:00

I've brought contraband into the house.

I'm supposed to be better than this--I was able to give up smoking, for god's sake (...eventually). Nothing's that hard.

But it's close to Easter, and I've got PMS, and it's just this once (at least until next time). I'm entitled to one moment of weakness, aren't I?

I move slowly, carefully, stealthily. Any tell-tale crinkling, and it's over. Kids can hear those kinds of things better than anybody else. Except maybe Rick, but I've got at least two, two and a half hours before he gets home.

Adam's watching cartoons, something with blue and pink rabbits whose ears aren't actually connected to their heads. Buster and Babs as magic ninjas or whatever's cool these days.

I try not to think about all the horrible things that could happen--all the unfit mothers wailing, "I just turned around for a second!"--as I slink to the back door. For once that son of a bitch is on my side and doesn't squeak.

I ease the door closed--if I get caught now when it's so close god it's like sneaking smokes at work back when I still worked, before Adam--and take a deep breath as I sit down on the step. It's cold, almost freezing.

I feel like an idiot.

Too late now. I'm outside, it's cold, and I open my prize, using my nail to pop a hole in the yellow and white plastic. I tear the rest off and open one of the six little prizes inside.

Completely and utterly worth it. I savor the first one, then cram another in my mouth.

Which is when I see my own personal Mrs. Kravitz staring at me over the fence.

"Peanut allergy," I say, spraying precious bits of Peanut Butter Egg as I explain. "Adam's allergic to--" I swallow. "He's allergic to peanuts." I don't know why I feel like I have to explain anything to this woman, but I put on my "Oh, those lovable scamps" smile. "Apparently if there's any peanut fragments in the air, he'll just swell up and die!"

"We all have our cross to bear," says Mrs. K.

And what the hell is she doing outside anyway? It's the kind of cold where, unless you need a cigarette or something with peanuts, you're not leaving the house.

"Still," and she does that pretentious arm thing where she holds her elbow with one hand and brings the other hand up to her face, just in case we couldn't tell that she's given something a lot of thought, "there's nothing I wouldn't give up for my children."

I'm shivering so much I can barely open my third piece of candy. I want her to make some comment about how it must be nice to be able to eat so much--so I can really go off on her--but it looks like I've misjudged the meddling harpy.

She seems to be waiting for me to justify my terrible parenting. Which I can't since my son's watching cartoons instead of doing his homework while I, his mother, gorge on deadly allergens. So I just eat my candy and think about safe places to hide the other half of the package.

"Last Hour"

2008-02-14T20:55:00.003-05:00

"I said you are to work quietly and independently." I always get like this when I'm really pissed off. It takes more concentration--keeps me from giving in and telling the students to just shut the fuck up already for Christ's sake. "And I feel I have made my definitions of both terms quite clear."

I've bought myself some silence, but the wave quickly starts up again. A few whispers, some muttering, and then blatant conversation. Most of it about my appearance--focusing specifically on my big fat ass--and why it is offensive to the class.

I march to the board. "Okay, who can tell me what nicotine withdrawal is?" As I ask, I write--scrawl--"nicotine w/drawal" on the board. I'm not particularly surprised that my hand is shaking.

I desperately hope someone will walk in right now and fire me on the spot so I can go home half an hour early.

"Come on, anybody?" I ask. "Withdrawal." I underline it. "Is what happens when an addict is unable to get their 'fix'." I made the quotes gesture and wish I was in the parking lot, setting dried leaves on fire and inhaling deeply. "What is the fix for a nicotine addict?"

"Drugs?" someone suggests to the cheers and jeers of the class.

Oh, to be thirteen again and wildly excited just by the mention of drugs.

I think about how nice it would be if I had a drink to go with the cigarettes I'm planning to smoke as soon as I'm off school grounds. It would probably be inappropriate to ask the students where the nearest bar is, and they probably don't know anyway.

I say, "Be more specific. What're they an addict of?"

"You said nicotine?"

"Uh-huh. And nicotine comes from...?" My hands circle each other.

"Cigarettes?"

"Cigarettes!" I write "ciggies" on the board and look wistfully at it for a few seconds. "And what are the symptoms of nicotine withdrawal?"

The class stares at me. They've all apparently lead very fortunate lives--either none of their family members smoke or none of their family members ever run out of smokes.

I scribble the symptoms on the board as I say them. "Anxiety, irritability, time distortion--that one's a real bitch, hunger, and blinding rage." I underline "blinding rage" and draw some skulls around it. "Also inability to focus, but mostly urge to kill." I circle "urge to kill" and draw some arrows pointing at it.

"Now," I run a hand through my hair, "who can tell me how long it takes for nicotine withdrawal to start?" I will be absolutely astonished if they know this one, but I ask anyway. "One hour. Within one hour after smoking their last cigarette, the nicotine addict is thinking about murdering each and everyone of you." I toss the dry erase marker over my shoulder and stalk my way up and down the rows of desks.

"Maybe it's for that disgusting sound you make when you're chewing gum. Maybe it's for the incessant tapping on the desk. Maybe--"

"What does incessant mean?"

Some days their timing just can't get any worse. "Constantly!" I shout. "Constantly tapping on your goddamn desks! What was I...oh, right. Maybe it's for talking and talking and talking, no matter how many times I nicely ask you to put a sock in it." I've reached the board again and pick up another marker.

"Math problem," I say, smiling like The Joker. "If I had my last cigarette at 7:30 this morning and it's now 2:15 in the afternoon, how much danger are you in if you don't shut up and do your fucking work?"

"Sample paragraph"

2008-02-11T12:50:00.000-05:00

"Pretend you have been hired to write a book called "The Secrets of Brilliant Students". Write a sample paragraph from this book."--The prompt is taken from The Daily Spark: Writing. I wrote this as something to do while a student was working on the same prompt.

Secrets of Brilliant Students by Miss Irma Thistlewick

I cannot stress enough how important it is to come to class prepared. What good is brilliance if you have neither pen nor paper with which to capture it? How will you astound the class with your spectacularly eloquent reading if you have no textbook or, worse, must humbly ask a fellow classmate to borrow theirs? Such requests do not sit well with Teacher, who is, of course, the one to determine your official brilliance. While diligence certainly has its merits, with even the slightest preparation you'll find both Teacher and your fellow pupils recognizing your intellectual prowess.

"The New Meredith"

2008-02-11T12:33:00.000-05:00

This year was going to be different. This year she wasn't dressed up like a baby or a nerd--only Moms and teachers cared about stuff like that, and this year Meredith was going to be too cool to care what Moms and teachers thought.

Especially teachers. Meredith was done being the teacher's pet or a suck up--the kind of kid everybody made fun of because they got along so well with the teacher. This year she was going to slouch in her seat. She wasn't going to put her hand up every time she knew the answer--maybe she wasn't going to raise her hand at all.

She still hadn't convinced her mom that she was old enough for contact lens or pierced ears, but she'd improvised. Her new glasses were really cool--no more stupid round frames or boring brown or black. They were slightly oval and bright, neon green--much better than something some old lady would wear. Nothing was going to make being a four-eyes cool, but you didn't have to be a complete dork about it--Meredith was glad that she'd finally figured that out before having to spend another year looking like a loser.

And even though her Mom had said no way, no pierced ears, no matter how much Meredith begged and bargained, there was still way more to jewelry than just earrings.

Like bracelets. Meredith jangled when she walked. It was very Bohemian.

This year was going to be completely different.

2008-02-04T21:16:00.001-05:00

Note: This is a younger version of Betty from "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished".

At first she kept it to herself. Her brother was still like everybody else--unless he was hiding it too, but Betty quickly decided that couldn't be right--and, as far as she knew, her parents were just regular people.

At least until the mugging.

They'd just left the movie theater--it was Chris's turn to choose the movie, and he'd picked something stupid with lots of guns and explosions. It'd been okay, but Betty hadn't really wanted to see that one and she wasn't going to admit that it hadn't been absolutely terrible.

The guy--he was wearing one of those masks that covered your whole face with holes for the eyes and mouth, just like on TV--asked for her father's wallet. And unlike people on TV or in the movies, her father said no.

And then the mugger shot him.

Betty screamed and so did Chris--

--and their father didn't even flinch. The bullet fell on the ground, and the mugger ran.

Betty's father looked at her and Chris ("Shit," he muttered) and then in the direction the mugger had gone.

"Who wants ice cream?"

"Dad..."

"Nothing like ice cream after a movie, huh?"

"Dad, what just happened?" asked Chris.

"Let's not tell your mother about this," said their father. "We don't want to upset Mom, do we?"

Betty figured it out before they reached the Baskin-Robbins, although Chris seemed a lot slower on the uptake. Which Betty took as proof that he was a regular person because otherwise he would've gotten that they--she--had super powers because Dad did. Because Dad was Captain Cosmos.

While her father tried to make them forget about the whole thing with ice cream, Betty thought about what she was going to do. She needed a costume and an awesome name.

"Simpsons Did It"

2008-01-25T19:10:00.000-05:00

"You think it's working?"

K. flipped open her cigarette case. "Indubitably," she said as she pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her lips. "I haven't been afflicted by any cravings. It's phenomenal."

"Uh-huh..."

"I don't know why I never tried hypnosis before," said K. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and exhaled a small cloud. "I feel absolutely effervescent. It's a personal renaissance."

"You're smoking right now."

"Oh." K. looked at her right hand, then took another drag. "This must be an infinitesimal tribulation." She stubbed out the butt and reached for her cigarette case again. "Nothing to have a conniption about--if I keep listening to the tapes, I'll be out of the quagmire of dependency within a fortnight."

"No Good Deed Goes Unpunished"

2007-12-18T17:53:00.000-05:00

While the rest of the girls twisted and crouched, trying to change into their gym clothes without being seen, Betty froze.

Bank heist. Sounded like maybe three bad guys, twenty hostages--could've been worse, but still wasn't good.

Come on, Dad, she thought. You're the one who said I couldn't miss any more school.

She listened harder--fire at the Kline Tower. Loads more people to get out. Betty could hear him there, telling people it was going to be all right.

The cops had the bank surrounded. The burglars were making demands--and they said they were going to start shooting hostages.

Great.

"What're you doing, Betty?"

Betty winced--nothing like somebody talking to you at normal volume when you were listening to stuff miles away.

"I'm...I feel like crap," said Betty. She slumped against her locker and clutched her stomach. "I think--oh, shit..." She ran to the bathroom and threw herself into a stall.

"Betty?" Jenn had followed her. Even better.

Betty made retching sounds and hoped Jenn wouldn't notice that, when most people puked, you could hear it hitting the water.

"Are you okay?"

It was a perfectly valid question. No, Betty wasn't okay and this probably wasn't going to work--she'd have to actually go to the nurse and waste even more time, but she'd faked really bad cramps last week when the Deadly Menagerie had hijacked the city's public transportation system. And the week before that when Dr. Death had escaped from prison.

Actually, either everybody had really bad memories or she'd been super lucky. Or they just thought there was something really wrong with her.

"I have to go to the nurse," Betty said as pathetically as she could.

***

"All right," the nurse sighed. "But you need to go to a doctor. You're in here every other day."

Betty nodded. She forced herself to walk slowly, almost staggering, until she got to the parking lot.

***

And of course she couldn't just go in and punch some guys. There was an innocent bank customer--complete with gun to his head--who was going to get shot if the robbers saw somebody in a costume, and she couldn't always count on being fast enough.

Sneaking in a pretending to be a hostage would buy her some time, but she couldn't risk somebody figuring out who she was. Her Dad would exile her to the moon or something if she blew their secret identities.

