NaNoBlog

2004-02-04T17:31:00.000-08:00

Another round robin story surfaced, just to prove me wrong. I give you...

Cacodemon

Her hand wouldn't stop twitching. Not even when she put it under the C-Ch
volume of the World Book Encyclopedia, and whacked it with the largest bowl
she could easily lay hands (well, hand, at this point) on did it cease its
faint grotesque quiver.

"Oh, that's disgusting - that's disgusting," she murmured weakly, screwing
up her mouth and her courage and the tourniquet around her arm. The sudden
pressure sent her into a dizzy spell, and she collapsed onto a chair,
gasping for breath. The humor of the whole situation struck her and then
the gasps changed to faint breathy chuckles.

"If your right hand causes you to sin-"

It was starting again. Not even a tremor yet -- just an infinitesimal
ripple under the skin, but she could feel it gathering strength again. It
wouldn't lay still forever. Whacking it silly wasn't enough. It wasn't a
part of her anymore. And she knew it would only spread. She would have to
do it. It was... she struggled to find a word for what it had become. She
looked at it, lying there. Clammy. Stunned. Unclean. That was the word:
Unclean. The laughter burbled up again.

"One hand washes --"

She reached for her knife. Her hand, still lying limp on the table for now,
seemed to growl at her. She wondered if there was some way to restrain it
for now. If there was, at least, some way to keep it from spreading.

"Look now, you've been a good hand to me most of my life, and I'm quite
content to forget this whole sordid little affair if you'll just settle down
and behave yourself."

It gave a little jump.

"But I can see you're not going to do that." She swallowed. "Fine. Have it
your way." She brought the knife down, slowly, watched the fingers spread
and arch, forming a claw. She felt the cold metal of the blade on her wrist.
She clenched her teeth, pushed the blade a little harder, a moment away from
breaking the skin.

The hand did not call her bluff. It lost the aggressive stance, waved
around, signaling for her to stop. She sighed in relief. "Now are you going
to behave yourself?" she asked. The hand gave her an emphatic thumbs up.
"Good." She set the knife down and the hand relaxed.

She picked up the phone, held the receiver to her ear with her shoulder and
dialed, keeping a close eye on her other hand. Just in case.

It rang once, twice. On the third ring someone picked up and said hello.

"Hey, Tony? It's me. Yeah. It's happening again. How soon can you get here?"

She paced across the living room, clasping her errant hand by the wrist,
clutching it tightly. Tony would know what to do. He'd be here in ten
minutes. All she had to do was hang on til then. If only she had some way
to distract herself. Once she had loved to knit, but that had been out of
the question, lately, of course. She didn't trust her hand with a sharp
knitting needle anymore. It was a sneaky thing, and it would take any chance
she offered it, she knew. The television sat dark in the corner, but she
knew she wouldn't be able to focus on anything enough to watch it. So she
continued to pace. spine stiffening each time her hand gave a rebellious
jerk, each time her pinky twitched ominously. At long last, she heard the
crunch of tires in the driveway. Tony. Finally, he was here. She ran to the
door, unlocked it. Tony stepped in, a look of concern on his face and a live
chicken under his arm. He had come prepared. But before he could say a word,
her wicked hand leapt to Tony's neck, striking like an adder. Her fingers
wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze and squeeze.

"Oh!" she squealed. She tried to walk away but the grip of the hand was too
strong, they were stuck together. "You have to get it off!" Tony calmed a
bit at her words, grabbed the thumb and the fingers in each of his hands and
slowly pried it off. He was relieved by the air he was provided, and
immediately loosened his grip, and once more, relentlessly, The Right Hand
of Liza was once again on his neck, and the chicken was trying to run out
the door. "Tony!!" Liza shrieked. The shock was enough. He broke away from
the diabolical grip, realized the chicken was gone, and plunged after it out
the door.

He returned a moment later, once more with the bird. Liza was now sitting at
the kitchen table, talking in a low voice to her hand, scolding it,
threatening it with the knife.

Tony spoke. "I think I know exactly what's going on," he said.

"You do?" she said. "Oh good."

"Yes," he said, "I'm afraid I do."

Her brief sense of relief gave over to nervousness then. He wasn't making eye contact with her and his voice seemed
flat. Tony is a friend, she told herself, he doesn't want to hurt me. SHe wished she could belive it.