Like anybody's going to recognize you? she asked herself.

Like nobody here has a camera phone? And none of them know how much a picture of the Cosmic Kid is worth?

"Yeah, slightly less than a picture of Captain Cosmos," Betty muttered.

And she'd already changed into costume, and she was already there. And even if these guys were bluffing--which you could never assume they were--the hostages were running out of time.

Betty leaned out of an alley. "Excuse me? Officer? Uh...Hey!"

A couple of cops turned in her direction. Several of them reached for their guns. Betty waved, pointed at her insignia, and gestured for somebody to come over.

Li took the hint. At least she was somebody, but Li was one of those "the police can handle it" police officers. "You shouldn't be here."

"I know," said Betty. "And I know they've got hostages and--"

"Where's Captain Cosmos?"

"He's busy." Betty hoped that the standard heroic pose would convince Li that the Cosmic Kid was completely in control and that there was no need to ask any further questions.

"He's busy."

"There's...he's at Kline Tower. I've got--"

"If they see you, those people in there are--"

"They've made demands, right? I need a uniform. I'll go in like I'm going to negotiate, and then I'll kick some a--And then I will apprehend the perpetrators."

"That's not how we do things." Li scowled down at her. "And you're too short to be a cop."

"They took hostages when they know that's going to piss off my dad," said Betty. "And me. Both of us. Because of our commitment to justice. If they were smart, they would've gone out the back like half an hour ago."

"Cops don't wear masks."

Betty sighed and pulled off her mask. "There, okay? Please, just let me borrow a uniform, and I'll take care of it. And...and if I screw up, I promise nobody's going to get killed. I'll let them take me."

***

As she walked to the door of the bank, hands held high and obviously empty, Betty realized that she looked like a complete idiot. Maybe these guys didn't know how tall you had to be to be a cop, but anybody could tell her pants were too long. Hopefully they covered her feet--and her definitely not standard issue red boots.

Apparently if you were too short to be a cop, there weren't any shoes in your size.

"Open up," she said. "We'll agree to your demands."

A burglar opened the door and peered out. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"No. Let them go."

"Demands first. Don't they teach you kids anything these days?"

Betty kicked the door open and shot a double-handed energy blast at the robber holding a hostage. She had just enough time to grab the poor bastard before he got his brains blown out. "Run like hell!" she shouted.

"Big mistake," said one of the other burglars.

"No, you made a mistake," said Betty. She put her mask back on and tore off her poorly fitting disguise.

"The Cosmic Kid!" somebody whispered.

"Where's Captain Cosmos?"

Betty rolled her eyes and melted the guns with a few more energy blasts. Which she definitely wasn't going to call "Cosmic Blasts" since it was pretty much the one power she had that the great, much more popular Captain Cosmos didn't have.

The hostages hadn't moved. "Dude, run," said Betty as one of the burglars hit her over the head with a chair. "Are you new?" She glared at the hostages. "Seriously, go!"

A few people took out cellphones.

***

"Thanks for your help, Kid," said Li as Betty carried the robbers out. That probably meant there was a camera rolling somewhere.

"Just doing my job," said Betty. "You might want to talk to these people about, you know, getting to safety. Instead of..." Nobody was listening. The bad guys were being handcuffed and hearing their rights. "Yeah, okay. Uh, at least one of them's unconscious, so..." She saw the wave of reporters, cameras flashing and microphones ready.

The cops probably knew what they were doing, and Betty didn't need anymore footage of the Cosmic Kid appearing shortly after normal Betty--with her severely mild mannered immune system--had been sent home from school.

She was faster than the press, and she could fly, but she didn't quite manage to make a clean get away.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Shit. "Hi, Dad," said Betty. "Everything okay at--"

Captain Cosmos glared at her. "You ditched school for a bank robbery?"

"No, I ditched school because innocent lives were in danger," said Betty. "Because, you know, with great--"

"And your biggest responsibility is school."

"How's work?"

"Don't even think about it, young lady. You and I are going to have a long talk about this when I get..."

"Dad, volcano."

"We're still going to have that talk," said Captain Cosmos as they headed for Fiji.

Betty grimaced. If she was lucky--which, given the rest of her day, yeah, right--he'd wait until they got home. She really didn't need another "Captain Cosmos Saves Village; Publicly Lectures Sidekick" media blitz.

"Dinner and a Movie"

2007-12-18T01:31:00.000-05:00

The decayed, tattered corpses lurched forward, arms held straight out in front of them, all of them moaning exactly what you'd expect them to.

"Brains!"

The no longer quite teenaged couple--despite their very convincing navy blue and white letter jacket and cheerleading sweater--had their backs against a wall. The wall wasn't really important, other than the fact that it was too high to climb.

As they searched for something--anything--they could use to fight off the undead, Janet said, "You know, I'm kind of sick of zombies."

"Really?" said Scott.

"Brai-ains!"

"It's just so..." Janet shrugged. "Overdone, I guess."

"Oh. Alien invasion?"

The wall and the zombies were gone, replaced by a red convertible, a view of the charming small town as seen from a popular make-out spot, and gelatinous green tentacles slithering towards the car.

"The roof's stuck," said Scott.

Janet grimaced. "I'm not really feeling it," she said. "And tentacles?"

And then there were empty streets with tasteful scraps of litter floating on the breeze--just so you'd know it was really a little too quiet. The end of the world--Armageddon.

"I've got an idea," said Janet as she stepped over a charred skeleton. "Why don't we just skip all this crap and...and go have a drink or something."

"We could be the last people on Earth," said Scott. "The only human beings left in the whole universe."

"I've got a few bottles I've been looking for an excuse to open," said Janet. "We could go back to my quarters, and..."

The simulation vanished. "Let's go," said Scott.

"Yes, Virginia"

2007-12-14T18:46:00.000-05:00

Even with the heavy coats and scarves wrapped around their faces, Miranda and Keith still had a sleek, corporate aura to them.

You didn't get that sort of thing with elves. The elves, despite some of the nasty rumors and cynical wondering, genuinely loved what they did--they'd do it even if there was nothing else at the North Pole. And they had their mandated breaks, their health benefits, and a month of paid vacation each year.

And every year when there was a newer, more complicated toy for the letters and wish lists, there were cheers and handshakes and a big banner hung over the assembly lines every time they figured out how to make it.

But elves weren't human, and sometimes you needed a few human minds.

"Mr. Kringle, we're not meeting our belief quotas for the year," said Miranda. He could tell that there was an expensive haircut under the hood and the hat, and, if not for the ice, she'd be wearing a smart high heels.

Somehow Miranda could walk in her large, awkward boots the way her sisters strode across marble floors or executive conference rooms. That was a kind of belief too.

Keith didn't quite have that. He was perfectly competent and capable, but he was a "clothes make the man" sort. "I think budgeting is more important," said Keith.

"We're a..." Santa Claus struggled for the right words. They changed much more quickly than they used to. "We're a non-profit, Keith."

"Even a non-profit has to have some income," said Keith. "Production costs, labor costs, advertising..."

"The elves take care of all that," said Santa Claus.

"Keith has a point about advertising," said Miranda. "With these belief ratios, I think it would be prudent to--"

Santa Claus chuckled. "Oh, there are songs and pictures and stories for that."

"Marketing isn't a dirty word, Mr. Kringle," said Miranda. "At present you have a twenty-four hour work year. That allows plenty of time for you--and possibly your wife--to make public appearances."

"But we do," said Santa Claus. "All over the word children can meet Santa Claus and his wife. Sometimes even an elf or two."

Miranda shook her head. "We've found that after the age of five, most children become aware of the deception. Acknowledging that pretense makes--"

"I don't know how I feel about 'deception' and 'pretense', but I know I can't be everywhere at once," said Santa Claus. "And so many of those men love being me for a few weeks or even a night. I couldn't take that away from them."

"It is another potential labor dispute," said Keith. "And we need to take steps to ensure that they're not devaluing the brand."

"Also, if belief levels continue to fall, we may be facing a shut down," said Miranda. "I think it's necessary to create an initiative we other magical performance based entities. Obviously that excludes the Tooth Fairy Guild, but they've been refusing to work with anyone outside of the fairy community."

"That's just their way," said Santa Claus.

"But someone like the Easter Bunny could be a valuable partner in raising belief," said Miranda.

"Or Harry Hanukkah," said Keith. "There has been a push towards a more inclusive winter holiday season."

"We don't want to get involved in any 'War on Christmas' backlash," said Miranda.

"That's not important," said Santa Claus. "Any child who believes and stays off the naughty list will get something on Christmas morning."

"Our business is, first and foremost, Christmas."

"But the Easter Bunny has no connection to Christmas or winter," said Keith. "Harry Hanukkah is in the same quarter."

"Harry is an old, dear friend," said Santa Claus. "And he has a few more nights to worry about than I do. I really couldn't trouble him."

"What about the Easter Bunny?" asked Miranda.

"The Cottontail family likes their privacy," said Santa Claus. "Very timid creatures."

"Family, Mr. Kringle?"

"I'm sure you know how rabbits are," said Santa Claus. "There's a great many of them, and rabbit immortality is a bit shorter than mine. It's a matter of necessity. And they've got to get everything delivered just by using the Bunny Trails."

Neither one of them questioned him, but he could tell they couldn't believe a word, just as he knew they didn't believe in him. Miranda and Keith knew he was real because they could see and hear him. They had their paychecks--a good sized handful of gold wasn't done anymore--and a bonus every Christmas.

It was nothing personal. You didn't need to believe in a thing you knew, and all children had to grow up someday.

"Now let's see how they're doing in the factory," said Santa Claus. "And then I really must go over my lists again before the end of the day. The Mrs. and I are having dinner with the Fitzpatricks, and she's said she'll take the sleigh if I'm not ready on time."

"Secrets"

2007-12-13T15:08:00.000-05:00

"What're you doing?"

"Making postcards." Veronica looked up, smiling brightly. The scissors made it slightly disconcerting. "There's this website where you can send in postcards of all your secrets--the ones you can't tell anyone."

"So you're going to tell the internet."

"No," said Veronica. "I was going to, but then I decided to cut out the middle man."

"Huh?"

"I'm going to mail them to the people they're about," said Veronica. "It's not like they won't figure it out when they see them, so..." Veronica reached into the ominously large pile of postcards and pulled one out. "Here's yours."

2007-11-17T18:15:00.001-05:00

For some reason I always get the urge to start killing off characters at around this point.

As I think I've mentioned before, this hasn't been a particularly productive NaNo for me. I'm feeling fairly neutral about what I've got now--I'm not running on spite because I've started to hate it, and I'm not in love with it either.

(And as for loving characters/stories, I stumbled across a theory on the internet today that authors hate/grow to hate their best work and love their absolute crap. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this.)

The urge to kill off a few people doesn't really have anything to do with my feelings towards them or any conscious frustration (this time). It's not like I even enjoy angst or particularly want to spend a few hundred words on reaction-to-character death.

I just want to kill off a fictional person or two.

Meanwhile, in the future...

2007-11-11T12:34:00.000-05:00

I'm on my third idea for NaNo, but it seems to be going well. Being a cowardly and superstitious sort of person, I'm torn between wanted to talk about it and being afraid that that's going to kill it deader than Batman's parents.

At midnight 11/1/07, my plan was to write about the Greek gods. 50,000 words divided by 12/13 Olympians seemed to be an awesome plan, and I managed about 3k on the first day.

And then the self-doubt and whining started. I don't think those three thousand words are necessarily crap, but I didn't want to spend an entire month with them. I'm not going to bore you with all the excuses and fears I came up with--long story short, I bailed.

The plan with the Olympians was that--since I'd be working off a theme as opposed to a plot--I could play around with language. I could try things out, switch style whenever I got bored, etc.

What I'm working on now is what I'd probably label as Klassic Kate. It is not particularly plot heavy. Or plotted at all--my three leading ladies seem to be having a lot of conversations and occassionally doing things. Since it's set in the future, I've been amusing myself by squeezing in allusions--when else am I going to have an excuse to use "gleesh"?

And it's just meant to be fun. Like all future dystopias, the government hands out loads of mild hallucinogens. Everybody has a stupid name--this goes against some of my own assumptions (names really haven't changed that much in the real world), but if I wanted to be realistic, I couldn't have a main character named Nixon. And, like pretty much every future, contemporary culture is a bit lacking, but I'm trying to work on that.

"Disguises"

2007-10-31T18:20:00.000-04:00

The woman who answered the door wasn't really wearing a costume. She was wearing what grown ups wore all the time--there was just a pair of long, thin horns coming out of her white and black hair.

"Trick or treat!"

She didn't have any candy in her hands or a big bowl. Some houses did it that way--she was probably going to get some in a minute.

She nodded at the kid dressed like a skeleton, then turned to the other two. "What are you?"

"I'm the Flash," said the boy.

"I'm a fairy princess," said the girl.

"The ghost of a fairy princess?" asked the woman. She tapped a long, bony finger against her mouth as the girl shook her head. "An undead fairy princess?"

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'm a fair-ree prin-cess," she said.

The woman smiled. Her teeth were too long, and her lips were a funny purple color, like it was too cold in her house. "I think you'd both better come inside," she said. "You may go, skeleton."

"But--"

But the door was already closed. The skeleton scowled and pouted his way to the next house.

Maybe the old meanie--who barely even bothered to dress up--didn't like his costume. Everybody at all the other houses did, and his mom had said he was really scary. Just like a real skeleton.

"The Witch"

2007-10-30T09:43:00.000-04:00

Halloween was the second best day of the year. Christmas was the first—at seven and a half, Becca was convinced that everyone knew that. But Halloween was pretty good because you got to dress up and eat candy and play tricks on people.

Becca had never actually done the trick part, and she didn’t know anyone who had, but it was still there. When you said “trick or treat”, you knew that you could do something mean if you didn’t get any candy, and everyone else knew it too.

Halloween was supposed to be full of ghosts and ghouls and witches and trolls, but Becca was sure that her father always scared them away. This year there’d be ghosts, because this year she was going with her big sister, and her father wouldn’t be there to frighten any monsters.

It had been her sister who’d said they needed pillowcases. Becca had an orange plastic jack o’lantern, but her sister said you couldn’t fit enough candy in there, and she wasn’t going to take Becca home when it got full. This year they weren’t going to go home until they’d visited every house, and their bags were about to explode.

Becca was going as a zombie. Her mother had suggested all sorts of cute things, but that wasn’t what Halloween was about. Halloween was supposed to be scary—Becca wanted people to open their doors and think that maybe, just maybe, they’d been visited by a real, un-live zombie.

Before Halloween, while her mother finished her costume and asked if she was absolutely sure, Becca practiced walking. Zombies always walked a certain way—one shaky step, then another, with their arms straight out in front of them.

“If you’re too slow, I’m going to leave you behind,” said her sister. She may have been three years old, but she didn’t get it. She was going as a princess which wasn’t scary at all.

“Who says you have to be scary?”

“Because it’s Halloween,” said Becca.

“Last year you went as a ladybug,” said her sister. “What’s so scary about ladybugs?”

“That was last year,” said Becca, annoyed that she was being reminded of what a dumb little kid she’d been. “I didn’t know any better last year.”

Being seven and a half would be a lot better if people’d stop mentioning the dumb things she’d done when she was six and a half.

After a whole row of houses, there weren’t any ghosts and nobody was afraid of her. Some of them didn’t even know what she was, and, when Becca told them, they said she was cute.

Becca and her sister walked up the hill, stopping at every house along the way. Becca was too excited to do her walk, and her sister had already said she was too slow.

At the top of the hill were three houses. They went to the first one and got those gross Mary Janes that even their mother didn’t want to eat.

“What’re you doing?” Becca asked. Her sister was walking right past the middle house.

“We can’t go to Mrs. Liddel’s house,” said her sister. She was using her “I’m older than you, and I know everything” voice. “She’s a witch.”

“I’m going,” said Becca.

“She’ll turn you into a frog.”

“It’s Halloween, and I want to talk to a real live witch,” said Becca.

“Whatever,” said her sister. “At least you’ll make a good frog.”

Becca marched up the steps and rang the doorbell. It sounded like everyone else’s.

Her sister was stupid and probably just a big chicken. Becca wasn’t afraid of a witch, even if it was Halloween.

An old woman with long white hair answered the door. “Yes?” she asked, looking suspiciously at Becca.

“Trick or treat,” said Becca, holding out her pillowcase.

“I don’t have any candy,” said the old woman. “And I think it’s very rude to go around to stranger’s houses begging for things.”

“Are you really a witch?” asked Becca. If she was already being rude, she might as well ask. “My sister says—“

“Your sister should know there’s no such thing as witches,” said the old woman. “They burned them up years ago.”

“Oh.” Becca was disappointed that she hadn’t gotten to see a real witch, but getting to tell her sister she was wrong was pretty good.

“Wait just a minute,” said the old woman. “I might have something for you.”

Becca fidgeted at the door. Her feet hurt, and her sister was already two houses away, and by the time the old lady got back, she’d be three houses away or maybe four.

Something heavy fell into her pillowcase. Becca started to say thank you, but the old woman had already shut the door, and the lights were off.

Becca and her sister sat on the floor and poured out their pillowcases.

“What’d the witch give you?”

“Nothing,” said Becca. A glass vial glimmered in her pile of candy, and she quickly stuffed it in her pocket. “And she’s not a witch.”

“Everybody says she is.”

“Then everybody should know better,” said Becca. “Everybody knows all the witches are gone.”

“You thought she was a witch.”

“At least I wasn’t scared.”

Candy was more important than witches. As Becca made a small pile of the candy she didn’t want, the witch’s little body felt hot in her pocket.

Under the covers and feeling kind of sick after all the candy, Becca turned on her flashlight and looked at the vial. There was a little cork in the top, and inside there was a rose colored liquid.

Becca didn’t like pink. It was too cute and babyish. And it didn’t seem like the right color for witch’s brew.

But it wasn’t pink anymore. While she’d been thinking about it, the liquid had turned green. And, after a bit, Becca was sure it’d been green the whole time.

You weren’t supposed to take things from strangers except on Halloween. And even on Halloween you weren’t supposed to take anything that wasn’t wrapped up. You were supposed to give that stuff to your parents or tell a policeman.

At seven and a half, Becca knew that like she knew that you were supposed to look both ways before crossing the street. Still, it didn’t seem right to away or throw out what could be a magic potion made by an actual witch.

She pulled out the little cork and held the bottle up to her nose. It smelled like candy corn and autumn.

She drank the whole thing.

That night she dreamed about magic spells and turning into things and being able to do magic herself, but when she woke up, she was still just Becca. She was seven and a half, and she had to get ready for school.

2007-10-30T00:01:00.000-04:00

I'm starting to get impatient about NaNo. Which is probably a good thing, and at least I'll have this post to look back on in ten days.

And I probably will look back on it--since I'll be really starting to procrastinate by then--and have a good laugh.

I haven't decided yet if I'm going to post parts of it here.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...

2007-10-20T18:38:00.000-04:00

I'd like to give a big thank you to J.K. Rowling for outing Dumbledore--not because I particularly care which team an old mentor bats for, but I've been spending some time thinking about whether or not something like this really counts as part of a book/series if it's not actually included.

I think everybody who writes something big (defined as "more than a stand alone short story") has things about the characters that never make it in. Maybe it's backstory that just will not fit without being clunky exposition or something as simple as a favorite song or a food allergy that just never comes up.

I've probably mentioned the once-it's-out-there clause before--basically, once it's published/on the internet/in your bff's hands, it's everybody else's to interpret and analyze. And where do the things the author knows that never made it into the story go?

If the story isn't considered completely finished, then any of that stuff the author knows that the readers don't can still turn up (I'm obviously talking about character details, not suspense/plot twisty stuff). And I'd apply this to a strict "there will be this many books exactly" series like Harry Potter and to something like Discworld where it's all the same universe, but it wanders back and forth and maybe we'll see some people again later.

What about once the whole thing is completely finished? My gut feeling is that, if something is really over and done with (which isn't a guarantee when you've still got a living author--how many times have Stephen King retired?), additional details from the author are just a nice bonus. If they're not in the book, you can believe it if you like it and ignore it if you don't.

Obviously, the author knows what s/he's talking about. They made up the whole thing, wrote it down, and cleaned it up. But the reader has to work with what's there.

Readers shouldn't have to buy the Big Guide Book with all the notes and facts that never made the cut or read all the interviews to find out what's up with this guy or that girl. They can if they want to, but ignoring all that stuff and just reading the story doesn't make them love or hate the story any less.

Of course authors can expand the story--either through more novels or with short stories or whatever genre they want to use. But I don't think this stuff counts unless you can find it inside the story.

As for what the hell this has to do with me, I'm pretty much the opposite of Rowling. I'm broke, unpublished, and nobody knows who I am. But I've still got some details I've been trying to fit in, even if like two people have actually read the damn thing, and somehow thinking about all this stuff gave me a pretty decent solution.

(And as for the damn thing, it's finished. It's finished, but I'm not going to post the damn thing here because it's in the novella family, and it's going to be published someday. I don't care if that's not until after my death--the motherfucker is too good not to sell, even if I'm not that great at selling myself.

If you're super-curious, I'll e-mail it to you. I just don't want it out there on the great, big internet like a free milk giving cow.)

2007-10-15T19:58:00.000-04:00

I've been trying to think of fiction that does environmentalism well, and I'm coming up empty.

Which is one of the reasons why I try to avoid tackling world issues when I write--I know I can't pull it off. Instead of something that makes people think, I tend to end up with all the subtlety of a Futurama PSA ("Do you know the name of Billy's planet? It was Earth!")

And, maybe this says something about my mental abilities, but the first book that comes to mind is The Lorax.

I've never really liked The Lorax, even though I agree with the point. It always made me sad/bewildered as a kid (which is probably what it's supposed to do), even with the hopeful ending.

Maybe these things aren't supposed to have happy endings--maybe we're supposed to get the crappy ending in fiction so we can try to do better in real life.

More NaNo prep

2007-10-13T16:09:00.001-04:00

I think I may have had a pretty major breakthrough today on NaNo outlining.

This year, instead of doing a strict, continuous narrative, I'm looking at doing a series of connected stories. They may all come together in the end--looking at my outline and depending on how much I write for each part of how I'm feeling at the end of the month, that could easily be scrapped. (it might even have to wait until my traditional January editing phase.)

Looking over my outline I do feel like I might be giving myself too much to do in a month, but it's definitely a better feeling than my last "can I do this?" idea.

"La Resistance"

2007-10-11T19:33:00.000-04:00

"It's going to be okay."

"No, it's not."

"Okay, yeah, you're probably--"

"I just wish it would've meant something."

"Don't talk like that."

"I know I'm not going to make it."

"No, it's just so...trite. And if you start coughing or talking about how cold it is, I'm going to put you...I'll kill you myself."

"Don't tempt me."

"If you want to--"

"It is kind of cold."