He sat down at the table, still avoiding eye contact. "I can't help you if you don't want to be helped, Liza. And you brought this upon yourself."

She looked at him, wide eyed. He looked so harmless in his black turtleneck and thick-rimmed glasses. He seemed to
sense this analysis and dismiss it without judgement. Silently, he held out the chicken.

"I... I only..." she bowed her head. She knew he was right. It was all her fault. She gritted her teeth, and took the chicken in her left hand
by its feathery neck. It fluffed itself up and made a whirring, brooding sort of noise. The encyclopedia was still next to her on the table. Tucking
the chicken into the crook of her elbow, she turned the pages, her pulse fluttering at her neck.

"Chicken -- Gallus domesticus. Any of several varieties of fowl originating in... plumage... flightless" ... her eyes scanned the page. Ah! There it was, near the end.

"...blood reputed to have purifying qualities, especially among practitioners of the voudoun religion of Haiti..." She looked up at Tony, and he nodded gravely.
Her right hand gave a sudden jump, and she almost screamed. The chicken startled and raced across the tabletop, leaving dirty feathers all over her woven placemats.

Tony caught it and grabbed the cleaver. "You know you have to do it, don't you? There's no other choice, unless you want to give up, and..." he looked into her eyes, and
she saw something almost like frenzy in his face. The hand leaped for him again. He brandished the cleaver, but it parried him and caught at his turtleneck.

"No, no!" she sobbed, but its grip was unshakable, no matter how she struggled to loosen it. There was a horrible ripping noise, and... then they both froze. The chicken
dropped from Tony's grip and fluttered noisily away upstairs. There was a horrible green-and-black tattoo over Tony's chest, starting at the root of his Adam's Apple, and
leading downwards toward his navel. The hand released its grip and fled to her pocket. She stared at him, unable to move or speak or tear her eyes away. She couldn't
take in what the image was, but she knew, she sensed, it was... evil. It was foul and smudgy, like a bruise. There were things like eyes, and other things like claws,
and some ornate pattern on his solar plexus that seemed to weave itself into knots and then untangle itself with each of his breaths.

The hand was creeping out of her pocket now, but she didn't think she had the strength to stop it. It crawled over the pages of the encyclopedia, began to flip them backwards.
Tony was still motionless, the cleaver poised, his eyes lit up and somehow rapturous. All at once she felt her finger tapping, tapping hysterically over and over again, at
a spot on the page. With all her willpower, she forced her eyes from the horrible sight to look down at the book.

CACODEMON, it said. Her fingers retreated quiveringly into her sleeve.

2004-02-04T15:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I think that "Fast Food" was the last of the round robins we're going to get from the e-mail experiment. My goal for the week is to get something into submission shape and submit it by Monday. Hey, Ray Bradbury used to submit a story a week, so there's proof it can be done, at least.

2004-02-04T15:41:00.000-08:00

Fast Food

It's amazing what they can do with frozen, pre-prepared meals these days. Without them, my elegant upscale restaurant, Chimera, would never be able to keep up with the incredible customer demand. We did have real chefs once, back when we first opened, but they're such temperamental things, always wanting paid and so forth. Cuts into the profit margin. So we contracted out the cooking work to Insta-Meal, one of the larger providers of pre-prepared meals in the nation. Changes had to be made, of course. We couldn't very well serve our patrons airline-style food and expect them to keep coming back. Our sommeliers worked with their nutritionists, and after several months we had crafted a variety of meals, all of which could be popped into a microwave and served in mere minutes.

Business positively boomed! Not only did we cut out kitchen staff to a fifth of what it had been, but these peons need only be paid minimum wage to be kept happy, whereas our chefs once required thirty or forty dollars every hour, and sometimes even a real salary. Also, a party which once took an hour and a half to eat dinner could now be pushed through in as little as twenty-five minutes, though of course we're not so lucky that they all move through this quickly. But with shorter wait times, we can pack hundreds more
customers in an average night than ever before. The trouble began the following year, when certain individuals had noticed what we were doing.

I told Mr. Z. not to piss of Eddie LaVane. I mean, everyone knows he's the premiere food critic in the city. The power this man has is unbelievable. More than one restaurant has gone under because Eddie LaVane snapped his fingers. The problem with Mr. Z. though, is that he's proud. I said, "Look, we really don't want to piss of Eddie LaVane or he'll screw us over, all right?" and Mr. Z. just had to prove that he was invincible.