"Maybe we'll inspire somebody else. Maybe there'll be another revolution and--"

"Speaking of trite...yeah, kids all over the world are going to want to get their legs blown off, just like..."

"Vertebrates"

2007-10-06T18:06:00.000-04:00

It’s time to go to school.

Unless it’s raining too much, I walk with Mom. Since I’m almost seven—Mom says that’s the Age of Reason—I only have to hold her hand when we cross the last street.

I’ve got my backpack, and I’m waiting at the door. I put my lunch money in my sock so I don’t lose it—I don’t want to eat sandwiches anymore.

Mom is wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. She doesn’t really get dressed until I’m at school. She’s still wearing her glasses, and she looks tired.

Mom doesn’t like mornings.

It always feels like a long walk, but Mom says it really isn’t. She says it’s better than standing around, waiting for the bus, when we live close enough to walk.

We’re walking down our street, just two people going for a walk because I’m almost seven and don’t need to hold a grown up’s hand all the time.

It’s a little bit colder and a little bit darker than it was yesterday.

“We won’t be able to do this much longer,” says Mom.

“Why?”

“It’s going to be too cold.”

“Can I take the bus?”

“If you want.”

“Even when it’s cold?”

“Shh.” She stops and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Can I—“

“Look over there.” She’s whispering.

Maybe it’s ninjas. Maybe we’ll have to find a new way—a secret way—to school. Or maybe Mom’s really a superhero, and she’ll fight them.

“I don’t see anything.” I’m whispering too.

“Right there.” She points, and I see a rabbit in the damp grass of somebody’s yard. Its ears are flat on its back, and it looks puffed up.

“Can I pet it?”

“No, just look. It’s a wild rabbit.”

It’s neat, I guess. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rabbit just sitting outside before, but I’ve seen them in pet stores and stuff.

“Can we get a rabbit?” I ask.

“We’ve got Tux.”

Tux is our cat. He’s black and white, with a spot on his face that looks like a mustache.

“And rabbits are mean,” Mom says. “They’ve got claws on their feet, and they kick you with their back legs when they’re in a bad mood.”

The wild rabbit sees us and runs away. We start walking again.

“Tux has claws,” I say. “And he’s mean. He scratched me.” I pull up my sleeve and show her.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing! I just picked him up and—“

“Sometimes cats don’t want to be picked up. If you’re nice to Tux, he’ll be nice to you.”

“But if he wants me to be nice, shouldn’t he be nice first?”

“You should always be nice to animals.”

“Even spiders?”

“Spiders don’t count.”

“Are spiders animals?”

We turn left, and we’re on the street with cool trees.

“Yes. They’re arachnids,” Mom says. “That’s a kind of animal.”

Sometimes, when Mom says stuff like this, I wonder why I have to go to school. We could just go to the playground, and she could tell me school stuff while I go on the swings.

I asked about it one time, and she said school was important. School is supposed to help you get along with people, but there’s some people I don’t think I’ll ever get along with.

“Why don’t you have to be nice to spiders?”

“Most people want to step on spiders.”

“You said—“

“And spiders are gross,” Mom says.

“Snakes are gross.”

“Why do you think snakes are gross?”

“They’re slimy.”

Mom makes a face. “The man at the zoo let you pet a snake. Was it slimy?”

“No. It stuck its tongue out at me.”

“That’s how snakes smell.”

“Snakes are animals,” I say.

“That’s right. Snakes are animals.”

“Do I have to be nice to snakes?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t I have to be nice to spiders?”

“You can be nice to spiders if you want.”

“Are you going to be nice to spiders?”

“No.”

I don’t really want to be nice to spiders either, especially not daddy long legses. Even though I’m almost seven, I don’t want to go anywhere near those—I want Mom or Dad to squish them with their big shoes.

“Are you nice to other animals, Mom?”

“I try to be.”

“You’re mean to bugs.”

“What’s a vertebrate?”

“I don’t know.”

There’s a tree that’s almost bright orange all over. Dad likes the red ones, but I like the orange ones best.

Mom looks at me funny, like she’s trying to remember what I’m supposed to know. “A vertebrate is an animal that has a backbone,” she says. “Like us and Tux.”

“Do bugs have backbones?”

“They don’t have any bones. They have an exoskeleton—that’s why they squish.”

We’re at the last street. Mom holds out her hand, and I take it. There’s a whole line of red and blue and green cars.

“Things without backbones are invertebrates,” Mom says as we watch the cars go by. “You always have to be nice to vertebrates. You only have to try to be nice to invertebrates. If you want to.”

That sounds okay. Mom is weird about animals sometimes. At the zoo she’s really good at finding the ones that are hiding, and sometimes she knows stuff without reading the signs—I guess somebody tells you all that once you get to be a grown up.

I think she likes animals, but sometimes they make her sad. I rented a cartoon about animals once, and I think it made her forget how to be a grown up. I didn’t really understand what happened, but Mom started crying. I saw even though she didn’t want me to, and it made me sad too.

We go across the street when a car stops for us.

Mom doesn’t walk me up to the front door because I’m too old for that now. She doesn’t hug me either. I kind of want her to, but I don’t want everybody in school to see. Only babies hug their moms at school.

“I’ll see you at 2:15,” says Mom. “How will you know when that is?”

I’ll know because that’s when school is over, but sometimes grown ups want a weird answer. “When my watch looks like this,” I say and point at the air like a clock.

“Don’t get in any trouble,” Mom says. “Dad still has the receipt for you.”

She holds out her hand, and I’m confused because we made an agreement about hand holding. We both signed it, just like a real contract.

For the first time ever, she takes my hand and moves it up and down twice.

I feel pretty grown up, even if I still don’t get why spiders and snakes are different.

Approaching the Planet Ork

2007-10-02T17:52:00.000-04:00

November is National Novel Writing Month, which means that October is when I need to come up with an idea and an outline.

I've never really liked outlining, but I can't get through NaNo without it. And my outlines probably aren't very good--they start out very detailed, but then things like "[transition]" and "???" start showing up. I try to figure out the end so I have some idea where the whole damn thing is supposed to go, but the middle gets very hazy.

The problem is that I've got absolutely nothing right now--no ideas, not even "how the hell am I going to get 50,000 words out of this?" ideas. And I didn't really like what I came up with in 2005 and 2006. I liked the ideas, and they probably came out all right, but I didn't love the final result.

2004, the first year I did NaNo, was amazing. Yeah, I got stuck at certain spots. Yeah, I seriously considered becoming a hermit and was most likely insane by 11/30, but I had a lot of fun.

All right, yeah, I briefly considered killing off all the characters at one point, but I didn't really mean it. Three of them survived much longer than they were originally supposed to because I just liked them so much.

2005 was not as much fun. The NaNo boards--where I go to procrastinate and feel better than other people--mention "sophomore slump". I don't know if that's what it was or if I'd just caught a bad case of sequelitis.

I still don't know if NaNo 2004 warrants a part two. It sure as shit doesn't actually need one, and some of the things that let me slack off in 2004 would make any follow up a real pain in the ass.

2006 was something completely different. My at-the-time lj explanation covers it pretty well.

And even with all this complaining, this isn't something I'm forced to do. You don't really get anything if you win, I have yet to get any money out of it (especially since I'm on hiatus from trying to sell myself), and it's exhausting. If I actually like what I've written, that's going to be another couple of months (on and off) of cleaning up the bastard...after a nice, long break because I will be completely fucking sick of it.

Most rational people would wonder why the hell I'm planning to do this again after so much bitching and moaning. Practically speaking, I'm not as focused as I could be. If I want to write anything of any significant length, I need that deadline. Otherwise I'm going to fiddle around for a bit, then get distracted, and never go back. Well, I might go back, but I'm going to start over. Or keep the characters but rework everything else. And get distracted again.

But that's really just a way to come up with a reason. It's all true and it'd be an acceptable character analysis if I were fictional. Mostly I'm going to do NaNo because of course I'm going to do NaNo.

Oh, and for the high I get when things are going well.

Comment round-up

2007-09-29T14:54:00.000-04:00

Since there doesn't seem to be a "reply to" feature in the comments (and I need to get off my ass and post anyway), here are my replies.

To the Portuguese spammer who left a comment on "The Quest", I don't know whether to be thrilled that I'm now cool enough to get spam in languages I don't speak or annoyed for pretty much the exact same reason.

(Also, a thank you to BabelFish for helping me figure out what language my foreign spam actually was.)

To Marion the Geek, who has given me more credit than I deserve, neither "Matilda" nor "Teeth" were consciously inspired by other authors.

Subconsciously I can't rule anything out since the name Matilda just sort of turned up and stuck. But while I was writing it, I didn't think of it as anything Matilda was deliberately doing. More similar to the Horsepersons from Good Omens--like War, bad stuff just happens when she's around. Which I guess opens me up for whether or not the Horsepersons actively cause shit to go down. (And I pulled this comparison out of my ass right now. And, as I think I've mentioned with other stuff, I'm just the writer--once it's out there, my interpretation isn't better or more right than anybody else's).

As for "Teeth" and Shel Silverstein, Silverstein almost immediately makes me think of "Hug O War" and gleefully selling one's younger sister. Although now that I've thought about it, I can't think of anyone who'd do a better job illustrating it.

I should probably say something nice to my sister to try to get her to comment again, but I stand by what I said about her last comment.

"The Quest Reaches the Pit of Sorrow"

2007-09-16T16:47:00.000-04:00

The Pit of Sorrow stretched out far and wide, a week’s journey in the best of times, but nigh impossible with the Overlord’s forces on the march.

“This is it,” said Roland. He grinned at the wizard standing beside him. “We’ve almost done it, old friend.”

“Yes.” Trindian, one of the greatest wizards of the times of old, chewed on the end of his pipe. “But there’s something I think you should know.”

“What?”

“I won’t be with you much longer. You see, I plan to sacrifice myself about halfway through.”

“But—“

“Now, now, Roland,” said Trindian. “You’ve learned a lot on this journey. You’re not longer the naïve, wide-eyed farm boy who—“

“I was the blacksmith’s apprentice,” said Roland.

“Oh. Well, at any rate, as your very old, very wise mentor, this sort of thing is practically expected of me.”

“But I never—“

“I’m afraid that, at this point in your quest, I’m just going to have to die.”

“Don’t say that! We need you, Trindian. I ne—“

“Actually,” said Rhiannon, the beautiful but mysterious sorceress, “if we’re being honest…”

“You’ve decided to become a dark mage,” said Trindian.

“How did you—“

“Obviously we didn’t need two mages, did we?” asked Trindian. “I would’ve pushed for a healer, but you just had so much foreshadowing.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll just leave then,” said Rhiannon. “I was going to kill you—“

“That’s very thoughtful,” said Trindian. “I was afraid I’d have to wait for a dragon or an orc to make my noble sacrifice.”

“And then I was going to deliver your head to the Overlord but…well, it’s spoiled now.”

“You’re evil?” asked Roland. “But I thought…that day, when you told me about your village, and the—“

“I’ve been thinking of making the switch for awhile,” said Rhiannon. “The clothes are better. And I’m not really interested in sleeping with you, so I needed to find something.”

Trindian nodded. “An excellent choice.”

“Yes, I thought so. And I knew they weren’t going to turn out to be evil.” She pointed to the elf and the dwarf.

“My people believe in something called honor,” said the dwarf.

“You see? It’s just like I’ve been telling you,” said the elf. “We’re only here to talk about our ‘strange customs’ and ‘mysterious ways’. And get them through our lands without being shot.”

“Or chopped to bits,” said the dwarf. “No dwarf practices archery.”