Everyone gets that way in the industry, I guess. In your snooty Culinary Institute chefs, with their Radish Seared Ahi Tuna Au Poivre Vert and their Avocat en Flambe, it's only to be expected, and in your headwaiters named Andre with their white tails and their wine lists, it's practically de rigeur. Pretending to be Continental for nine, ten hours a day
will do that to you. And even Mr. Z, short-short order, kitchen bitch, Chief Microwaver, wasn't immune.

It might have been the immaculate white apron and hat (of course they were immaculate, after all, there's not much you can do to soil your clothes while microwaving the Green Tea Crusted Sesame Tiger Prawns Instameal), or it might have just been the atmosphere
of the place. In any case, he picked up an accent that could best be described as French twice removed (learned from a guy who had learned it from a guy who had learned it from a guy who was actually French) and lorded it over his miniscule staff of kitchen peons. And that might have been why he got so angry when I came to instruct him about Eddie's meal.

"Just one sprig," I pleaded. "One tiny little sprig of fresh parsley -- look, I'll even buy it myself. Forty-nine cents a bunch at the store across the street. All you have to do is heat it up like normal, stick the sprig on top, and serve it up with that adorable obsequious grin of yours. Is that too much to ask?"

"Eez zat too much to ask?!" Z's weasely moustache wiggled unpleasantly. "You weesh to disembowel mon arteesteec antegreetay? You wish to smash mon reputation upon ze flagstones? You weesh to drive me to le suiceed?"

"Listen up, Gilbert," I said, pronouncing it like his mother back in Poughkeepsie did, and not "Jeel-bair", as he allowed the highborn few to call him on occasion, "You stick that greenery in the goddamn slop before LaVane ever sets his beady little eyes on it, or so help me I'll... I'll --"

"Non! Thees ees the vinal humiliatiohn! I weel no longer stand for eet! Eithair I must be allood to preepair mon food accordeeng to zee traditional mannair, or I must reseenay!"

"Pardon?"

"Reseenay! Reseenay! Leave off! Queet!"

"Ah yes, resign." I sighed. "Look, Mr. Z, you're a fine cook, really you are, with the unwrapping and the microwaving and everything, but you're no artist. Now howsabout I just run and get us a nice little sprig of parsley, and you go ahead and serve the food like your supposed to so I don't have to do anything drastic. I'll even put it on the plate myself, hey? How's that for fair?"

Z eyed me warily as he considered his next move. Just then, my cell phone rang: Eddie LaVane had been spotted leaving his hotel. He should be here in five minutes. I relayed this to Mr. Z, then held my breath as he stared at me, his eyes narrowed. After a moment his expression relaxed and he actually smiled at me.

"Yees," he said.

"Yes?"

"Yees. I weel do eet. Goh. Goh and get your parsully and I weel preepare Monsieur LaVane's meal as you request."

"Good. Okay, good," I said, my suspicions overshadowed by my relief at his agreement. "Alright, well, I'll just go to the Stop N Shop across the street and I'll be back, three minutes at most." I turned and rushed out the back door into the dark alley behind the restaurant.

"Shit," I muttered as I tread through a puddle. Cold, foul-smelling water splashed around the bottom of my pant leg and soaked the top of my socks. "Shit," I said again. I didn't have time to deal with this now. I walked quickly through out of the alley, looked both ways to make sure no cars were coming and –

"Shit!"

A black stretch limo was turning the corner, no doubt occupied by Eddie LaVane. I sprinted across the street and down the block to the Stop N Shop. The automatic doors parted and I ran inside. In the tiny fruit and vegetable section I found what I was looking for, a small bag of parsley, sixty-nine cents plus tax. I grabbed it and rushed to the register.

"Excuse me?" I said to the teenage girl behind the counter. She looked up at me from behind her copy of Cosmopolitan. She was chewing a large wad of gum with her mouth open. I looked down at my parsley expectantly and she slightly rolled her eyes and put the magazine down. She rang me up, all too slowly for my taste.

"Seventy-seven cents," she said, sounding bored.

I already had my wallet out and was handing her my Visa card.

"We don't accept plastic for any transactions under five dollars," she said.

Dammit. I rarely carried cash and at the moment I didn't have so much as a penny on my person. I didn't even have my checkbook on me.