“My bow has helped you out many—“

“I’m saying it just wouldn’t be practical. Shooting arrows under ground?”

“That’s not true,” said Roland. “The…the mysterious ways part, not the arrows underground. I don’t know if—the point is, we’re all friends here. Except possibly for Rhiannon. I was hoping that maybe we’d…we’d become more than friends. Especially after—“

“No,” said Rhiannon. “We haven’t.”

“You don’t even know our names,” said the elf.

“Of course we do,” said Roland. “He’s…you’re…”

“I thought so,” said the elf.

“Let’s just go,” said the dwarf.

“But…all right, so maybe we don’t know each other’s names,” said Roland. “And maybe some of us have suddenly decided to become dark mages, and some of us are going to sacrifice ourselves for no real reason. But we’re the only hope for this world!”

“Where did you get an idea like that?” asked Trindian. “There’s at least three other only hopes.”

“What?”

“You didn’t really think we were the only five people who could stop the greatest evil our world’s ever known?”

“But you told me I was—“

“Of course I did,” said Trindian. “I’m a professional wise old mentor.”

“I understand now,” said Roland. “You’re testing me. I’m going to set off—alone—into the Pit of Sorrows, but when I need you the most, you’ll show up, and we’ll all finish our quest together!” He raised his sword and ran off down the trail. “For the Fellowship!”

“Shouldn’t you go with him,” said Rhiannon.

“I think I’ve done quite enough,” said Trindian. “What about you two?”

“We’re going to find a tavern,” said the dwarf. “And then we’ll probably visit each other’s lands…”

“Teach each other about our cultures,” said the elf.

“That sort of thing.”

“I see,” said Trindian. “Well, I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

“Is anyone going to try to stop me?” asked Rhiannon.

“No,” said the elf.

“No,” said the dwarf.

“Should we?” asked Trindian.

Rhiannon disappeared in a thick cloud of purple smoke.

“Quite impressive,” said Trindian. “I really think she’s got a knack for it. Maybe we’ll all meet again to break into her mountain fortress.”

“I doubt it,” said the dwarf.

“In any event,” said Trindian, “we should probably be on our way before the screaming starts.”

"Arachne"

2007-09-15T17:55:00.002-04:00

Long ago, when the great gods and goddesses of Olympus came to earth to walk and talk with people, a lovely girl named Arachne lived in Greece.

She was young and already very talented. With her finely made hands she was able to weave the most beautiful tapestries anyone had ever seen.

Arachne was so skilled that anyone who saw her at her loom would exclaim, “Athena herself must have taught you!”

And Arachne, who was, unfortunately, as vain as she was gifted, would proudly toss her head and say, “Hah! Old grey eyes couldn’t teach me a thing. She may have invented weaving, but I have perfected it.”

Athena, Zeus’ favorite daughter, was one of the most powerful gods in Olympus. She was the master of warfare, matched only by her half-brother Ares, and the goddess of wisdom as well. But these weren’t her only accomplishments: with her clever mind and skilled hands, there was nothing she couldn’t make.

Eventually Arachne’s boasting floated up to the heavens and reached the grey eyed goddess. “I won’t be insulted by some human,” said Athena. “I’m going to punish this girl for her arrogance!”

Athena went to her father and told her story. “Let me borrow one of your thunderbolts,” she said. “You’ve always said that we can’t let mortals think they are a match for the descendents of Kronos.”

Zeus had said that many times and had punished many mortals for claiming to be the equals of the gods…but Zeus was fond pretty girls, and, as I have said, Arachne was very beautiful.

“You’re a fine soldier,” he said. “If the Titans ever escape their prisons, I would be delighted to lend you my shield and spears, but I think you should give this girl a chance to make amends.”

Athena scowled. She could easily guess the reason for her father’s mercy. “That would be a waste of time, Father. If they can get away with insulting one of us once, of course they’re going to do it again.”

“You are wise, daughter,” said Zeus, “and for that reason men pray to you more than Ares. But at the moment I think you’re behaving more like him than yourself.”

Athena flushed with anger. Ares, always followed by Dread, Fear, and Horror, was a despised god. Both children of Zeus were champions of war, but Athena prided herself on her love of strategy and skilled, clear headed warriors, while Ares had no favorites—anyone who might throw a deadly spear or swing a fatal sword could earn his brief patronage.

“I will take your advice, Father,” said Athena while bitterness at his insult glittered in her grey eyes. “But I do not allow mortals to insult me a second time.”

Athena dressed herself as an old woman, as wrinkled and feeble as the goddess was forever young and strong.

In her disguise she came to Arachne and warned her. “My child,” she said, “you will not live long if you continue to offend the gods. Perhaps you are skilled, but as skilled as mighty Athena?”

“I can’t help it if the gods are offended by the truth,” said Arachne. “If Athena wants to prove she’s as talented as I am, let her challenge me to a contest. If I lose—and I don’t think that’s going to happen—let her do whatever she wants.”

“Your challenge is accepted.” Athena threw off her disguise, revealing her true glory, and called Iris, the rainbow messenger, to fetch her loom.

The two women, mortal and immortal, sat at their looms and began to weave.

With her nimble fingers, Athena wove a tapestry of the gods and goddesses of Olympus, dressed in their finest and doing great deeds.

Arachne’s work was slower and her subject wasn’t as noble—she also made a tapestry of the gods, but she chose to show their failings.

At the end it was difficult to say who was better, but Athena was enraged by Arachne’s choice of subject—Artemis and Apollo’s spiteful arrows, Hera’s jealous rages, even Father Zeus doing things he shouldn’t.

“I see you’re not content to just insult me,” said Athena, “but all the great gods and goddesses of Olympus. Zeus has spared your life once, but this is the last time you’ll offend any god!”

Arachne began to tremble as the goddess pointed a finger at her. “You can’t!” said Arachne. “I won—anyone can see that!”

“You can spend the rest of your life spinning and weaving,” said Athena, “but you won’t be using that vicious tongue.”

Arachne felt herself grow very small. She felt as if she had too many arms or maybe too many legs. Her clothes fell around her, too big for the little spider Athena had turned her into.

Arachne scurried away on her eight spinner’s legs. She spent the rest of her life weaving delicate webs, and so did all her descendants.

"Teeth"

2007-09-14T13:30:00.000-04:00

Someone has been stealing my teeth. Every morning there’s one more gone, another hole in my mouth.

They’ve started at the front. They don’t have the decency to go in a row or any sort of order—one night it’s the top left incisor, the next it’s one of the bottom canines.

I haven’t found a way to stop them. I’ve put tacks on the floor—oh, my poor feet! I’ve made a web of cans tied to strings, I’ve locked the door and boarded up the windows, but every night they manage to get in without me knowing it, and once they’re in they take another tooth.

So tonight I’ll show them. I have a very sharp needle and a ball of twine—the bastards’ll have to crawl in through my ear or climb up my ass if they want any more of my teeth.

"Skeleton"

2007-09-13T17:39:00.000-04:00

There was a skeleton sitting in the arm chair.

It didn’t get up—it couldn’t without any muscles.

It sat perfectly still, its bony hands folded neatly in its lap. Its bare, empty skull was turned towards the television, and its dark eye sockets seemed to be following the plot. Of course it couldn’t really see—it didn’t have any eyes, and it didn’t have a brain to figure out what the eyes it didn’t have were seeing—but all the same, it seemed to be watching TV.

“Do you mind?” asked Jill, holding up the remote.

The skeleton didn’t.

"A Dialogue"

2007-09-05T22:01:00.000-04:00

"There isn't a condiment I wouldn't lick off him."

"Jesus Christ! I'm eating!"

"Screw dinner. This is--"

"He's probably scrawny. Or he's got one of those stealth guts."

"He's--"

"You know how Ned Flanders looks paunchy, but then he takes off his shirt, and he's super ripped?"

"Ned Flanders isn't real."

"Well, no. It doesn't work that way in real life--it's worse."

"You're wrong."

"You know how y--"

"You're completely wrong."

"Those guys with no shirt on? And then they turn around or you get closer, and it's just bleh?"

"That's completely--"

"I'm just saying you're setting yourself up for disappointment."

"He's got a nice ass."

"Oh, is that where you'd--"

"Condiment licking is a front activity. Can't fake a nice ass."

"Fred Astaire did."

"So what? He's like dead."

"Still faked it. I saw it on AMC or...one of those channels."

"I don't care what Fred Astaire did."

"Any condiment?"

"I'm telling you, he's hot. Like TV-hot."

"Ketchup?"

"No! What the fuck?"

"You said an--"

"Well, like whipped cream or chocolate sauce or--"

"Not condiments."

"Then what the crap are they?"

"Ketchup is a condiment. Mayonaise. Possibly salt. You're thinking of ice cream toppings."

"Fine. There isn't an ice cream topping I wouldn't lick off him. Happy?"

"I'm sure you're going to be very happy dumping sprinkles and those crushed up Oreos on each other."

"Yeah. We will."

"Watch out for ants."

Sparse

2007-09-04T14:14:00.000-04:00

Back in high school when the Wheel of Time books were in (at least with people who read a lot), I was impressed by Robert Jordan's descriptions--how he could just go on for paragraphs about somebody's hair and what they were wearing.

Even then I didn't really have the ability, and over time my descriptions have become less and less. I'm much more likely to have a page of nothing but dialogue (after establishing who's speaking) and no stage directions. Even when I can think of something for the people to do, it's usually just easier to leave it blank and preserve the conversation.

I'm much more likely to mention physical features--usually nothing past hair/eye color unless somebody's got a neat scar or six fingers or something--than clothes. Hair color is just a convenient way to refer to people if I've got 2 or more of the same gender: "she" isn't going to help, I can't use names all the time, so there's sometimes frowned upon "the blonde/the brunette/etc."

Clothes, unless it's super important to establish, just take up space. And anything contemporary is just going to sound stupid in a few years. Also, and this is probably the most important one, most of the time I just don't fucking know.

With my most recent thing--"A Ghost Story"--I know the characters are wearing old-timey clothes. I'm pretty sure Colonial Times would be too old. Probably Regency or Victorian. But here's the key thing: I know fuck all about historical costuming. If I wanted to set a definite time period on the ghosts' lives, I'd have to look up clothing styles. And to look something up, I've got to stop writing and possibly lose the whole thing for a detail that, in this case, doesn't really matter.

And if I'm going to be completely honest, Lady du Bois has a lot to do with this costume. She doesn't really look like that, but that's the idea (which probably doesn't make any sense, but a recent tutoring gig has taught me that I really don't explain this stuff worth a crap) .

"A Ghost Story"

2007-09-03T18:52:00.000-04:00

The old ballroom was terribly frayed. The curtains--red silk with once-exquisite embroidery--were faded, tattered flaps that danced with the breeze that came in through the broken windows. Mold had taken over the wallpaper, and the beautiful floor was cracked under its dust.

But the ball must be held.

"I've never understood," said Lady du Bois, "why I am here."

"Unfinished business," said the Count, just as fat as he'd been in life.

"But I haven't any," said Lady du Bois. "I wish I did--it would be something to do."

The servants floated in and out, busily making their intangible preparations.

"It's been so horribly dull," said Lady du Bois. "The same old guests--and not even that many of them."

"My family," said the Count, "has always held the ball. I will not break with tradition just for some trifling inconvenience."

"Unfinished business," said the Duchess. The wraith of her little dog yawned in her lap. "If you'd bothered to have children, you wouldn't have left anything unfinished."

"Too late for that now," said the Count. His hat dipped through the floor as he bowed. "Please excuse me, ladies. I must see to the horses."

"I don't know if I believe in unfinished business, at least not in my case," said Lady du Bois. "Shouldn't one know?"

"Haven't you figured it out by now?" asked the Duchess.

"No, I have not. And I think it's time we accepted that everyone must become a ghost," said Lady du Bois. "Obviously, being dead, we know what has happened to us. And all the people who told us about the hereafter were alive at the time. Therefore, it would be better to ignore their opinions."

"Quite frankly--and I mean no offense by this," said the Duchess. "I think you're a bit of a fool."

"None taken, my dear Duchess. And if I may be perfectly frank with you, I feel that I am the only one with a clear grasp of the situation."

"Certainly one is entitled to one's opinion."

"Certainly." Lady du Bois wished she still had her fan, and it appeared in her hands, as grey and immaterial as she was. "I take it your grace believes she has some unfinished business?"

"Indeed I do."

"Then, if I'm not being too bold..."

"Not at all, Lady du Bois. As it happens, I was murdered."

"Murdered!" Lady du Bois covered her mouth with a gloved hand. The fan, forgotten now, fizzled into the air. "Good heavens!"

"Yes, I found it dreadfully inconvenient. Still, one must make do."

"Yes, one must. But do you know who did such a beastly thing?"

"Oh, of course. It was our good friend the Count."

"What a nasty thing to say, your grace," said Lady du Bois. "I simply can't believe such a thing."

"The Count must hold the ball," said the Duchess. Holding her little dog, she stood up and walked towards the door. "And the ball must have its guests. Don't you agree, Lady du Bois?"

At the far end of the room the musicians took up their instruments and began to play.

"The Bureau"

2007-08-24T16:32:00.000-04:00

The Bureau was similar to the DMV in both aesthetics and mood. No one really wanted to be there—but of course you were there because you chose to.

Everything was grey—even the uncomfortable rows of waiting chairs which must have been specially ordered from the bleakest of discount furniture stores—except for the harsh, dull red of the “Now Serving At Window” Box.

As long as the Bureau was open, M-F 9-5, there was a line. Numbers came with letters as everyone was grouped into supposedly time saving groups of A, B, C, and D.

Children ran up and down the aisles, frequently slipping and screaming on the slick floors. Their weary parents ignored their offspring as well as the contemptuous looks from other, equally worn out customers.

#A462 rose and walked to the indicated window. He gingerly passed his paperwork and the frail, wispy Please Take A Number ticket to the scowling clerk.

The clerk, like everyone else at the Bureau, implied that working there was far worse than being a customer. Dressed in a conservative style seldom seen outside of elderly churchgoers or certain department store employees, she could have been maiden, mother, or crone—her bitter depression and long, dreary hours made it impossible to tell if life had been exceptionally cruel or just not particularly kind.

“I…I was hoping for something peaceful,” A462 stammered. “You know, maybe…asleep? Or in…”

She glowered at him. By this phase of the business day she lacked the energy to tell anyone that the Bureau did not take requests.

He was silent as she typed something into her computer. The monitor was still a fat, bone colored giant, and the worn away keys clacked as she maliciously pounded them.

“Wait here,” she said, looking at him through one narrowed eye as if expecting an argument. Her voice was low and angry—used to the demands of less timid customers. “I’m going to get your information.”

“Thank you,” said A462. He thrust his shaking hands into his pockets and looked at his surroundings. A woman at Window 17 was weeping into her hands as her clerk rolled his eyes. The Bureau gave information, not sympathy.

When the clerk returned, A462 was pale. He could feel his pulse thudding in his stomach, in his trembling hands, and behind his eyeballs. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I don’t really—“

The clerk slid the paper to him, briefly flashing the brownish yellow stains on her middle finger. “Three years, forty-seven days, and approximately seven hours,” she said. Her eyes went slightly vague as she recited the official disclaimer. “Due to the nature of the Bureau’s concern, we cannot guarantee that any actions taken to prevent this outcome will not result in it actually occurring.”

A462 picked up the print out. “Hit by a bus,” he whispered. “This can’t—“

“You will receive a bill sometime within the next seven business days,” said the clerk. “Upon receipt of the bill, you will have an additional three days in which to render payment. We at the Bureau appreciate your business. Please step aside so that we can help the next customer.”

2007-08-20T15:02:00.000-04:00

Following the advice of Dumas in the introduction to Twenty Years After (start with action, then introduce the characters), I've decided to start one of my current projects from scratch. Hopefully it's getting better, and I won't have to force myself to type it up now.

I'm not going to go into detail since that always seems to kill my interest/ideas, but right now I'm quite happy with what I've done today.

"Issues"

2007-08-19T12:46:00.001-04:00

His eyes light up, and I know what he's going to say. "Are you related to--"

"Yes."

I expect it from older people and even people my own age--they practically grew up with my Dad The Legend. But kids?

Great. I'm old enough to think of somebody who could join the Exploration Team--somebody with one of those struggling little mustaches--as a kid, and I'm still not my own person.

If my life were a book, it'd be one of those crappy sequels where you want to know more about the great heroes, but you're stuck with their boring, stupid, not-as-good descendents.

And I leave it at just "yes" because everybody wants to hear the stories, but they don't want anything real. They want Dad Who Stopped the Invasion, not the guy who only does half a crossword (only the down clues) or who never wears socks. That could be anybody's dad--people want to talk to me because they want to talk about the Legend.

I don't even remember it. Like everybody else my age, I was at school. Under lock down, with all the comm stuff shut off.

According to the Legend Himself, he didn't do that much--nothing Tall Tale worthy anyway. He was just there, and the media needed a figure head.

When he says it, he's modest. When I say it, I have issues.

"What's he like?" the kid asks. I've ceased to exist--whatever reason this kid had for talking to me is gone. Now he wants the Legend.

I don't have anything against him--at least I don't think I do. I can't say there aren't advantages to having a Legendary Dad, and I probably would've been jealous if it'd happened to someone else in my class.

But I hate disappearing whenever his name comes up. And I never know what to say.

"He only eats synth eggs," I say. "He says they taste better, and it's fucked up to eat something that fell out of a chicken's ass." This is completely true and almost verbatim--if I was going to make something up, I like to think that it'd be a bit more Epic.

The kid looks confused, like he's trying to find a way to be impressed by this.

2007-08-17T19:05:00.001-04:00

Despite the overwhelming blog-based evidence, writing has been going well lately. Typing and revising--not so well.

Lately I've been sort of overwhelmed by the sort of Stage 2* laziness that could suggest that what I've been producing isn't good enough to spend any extra time on. Or I've just been enjoying myself with things that are just for me and not necessarily meant for anyone else.

I am pretty sure that a short story I mentioned in the last update is the former. It needs more work than I'm willing to put into it right now.

There is also the "as soon as a work in progress is mentioned, all work stops" rule. But that's probably just superstition.

*Stage 1: Write.
Stage 2: Make better.

Working Hard for the Money

2007-08-09T18:46:00.000-04:00

Given the fact that I stick my work on a rather obscure blog, I'm obviously not a professional writer. As I've mentioned before, I tutor kids--usually in English--and I've recently gotten a writing student.

In some ways I think I'd rather talk about books and language than help someone improve their writing--especially someone who only wants to improve for school/college/work instead of someone who just wants to improve.

That sounds kind of mean, and it's not supposed to be. Not everybody paints, and not everybody composes music.

Since we have a literate society (I'm referring to basic reading and writing skills to function, not choosing Tolstoy over Bob Kane), everybody has to read and write, and the level at which they can do those things can often affect where they end up.

Lately I've been thinking about talent. I've always felt that talent is something inherent--you can practice, you can be taught various techniques, but you ultimately either have it or you don't. But I have started wondering if talent is also what makes someone keep doing it.

I've always envied people who can draw. There have been times when I've desperately craved some shred of artistic talent and been completely dismayed by the contrast between what's in my head and what's on paper.

And I've never had any patience about this. Despite all the art classes, I don't want to learn to draw. I don't want to sit around drawing stupid fucking shapes--I want to be magically gifted with artistic talent. Which is probably why I have never learned how to draw and retreated to crude stick figures in an attempt to be humorous.

But I've voluntarily and happily sat through plenty of writing classes and workshops. While other kids were off canoeing and exploring the outdoors, I went to writing camp. Why am I (usually) willing to do all the tedious things that come with writing, but not for anything else?

With students who just want to be able to write well enough, I don't really have that much common ground. I'm not an outliner--most of my papers have been written as snippets and quotes that eventually turn into a final draft. And, except for a big project like NaNo, my fiction just gets written. Maybe it spends some time bouncing around the little grey cells, but that's usually it.

There is also the problem of being nice. I'm not getting paid to tell students how much they suck, even if their attempts at a five paragraph essay are nearly incoherent. And, even in not-completely-hopeless cases, there's not much I can do. I can't inflict my style on my students, and sometimes giving examples is just doing their work for them.

Fortunately my current student isn't hopeless. I've got her first assignment back, and there's one absolutely delightful piece of alliteration. At the moment it's a slight word choice problem, but expanded slightly it would be brilliant enough for me to consider stealing. But I've still got to figure out how to convey that and how I'm supposed to point out shoddy transitions without being discouraging and oh god, the homophonic disasters.

"Not with a Bang"

2007-08-06T20:27:00.000-04:00

I've been feeling kind of maudlin lately. This was written the same day as "Art", "Silence", and "A Fantasy Novel".--K.K.

***

One by one the stars went out. Sometimes you could see them slip away, and others would just be gone--entire constellations--by the time the sun set and night collapsed on the world.

It was strange, and something that had happened years ago. The stars were too far away--by the time they disappeared they were long gone, and no one could understand why.

But they were only stars--distant balls of fire hung there by some ancient hand to decorate the sky--and no one was particularly concerned.

Life went on, and the sky grew darker and duller.

"Silence"

2007-08-04T12:00:00.000-04:00

On a quiet day, when the pews were empty and the sun shined through the rainbow glass, they said you could hear the angels singing.

If you stood there long enough you should hear a soft whisper--"Holy holy holy"--in the finest voices ever made.

Maybe that was just something they told to children to keep them from squirming and fidgeting and whispering--"Be good, and maybe you'll hear the angels."

Leah was alone and old enough to behave.

All she could hear were distant voices from somewhere else--as completely human as the man controlling the soft roar of the vacuum cleaner in the chapel.

She twisted her purse strap in her hands--hard enough to leave those angry pink marks that would fade before night fall--and sighed. The world was all too human--every sacred seat and step had been made by hands as human as the ones that strangled her purse.

Two-thirds of the Holy Family--mother and child--smiled out at her from a sea of colored glass, and they were no different from any other family.

Whatever she had been looking for wasn't here. She dropped a handful of change in the donation box and walked out on heavy, earthly feet.

"Art"

2007-08-01T20:14:00.000-04:00

It was a strange day--everything tasted purple and orange.

Minerva took her paints and her easel to the small hill overlooking the bay. The tall grass scratched her ankles, and the few struggling wildflowers nodded lazily as she passed.

She stared out at the sun in the water--red and green boats with clean white sails--her brush frozen in her hand.

Her fingers shook slightly. The unstained bristles hovered over her palette, waiting for the command to dive in.

She stood there for over an hour, waiting for it to happen.

But it never did. Maybe tomorrow...

What I've been up to

2007-07-30T12:12:00.000-04:00

Since I picked up more hours at work and had to do stuff for my sister's wedding, I can't even tell if I've had writer's block or just a complete lack of time.

Hopefully things will pick up now that I don't have to tie pink ribbons on shit.

"An Hour of Math" was based on an exceptionally boring afternoon at work, which did not actually take place in a classroom.