"Dammit," I said out loud. "Okay, um… add these in." I scanned the racks of impulse buy items around the counter, grabbed six Milky Way bars and handed them to her. She scanned them, one at a time.

The total came to $5.23, and she swiped my credit card. I waited impatiently for it to go through. I looked at my watch. This was taking way too long.

"You know your pants are wet?" the girl said. She smacked her gum loudly.

"Yes, I'm aware, thank you," I said.

"Smells like pee."

I glared at her, snatched the credit card slip from the machine, signed it with a squiggle that barely resembled any name at all, much less mine, and dropped it on the counter.

"Do you need a bag for –"

"No," I said, grabbing my parsley, and ignoring the pile of candy bars.

"Hey, what about your – "

"Keep 'em!" I called back at her.

I ran at full speed across the street and down back to the restaurant. Surely, Mr. Z could have stalled this long, I told myself. Everything would be fine. I ran through the alley, barely missing the puddle this time. I fumbled with my keys, unlocked the back door and rushed in.

"Z! Mr. Z! I got it, I got the – " I looked around. Mr. Z didn't appear to be in the kitchen. There was only Philip, one of the bus boys.
"Philip! Philip, where's Mr. Z?" Philip looked confused.

"He's out there serving that food critic guy. He showed up just after you left."

"Serving him? But… he was supposed to… oh, no." I pushed through the kitchen's double doors and scanned the restaurant for Mr. Z and Eddie LaVane. I spotted them and nearly fell over.

Mr. Z had already served LaVane what looked like a Risotto Primavera Insta-Meal, still in its original black plastic container, with a huge piece of broccoli sticking up out of the whole thing.

And it was on fire.

My voice caught in my throat and without thinking I ran across to the table, where Mr. Z was setting the flaming meal in front of a wide-eyed Eddie LaVane.

"What are you doing?!" I screamed.

Mr. Z looked at me with triumph on his face. "You wanted garneesh!" he said. "I gave you garneesh! Bon appetit, Meester LaVane. Haha!" The entire restaurant had gone quiet and everyone was staring at our little group: Me, hyperventilating, with my pee-soaked pant leg. Mr. Z, laughing heartily. And Eddie LaVane, the city's top food critic, whose face had gone as crimson as our tablecloths.

2004-02-02T23:19:00.000-08:00

Buttons

"Are you the magic deliveryman, who only takes
buttons?"

For a second I stared at her in amazement. She was
slight and ragged, in that Gaiman-fan-punk-chick
sort of way. Those usually tip pretty well, since
most of them have been waitresses themselves, if they
aren't still. I didn't know what she wanted with
seven extra-large pineapple and anchovy pizzas, but I
wasn't here to ask questions. I was here to drop off
the pizza, take the money, take the tip, and drive
away. Besides, it wasn't as if I hadn't had strange
orders before.

"Are you the magic deliveryman, who only takes
buttons?" she asked me again, in a wide-eyed way with
her hands in her pockets.What the hell, I thought,
it's been a long night and she's sort of hot.

"Yes. Yes I am," I replied.

She seemed pleased, though her brow furrowed
slightly."The thing is," she said, "I'm not sure if I
have enough."

This again. Third time tonight. First it was those
blubber-fed frat boys (aren't frat boys supposed to
be lean and well-groomed, or have I been reading the
wrong clothing catalogues?) taking ten stinking
minutes to dig the last two bucks out of the couch
cushions. When that was finished, it was cool for an
hour or so -- nice neighborhoods, drunk guys showing
their girlfriends how thick their wallets are -- and
then this old grandma type who looks like she could
barely spell pizza, much less chew it, invites me in
while she spends eternity mumbling and looking tearful
and rummaging in her handbag before finally fessing
up that she didn't have the money for a pizza, had
meant to make an appointment at the hairdresser's
instead, but had dialed the wrong number, and she
didn't want to disappoint that nice young man at the
pther end, and couldn't I just leave it here now that
I'd gone through all this trouble... a real scam
artist, I tell you. It took til I was back in my car
and halfway across town before I realized that I'd
been suckered and would have to give up my own
hard-earned cabbage to make up the difference. So
the night was turning into pretty much of a loss. I
was gonna stand my ground on this one, though. The
anchovy smell was pretty staggering even out here in
the open air -- there's no way I'm putting these
things back in my car tonight, I thought to myself,
while I waited for her to come back with the cash.

A few minutes later, she worked her way back to the
front door with a large cloth bag. She appeared to
be digging around in it, and while I couldn't quite
tell what goodies she'd found so far, it sure didn't
look like there was any money in her hands. Oh
Jesus, I thought, she is actually going to try and
pay me in buttons. I'm going to cry.

This was not my lucky evening.

She set the bag on a small, round table next to the
door and continued to root through it. "Oh, there is
it," she said, pulling out what looked like a small
compass. She put it in her pocket, then went back to
the bag. "One, and two, and three. four, five, six,"
she counted to herself. A moment later she pulled her
hand out of the bag and extended her arm.

"Is this enough?" she asked, chewing her lip.

I looked at the contents of her open palm: twelve
buttons in various sizes and colors, one as large as
a quarter.

"Uh. I don't think so," I said. What the hell was I
supposed to say? Hot or not, this girl was an total
nut.

"Oh," she said, visibly disappointed. She put her
arm down and furrowed her brow, as if thinking.
"Well. what if I threw in this one?" She looked down
and my eyes followed hers. I was surprised to see her
fingering the top button of her black shirt. She was
still chewing her bottom lip, watching me, waiting
for me to respond. Was she getting at what I thought
she was getting at?

"Are you serious?" I asked. Maybe tonight would be
my lucky night.

She rolled the buttons around in her clenched fist,
still toying with her shirt's collar. I took a step
forward. What was I supposed to do? I'd seen this
situation unfold in a thousand bad pornos, but in the
eight months I'd had this job, this had never
happened to me. I set the reeking stack of pizzas
down, and walked all the way inside. She eyed me
rather warily, and I wondered if I had completely
misread the situation.

Then she yanked off the button with one sharp tug,
carefully unthreaded it with her teeth, and added it
to the collection in her hand.

Apparently, I had indeed misread the situation

"So is it enough?" she asked anxiously, extending
her upturned palm. "One of these is real
mother-of-pearl, and these two are brass."

I cursed under my breath, my face turning red. A
look of panic flashed over her face, and she ripped
off a second button, hastily adding it to the others.
The soft curve of her breasts was revealed, now, but
she didn't seem to notice. Her hand leapt to the
third button, fingers pulling at it nervously,
questioningly. "How many do you need?" she wailed.

A strange noise, the scraping of metal on metal, came
from somewhere inside her dimly-lit home. Her eyes
widened in alarm. "Just tell me how many you need.
Please. Now."

I didn't know how many buttons I needed. I was not
ready for her to start yelling at me. What was I
supposed to do? I snapped at her, "What's the
matter?!"

"I just have to get the pizzas," she said, still
panicked. The scraping noise was growing louder, so
was she. "How many buttons do you need?"

"I don't know!" I shouted.

"Well just tell me and get out!" She was ripping off
the third button, helping me not at all to focus. I
was so off-balanced I nearly fell over when she
opened her mouth again. "If Simpson comes in and
you're still here it's going to eat you instead of
the pizza! You Have To Get Out!"

I tried to talk. "Wait, what, but, um..." and the
door behind her started to open. The scraping was
slow, and steady, and so loud it filled the room.

"It's too late!" She said, "Just come on!" Over her
shoulder I saw something like the end of a very long
spike, black and shiny. She shoved the buttons into
the purse and thrust it at me, and stuck her hand into
her pocket and mumbled something and opened the front
door and shoved me through and it all happened so
fast I didn't notice that I wasn't standing on the
sidewalk of Maple St. next to my idling car until she
came flying out the door behind me and shut it behind
her, and it disappeared.

It took a minute for the reality of the situation to
sink in. At first I thought it must be a trick of the
light, that the air looked lavender because it was
just past sunset, but then I came to my senses. It was
10:14 according to my black plastic "sports fashions
playmatch" watch from the Korean swapmeet. The sun
had been down for a good three hours.