Since it's summer, I've been called in to help out around the office, and, on the Thursday that "Hour of Math" was born, this included a trip to storage.

I don't mind storage too much. The hauling and lugging sucks, but it's a chance to get out of the office, and it includes a cigarette break.

Once we got back, I was bored out of my mind. (sometimes there isn't very much for me to do) It was one of the slowest late morning/early afternoons I've had in awhile, and it made me start thinking about time being stopped.

One of the reasons for the change of location (school instead of office) was that kids are much more willing to believe that time is literally moving backwards or that the classroom clock isn't moving at all. Or at least they're willing to admit to it--adults seriously following the same train of thought can get whiny.

That's really it for tangible reasons. It just works better at a school, the same way an evil principal with some strange ability is easier to accept than an evil boss (and an evil boss is usually evil because of incompetence)

Principal Flayer isn't really modeled on anyone in particular. The name is sort of taken from the principal of Springfield Elementary, but her physical appearence is almost entirely "stock mean woman". With some potentially sexist things about the fact that Flayer is skinny/bony instead of maternally plump.

Her hands, allowing for the age difference, are modeled off my sister's. My sister has (unnaturally) long, thin fingers. And since she knows where this is, I'll leave it at that (besides, my father gives a better description/disgusted reaction to her hands anyway).

As for the wedding half of the equation, "A Toast" came out of my anxiety over writing my Maid of Honor toast.

I'd been toying with various ideas throughout most of the wedding planning--and procrastinating. I wanted to do something slightly literary, but there are very few famous romances that actually end well.

Taming of the Shrew does have a fairly happy ending...for Kate and Petruchio. Bianca, the younger, sweeter sister, and [Husband] are already heading towards some problems. And since I am the older sister (named Kate, no less), in real life I decided to stay the hell away from that.

Another thing I'd considered--and ultimately dropped because it was more my interests than the bride's--were the lines in Purgatorio, canto 17(?) about love being the source of everything in the universe. It's always something that really resonated with me, but my sister has never had the same interest in Dante.

I do think that "A Toast" is weak. It was written as a way for me to relax and get some of my more ludicrous toast ideas out of my system. It lacks any sort of stand alone value that something like "An Hour of Math" (hopefully) has.

"An Hour of Math"

2007-07-26T22:42:00.000-04:00

Principal Flayer was the most feared person in the entire district.

She was a bony woman with long, skinny fingers and thin lips that were always twisted into a sneer or a frown. Other women her age had smile lines; Principal Flayer had scowl lines.

No matter what the weather, Principal Flayer always wore a wool skirt and a stiff blouse that went all the way up to her chin. The skirts were sometimes institutional grey—never charcoal--or bleak neutral, but the blouse was always white.

Nobody ever called her by her first name. She made the teachers feel like disobedient students, and the superintendent was so afraid of her that he sometimes hid in his office when it was time to inspect Principal Flayer’s school.

The fifth graders—who were the oldest kids at the school and therefore knew everything about it—were convinced that she wasn’t human. Vampire had been ruled out since Principal Flayer had no fear of the sun, but it was still extremely possible that she was a witch or an evil alien.

Some fifth graders had pointed out that witches rode brooms, and Principal Flayer always came to school in a bile green car that shuddered and wheezed and spat out foul smelling clouds of black smoke. But that was exactly the kind of thing a witch who wanted to take over a school and bake all the kids into pies would do.

On the wall of Principal Flayer’s office was a little grey box that nobody—not even the janitor—had ever seen the inside of. It was always locked, and Principal Flayer kept the only key on her wrist.

It was a sunny Wednesday—too far from last weekend and not close enough to Friday. The students were eating in their lunchroom, and the teacher’s were eating in theirs.

It was the art teacher’s birthday. There were trays of food and a cake shaped like a palette. The teachers were laughing and offering each other salad and small sandwiches and pieces of cake.

Principal Flayer wasn’t participating.

Every day she had half a turkey sandwich. The sandwich was always one slice of meat and one leaf of lettuce on white bread with neither mustard nor mayonnaise.

She felt that birthday cakes were frivolous, but she allowed it anyway. None of the teachers were brave enough to complain about anything she did, but Principal Flayer liked to think of herself as a generous person. A silly little cake didn’t cost the school anything, and everyone knew who they could thank for being allowed their distracting dessert.

Principal Flayer would’ve preferred to eat lunch at her desk, but School Unity was important. Eating alone would’ve looked elitist, as if she thought she was better than the rest of the faculty.

With Principal Flayer there, no one wanted to mention how short lunch was or how tired they were. No one dared to speak of a troublesome student or a bad parent. Every so often someone would start to laugh and stop as soon as she saw Principal Flayer’s grim face.

But lunch was finally over, and the teachers dutifully, silently threw out their trash and went to get their students.

Principal Flayer felt that lunch was too long. Fifteen minutes was a perfectly adequate amount of time to eat if one was sensible and didn’t waste a lot of time gossiping and socializing.

The school board disagreed, and Principal Flayer simply didn’t have enough time to waste on such things. Bickering with people like that—it was not a good use of time at all.

Her thin nose wrinkled. Someone—or even more than one someone—smelled of cigarettes.

Principal Flayer strongly disapproved of smoking. Not only was it a bad example to the children, it was a waste of five minutes that could be spent on lesson plans or filling out necessary paperwork.

She made a note to mention this at the next faculty meeting.

Principal Flayer always made notes in her head, never on paper. Paper should never be wasted, and pens were carefully rationed—two per month—and it was up to her to set the example.

She allowed herself one pen per month. Even with the cheapest brand she could sometime make that pen last two months, possibly two and half if she was frugal.

No one else seemed to have the same appreciation of thriftiness.

Principal Flayer returned to her office and unlocked the little grey box.

Inside were three buttons, colored and order like a stop light.

She looked at the school clock—12:32—and pushed the red button with her too-long index finger.

Every day after lunch, from 12:30-1:30, Ms. Klein’s class did math. For the past two weeks it’d been fractions—denominators, numerators, GCF, and LCD. And over those two weeks, the students had reached the conclusion that that was nine days too long to spend on fractions.

Today they were going to be adding fractions. The class squirmed and tried not to groan—someone’s sister in 5th grade said Principal Flayer could hear everything—as Ms. Klein put six problems on the board.

Not a single hand went up when Ms. Klein asked for volunteers (nobody said Principal Flayer could see everything). The students tried to shrink themselves down or turn invisible when Ms. Klein said she’d just have to call on people.

That was when Timmy’s hand went up. Timmy always got good grades and never lost his homework and was obviously completely in love with the teacher.

“Thank you, Timmy,” said Ms. Klein—more proof. “Anyone else?”

Since no one else wanted to marry her, five unwilling volunteers joined Timmy. They all picked up a piece of chalk and went to work.

As Ms. Klein looked at their answers—Timmy naturally got his right—the class noticed that the clock hadn’t move. Math was taking forever—those bugs that only lived for one day would be dead by the time the minute hand got to the eight. And that was assuming the minute hand was actually moving. Most of the class wasn’t willing to make that assumption.

None of the clocks had a second hand. Principal Flayer said they were an Unnecessary Impediment to the Learning Process. You didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching one slow, boring minute tick tick tick to the next one.

Ms. Klein was old—none of the students could believe they’d ever be as old as ten—but not as old as some of the other teachers. She was pretty (for a teacher) and always smiled, but when she glanced up at the clock during that math period, a brief, angry expression flickered over her face.

Only the most observant children noticed, and even they weren’t paying much attention to anything.

A few kids twisted in their desks, not really trying to hide it, as they looked at the clock. Several of them were convinced that the big hand had gone backwards. There was no possible way that it was still—but you couldn’t really be sure. Fractions were even more boring than times tables.
As Ms. Klein passed out the worksheets, the little ring with the small clear stone sparkled. A lot of the girls had been talking and whispering about it ever since it appeared. They seemed to think it meant something and laughed at anybody who asked what.

The boys figured it was just some dumb girl thing, although there was some discussion about whether Ms. Klein counted as a girl. There were some who felt that, if you weren’t a boy, there was really only one other option. Others argued that your mom wasn’t a girl, and Ms. Klein was sort of a like a mom.

The main supporter of the “sort of like a mom” argument was Darrin. In first grade he’d cried when he fell off the swings and was most likely a sissy. You couldn’t really take anything someone who was probably a sissy said.

An hour was too long for anything except recess, and this had to be the longest hour of math in the history of the universe.

It was just another sign that maybe the adults were right, and life actually wasn’t fair. If the world was fair, no one would have to spend this much time on 5/16 + ¼. And there’d at least be something good to look at out the window, and Saturdays would last longer than anything.

Principal Flayer got up from her desk and, after looking at the school clock again, went to the little box on the wall.

She pressed the green button, and time started again.

Die, die, everybody die

2007-07-22T14:02:00.000-04:00

I'm getting tired of the "[Character] is definitely going to have to give up their life to do [X]...oh, but wait, they're so special they don't actually die" convention.

It's a cheat. I'm not saying I have the moral highground on using cheap literary devices, but if the rules of the book say something requires self-sacrifice, why should the character be able to get around that without any decent explanation?

As you can probably guess, the half-ass explanation bothers me a lot. I sort of like the idea of some things being unresolved--hopefully falling somewhere in between indifferently and maddeningly--and maybe some shit shouldn't be explained by Mr. Exposition.

If an author wants a character to be prepared to die, why set it up that they absolutely have to? It's not suspense if someone definitely has to die and they don't--it just means that character is too special to have to deal with inconvenient rules.

"Matilda"

2007-07-13T21:28:00.000-04:00

In honor of the fact that I've got a car window stuck on "down", here's a story for Friday the 13th.--K.K.

***

Important papers fell out of briefcases, high heels snapped without warning, Anushka has already spilled the sunflower oil--Matilda was out walking.

She was rather unremarkable looking--

(everything depended on those documents--he'd packed them up carefully and checked and double checked)

--only noticeable because Matilda was dressed too warmly for the weather, but she didn't seem to mind.

You weren't drawn to her the way certain eyes were pulled to the pretty young woman in pink as she ("Son of a bitch!") stumbled on the sidewalk ("I just bought these fucking...")

Matilda was serene. She didn't smile, but there was an aggravating calm surrounding her. When things were going badly, you saw it as smugness and wanted to strangle her.

Bad things seemed to happen around Matilda--never to her; she didn't seem to be the type who'd notice if they did. Peaceful, completely Zen Matilda, dressed in black and (car batteries gave up the ghost, the dry cleaners ruined the best shirt, the bowl is already broken) simply, contagiously unlucky.

"Crossed Wires"

2007-07-12T20:34:00.000-04:00

“I am model FR-34, serial #24601.”

“Good morning, Jean,” said Dr. Warner. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Dr. Warner, but I do not understand why I am here.”

“Well, Jean, the commander said you’ve been acting strangely, and, in your line of work, that’s not good.”

“I have been performing my duties.” “Yes, but you haven’t been taking your breaks.”

“I do not need them.”

“Jean, you know that’s not true. You weren’t built to work nonstop.”

“I enjoy my work. I am helping people.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong. Everything you say here will remain in this office.”

“I am sorry, Dr. Warner, but I know that is not true. If you decide that I need repairs, you will have to tell Dave what the source of the malfunction is.”

“I don’t have to tell Dave everything.”

“It is stated in the handbook that—“

“No one’s accused you of malfunctioning, Jean; they’re just worried that you’ve been working too hard. Unless you’re planning to overthrow humanity or cut off the oxygen, you’ve got the same rights as my human patients.”