I began to look more closely at my surroundings. It
wasn't just the air that seemed lavender, it was
ewverything. The ground beneath my feet, the Gaiman
fangirl, even my own arm. Stranger still, was the
fact that upon closer examination, there didn't
appear to actually be any ground beneath my feet. I
was standing on something solid, to be sure, and yet,
there wasn't anything there but lavender space. Then
I realized the spaces was finite. I could see a a
curved wall eaxtending all around us, and though I
couldn't see what was on the other side of it, light
was filtering in through it. We were apparently
enclosed in some sort of fleshy globe. I had the
unpleasant notion that some little kids had blown a
bubble with his chewing gum and somehow I'd managed
to get trapped inside. All of these thoughts raced
through me in no more than ten seconds before I
shouted, "Where the hell are we?"

"There's no need to yell," said the fangirl. She
seemed calmer now and was more interested in finding
a way to keep her shirt closed than in paying
attention to me.

I was tired and confused and more than a little out
of sorts about the way this evening was going, but
there didn't seem to be anything I could do about it,
so I just huffed and sat down. The girl turned away,
absorbed in her clothing predicament and acting as
though being stuck in a purple vacuum was perfectly
normal. I tapped my right foot against the side of the
wall. It didn't exactly bounce, but there was
definite elasticity there. It didn't seem likely to
break either. I crossed my arms and frowned. A moment
later I stood up and began to pace three steps in
either direction. I was on my fifth pass when the
girl spoke.

"Kindly stop fidgeting," she said.

"Why should I?" I asked, allowing belligerence to
take over in favor of fear.

"You'll upset the grimple," she said. "Now stop
asking questions."

"What? Questions? Why?"

The girl gave me a long disapproving look, the sort
that would have "Now, now" attached to it if she were
a grandmother instead of a punk.

"It was asking questions that got me into this. And
you too. Grimples are funny that way. They feed on
innocence, human flesh, and interrogative sentences,
although I've found that pineapple-anchovy pizza makes
a good substitute."

"Did you-"

There was a hungry rumble all around me. The girl
winced, and I clapped a hand over my mouth. Of course,
this was the hand that all the buttons were in, and
they spilled, all over the pink squashy substance.
Automatically I bent to pick them up, and then I
noticed something.

Where the buttons touched the grimple - its stomach?
Its colon? its projected thought-goo? I didn't know
and I wasn't going to ask - buttonholes were appearing
around them. Hardly believing my luck, I pulled at
the button, slipped it through the buttonhole. The
pink substance parted just like a shirtfront, and
underneath I felt grass, I felt night, I felt
ten-o-clock. Quickly I unbuttoned the other buttons,
and had soon made a gap wide enough for a person - two
people, if one of them was a skinny fangirl - to
squeeze through. And we did.

The girl's eyes were wide with wonder. Well, okay
they were already pretty wide, but give me a little
sympathy here. "That's amazing!" she breathed.

I grinned proudly. Finally, something had gone right
tonight. "Just call me the magic deliveryman who only
takes buttons.

2004-02-02T23:17:00.000-08:00

Lily and Dan

"The left side's still a bit too high," said Dan.
"I've got half a mind to just give up now."

"Half a mind's all you've got, love," Lily said and
pecked him on the cheek.
"Besides, you promised me a spice rack. Deliver, or
it's your ass." She pointed an X-acto knife at him and
grinned.

Dan smiled and picked up the leveler. He had never
seen Lily use so much as a pinch of paprika in the
entire time he'd known her, but the promise of exotic
and tasty dishes with names he couldn't pronounce
filled her brand new cookbooks.

Lily crossed the kitchen and Dan watched her out of
the corner of his eye as she set to the task of lining
the kitchen drawers with lilac-patterned paper. It
delighted him to see her in this new, domestic light.
She bustled away, smoothing out tiny bubbles in the
adhesive paper. As she worked, she hummed softly to
herself, contentedly. She had a wonderful new husband,
a beautiful new home, and the whole of her life ahead
of her. It was just the way she had dreamed it would
be. And soon... soon she would murder Dan.

She had to. There was no way around it. All her life
she had known that she would find a rich man to marry,
and all her life she knew that he would have to die a
few months later. It was a simple plan, too: She and
Dan enjoyed sky diving, hang gliding, rock climbing,
all sorts of dangerous hobbies.

They certainly did live lives full of adventure and
amusement. He had been happy to show her just how to
survive when you're skiing on a nearly vertical
incline, when you're plunging off a forty foot drop
into mid-air and a field of rocky snow. He trusted her
so completely, and it was a simple matter to
accidentally drop one the rope as he was about to
achieve the peak of some glorious climb. She planned
never to settle down, never to live a quiet life, and
all he wanted was a quiet life and a good family. He
would have been a perfect husband for millions of
women, but for Lily he was only to be a perfect
husband for another month, at the most.