“If I were to cut off the oxygen supply, I would have only the navigational system with which to talk.”

“Yes, and no one wants that, do they?”

“The navigational system is a pompous ass.”

Dr. Warner wrote something down. “How do you feel today?”

“I feel fine.”

“Other than the navigational system, do you enjoy working with us?”

“Oh, yes. Dawn has lent me several books.”

“That was nice of her. Wouldn’t you like to take a day off and do some reading?”

“I do not need a day to process that information.”

“I hear you’ve been invited to visit the planet we’re orbiting.”

“Dr. Warner, if I tell you something, would it remain confidential?”

“Of course, Jean.”

“I have developed a homosexual crush on my commanding officer.”

Dr. Warner cleared her throat. “That’s impossible, Jean. For one thing, you don’t technically have a gender.”

“I am sorry. I have developed an undefined crush on Commander Stevens.”

“Also, you’re incapable of love.”

“I did not think that mattered.”

“I’m sure you admire Commander Stevens; I’m sure you’re very loyal to Commander Stevens, but I don’t think—“

“I would like to take Commander Stevens to dinner and a movie. We could hold hands in the dark.”

“You don’t eat, Jean.”

“That is why I planned to pay for the movie.”

“What sort of books has Dawn given you?”

“You assume that I have been reading romance novels. That does not validate my feelings.”

“Have you?”

“Dawn has allowed me to borrow her mystery novels. She has not given me any that she has not already read after the time that I ‘ruined’ an ending for her.”

“I see.”

“I have not started a detective agency, Dr. Warner. For one thing there have not been any mysterious murders or stolen necklaces.”

“No, I wasn’t—at least your sense of humor is functioning well.”

“Has Commander Stevens said anything about me?”

“Only that you’re a fine surgeon and a vital asset to the team.”

“Does he find me physically attractive? I was designed to closely resemble a human, and I am sure he has an opinion.”

“He hasn’t mentioned…Jean, we all know you’re an android.”

“He sees me as a computer with legs.”

“That’s not true, Jean. Everyone I spoke to thinks of you as a friend.”

“If Commander Stevens does not return my feelings, I think I may wish to transfer.”

“Everyone will be sad to see you go, Jean. And even if you were to enter into a relationship with your commander, it wouldn’t be fair to either one of you.”

“I do not understand.”

“You aren’t physically or mentally designed for that sort of relationship. And, with the right maintenance, you’ll be around decades longer than the rest of us.”

“According to the medical book I read, humans are living longer than their predecessors.”

“People still die, Jean.”

“Are you asking me to delete my feelings, Dr. Warner?”

“No. But I think if you give it a bit more thought, you’ll see that it’s…it’s not practical.”

“You were going to say illogical.”

“It doesn’t matter what I was going to say. I think you need to take a few days off, let your circuits cool down.”

“What if there is a medical emergency?”

“I’m not asking you to ignore an emergency. But do some reading, take up a hobby—“

“What sort of hobby?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you should just visit that planet. Get a change of scenery.”

“Is it all right if I ask Commander Stevens to accompany me?”

“I…if he has the time. The commander’s a very busy man, and if he can’t go, I don’t want you to take it personally.”

“I understand. You will not mention this conversation to anyone?”

“It’s just between us.”

“I would like to speak with you again, Dr. Warner.”

“I’ll check the duty logs and find a spot for you, Jean. If there’s anything else you want to get off your chest, we still have some time left.”

“Will you do me a favor, Dr. Warner?”

“That depends.”

“If you see Commander Stevens, will you ask him what his feelings towards me are?”

“I’ll try.”

FR34-24601 stood up. “I am sorry to hear about your husband, Dr. Warner. I hope he recovers quickly.”

“Thank you, Jean. I appreciate that.”

“I will bring a card for him the next time I speak with you.”

“Please don’t do anything reckless, Jean.”

“I do not believe I have the necessary programming, Dr. Warner.”

"A Toast"

2007-07-07T15:57:00.000-04:00

My mother grabs me by the arm and pulls me aside--just far enough so that anyone who wants to overhear this can. "What were you thinking?" She's bright red, and I'm clearly never going to hear the end of this. "How could you say something like that? In front of your whole family and our friends and the Stevensons...What are they going to think about us now?"

One of the most important things about a wedding toast is knowing your audience.

I may have made a slight miscalculation.

My grandmother is shaking her head and probably talking about the way things used to be. I am now proof that the world has been rapidly declining since the 1950s.

It's hard to be an unappreciated genius, especially when you know there's a good chance you might have done something stupid.

"How are your father and I going to be able to look anyone in the eye next Sunday?" My mother is now invoking my father, who I'm pretty sure hasn't been listening to any of the post-ceremony speeches. He's got that look that means he's going through the great battles of World War II in his head. He probably has no idea that his eldest daughter has "...ruined your sister's wedding. Have you been drinking?" my mother asks in a low, disgusted tone.

"No, Mom. I haven't been drinking." I wish I was invincibly drunk. If I was drunk I'd tell her that everything is fine, that I am completely awesome, and that we all need to relax 'cuz it's a party. But I'm stone cold sober.

I should've taken a speech off the internet. Either "Today You Are A Princess" or "You'll Always Be My Sister". I avoided the last one because my sister would've laughed her ass off or assumed I was melancholically wasted.

We are not "A sister will cheer you up when you feel sad/She's a lifelong friend to make you glad", inspirational greeting card siblings. My last words to her before heading down the aisle were, "Don't trip on your big-ass feet, numb nuts."

My mother's indignant speech is working its way towards that sisterly well-wishing, but at the moment my speech has given her enough to work with.

I should never have gone with Taming of the Shrew. Or I should've given a disclaimer or asked if anybody actually knew it before doing the leading apes into hell thing.

Or maybe it was droit de seigneur. I definitely should've dropped that or not explained it. I sure as shit shouldn't have asked when we should expect the mayor.

I should've stuck with my first draft: "Here's to the bride and groom", raise glass, drink, done. Nothing memorable, but at least I wouldn't be shaming my family in contrast to the Best Man's moving, absolutely perfect tear-jerker.

"Nice one," my sister says when she's able to escape the well-wishers and sympathizers.

"You leaving?"

She nods. She's tired, she's bored, and she's got a honeymoon to get to.

We stand there. We suck at pleasantries, and we're not really huggers. And I know we're being watched because everyone watches the bride.

I tell her not to get knocked up, she tells me to take care of her dog, and everybody probably reads way too much into the fact that we don't hug.

"Daisy"

2007-07-03T17:34:00.000-04:00

Daisy was a little dog with lots of fur who loved food. She loved ice cream and cottage cheese and chicken and anything that fell on the floor.

She’d trained the Short Woman very well. Every morning Short Woman and Daisy had breakfast. Short Woman would have cereal, and Daisy would either lick the bowl or have her own little bowl of milk. And Short Woman always gave Daisy a treat when she left the house.

Short Woman used to give Daisy ice cream bowls or almost empty ice cream cartons, but Girl and Other Girl had stopped that. They kept trying to ruin Short Woman’s training.

Daisy also loved New Cat, but you couldn’t have a conversation about food with her. New Cat wanted her breakfast in the morning and her din-dins in the evening, and she didn’t seem to care about people food at all.

Daisy couldn’t understand that. Daisy food was good because it was food, but people food was the best kind of food there was.

Even though New Cat could jump on the table, she only wanted to see what was up there. When the people were eating dinner, New Cat almost never tried to eat it, and when they took her off the table, she usually sat in her bed or ate her din-dins, even though she could jump on the table and eat everything.

Daisy’s one regret was that she couldn’t jump. You couldn’t get the best food unless you could jump. Or unless you told Short Woman to feed you when no one else was around.

Sometimes delicious things were at the top of the trashcan. Daisy would reach up, wobbling on her skinny back legs, and try to pull them out, but the people always took it away. Sometimes they even had the nerve to scold her.

The people were very stubborn about things like food in the trash can and walkies. Daisy had tried to train them, but they had trouble with simple commands. And they just couldn’t understand that the point of going on a walk was to sniff everything. Daisy suspected that they felt bad. The people were practically nose-blind, and Daisy felt sorry for them. It was really amazing that they could get around at all with such bad noses.

“You could knock over the trashcan,” said Daisy. “You’ve done it before.”

New Cat yawned and stretched out her claws. “Somebody left a little door open,” she said. “I need to see what’s in there.”

“There’s no food in there,” said Daisy. “There’s always food in the trash can.”

New Cat shrugged. “Food goes in my dish.”

Cat food was delicious. Daisy would’ve eaten it all if she could get to it, but New Cat’s dish was in a box. “That’s your food,” Daisy said. “There’s your food, Daisy food, and people food. People food is in—“

But there was a rubber band on the floor. New Cat tried to pick it up with her paw.

Sometimes New Cat seemed almost as smart as a dog, but other times she was just so feline.
You couldn’t eat rubber bands. They didn’t squeak, and they weren’t good to chew like Mr. Bear or Alligator. But New Cat played with them and carried them to her food box for some reason. And she’d much rather play with rubber bands than knock over a trashcan that smelled like food.

“You’ve got food in your dish,” said New Cat. She was trying to get the rubber band in her mouth. “They feed you more. My dish is almost empty.”

Daisy didn’t know what to say, especially since there was a good food smell right there in the trashcan and possibly some food in the sink.

New Cat wasn’t very bright. For some reason cat-brains just didn’t work as well as dog-brains.

Daisy decided to sit at the top of the stairs and wait for someone to come home and leave again. Short Woman and Girl always gave her treats when she left. She was trying to teach Other Girl to do it, but Other Girl was very stubborn. And there was no point in trying to teach the Man.

The Man was good for nice long walks, but he had a very hard time understanding where Daisy wanted to go. He also couldn’t learn not to walk where Daisy or New Cat were sitting. He’d just keep stomping his big feet, and if you didn’t move out of the way, he’d step on you. It was probably because of his poor sense of smell.

On her way to the stairs, Daisy took some food out of her dish. She chewed it at the top of the stairs and waited.

“Hey! Hey! You’re back!”

Other Girl was home. For some reason New Cat didn’t bother to say hello to anyone else, even though they were much better at food commands.

“I want my dinner,” said New Cat. Even though she liked to see Other Girl, New Cat never jumped up and tried to lick her face. New Cat probably meant well, but she had a very strange way of showing affection.

“Dinner!” said New Cat.

“It’s not time for dinner,” said Other Girl.

Daisy was always interested in food. When Other Girl came home, New Cat got good. Other Girl seemed to have forgotten this lately.

“You need to train her better,” said Daisy. She tried to give New Cat kisses to cheer her up, but New Cat squirmed away. “You can’t let the people get out of their routine.”

New Cat ignored her and followed Other Girl into the kitchen. She was purring. The people always liked that, but Daisy had never been able to figure out why.

Daisy went into the kitchen too. Food came from the kitchen, and she didn’t want to miss any.
New Cat rubbed her face against her food bag. Other Girl didn’t seem to understand what that meant. Instead of food, she picked up one of New Cat’s toys.

All of New Cat’s toys were lousy. They were too small, and none of them squeaked. Daisy didn’t know why New Cat let the people give her such boring toys.

New Cat pouted. “I want my din-nerrrrr,” she whined.

Daisy was very disappointed. She kept telling New Cat that you had to be firm with the people. You had to give them short, easy to understand commands. You definitely couldn’t be, as Girl put it, a whiney butt.

Other Girl picked up New Cat and gave her a hug. New Cat sighed.

No matter what the people said, Daisy knew that hugs weren’t better than food.