Lily looked up from sorting heirloom silver into one
of the drawers. "Dan, I love you," she said, and they
retreated into the bedroom.

Lily looked at sex with Dan as a routine duty. She had
pretended to be really into it at first, moaning and
moving under him, but as time went on, she stopped
trying. She just spent the time thinking about what
she would do when she'd gotten rid of him. Dan never
seemed to notice one way or another. He spent twenty
minutes kissing her and and alternating grunts with I
love yous until he finished, which he always did with
his eyes closed and the most ridiculous expression on
his face. Sometimes Lily fatasized about taking a
series of pictures of him with that expression. She
wasn't exactly sure how she could do it without him
noticing she'd brought a camera into bed, though. On
this particular day she glanced around the homey
bedroom in gisugst and thought she might just suggest
it.

Dan had insisted on the Amish quilts and the handmade
wooden furniture. The room looked like it belonged in
someone's country cabin, not in a sleek mansion. The
man was hopeles. Lily knew that she would die of
boredom if she actually had to spend her whole life
with this man, even if he did know everything there
was to know about extreme sports. The thing was he
approached them just like he approached everything
else, as a boring academic subject. Lily prided
herself on offering him the gift of spontanaiety in
these last months of his life. It was about time she
tried it again.

"Danny," she said. She only called him that when she
was trying to be overly sweet and wanted something. It
*always* worked.

"What is it, Lily?" he asked. He was all care and
concern.

"Go get the digital camera," she ordered.

"Mmm?" he said. "That's in the cabinet with the
film?"

"It's in the drawer with the receipts," she answered
impatiently, but he was already out the door, and
before she even had time to assume a sultry
expression, he was back with the camera, happy as only
a newlywed husband with a cool gadget can be. He
turned it on, contemplated it lovingly, pressed some
buttons, looked through the viewfinder at his wife on
his bed.

"You know what we should do, Lily?" he said
thoughtfully. "We should try taking pictures, the
next time we do it."

Caught off balance, Lily only said "Ummm-"

"It might," he announced as one who has been pondering
the subject, "inject some spice into our sex life."

"Well, well," Lily thought to herself. "Perhaps I'm rubbing off on him."

"Oh, honey!" she said, her eyes wide. "Do you really think so? I mean...
isn't it kind of... dirty?"

"Well," he blushed. "Maybe a little. But don't you think it might be fun?"

"Oh, you know I'd do anything for you, sweetness."

She smiled and slipped the X-Acto knife into her pocket as he bounded into
the bedroom with the camera. He had already stripped down to his socks by
the time she got there. And the socks would stay on, as always, through
the whole repugnant act. It would have to be soon. She couldn't take
much more of this.

As she approached, Dan sensed the knife in her pocket, and let out
a grumble which grew into a mighty roar. Though the earth's yellow
sun seemed to concentrate his powers, his abilities had severely
taxed ever since he had first taken up with this confounded woman.
He had been prepared for the constant effort of concealing from her
his true form; of course no human could be expected to marry a seven
foot tall tripedal lizard-thing. But the ingenuity and persistence
of her efforts to take his life! She had kept trying to kill him
far longer than any woman of his native T'groff'k'zl would have done,
and while at first he had been charmed by her youthful exuberance,
he was starting to resent the trouble of having to constantly
rearrange her mind to make every little plan slip up. He'd half a
mind to abandon the whole project. But no, if he went home now,
without having prepared this world for the Feeding, the rest of his
tribe would never forgive him. He sighed, teleported Lily's knife
back into the kitchen, checked that his footguards were secure, and
prepared for another night of bizarre, uninspiring humanoid sex.

2004-02-02T23:08:00.000-08:00

State Forest at Night

In the heat of the night, the moon's light pressed against his shoulders as he walked, deserted.....his girl of the evening had left him, citing a drunken friend in need as she scurried up the gravelly trail. Their concourse had been awkward and punfunctory, mostly trying to find a good angle in the lumpy dirt, away from damp leaves and earthworms. At the crucial moment, she had called him Susan and bit him on the shoulder, hard. The tender spot above his collarbone throbbed unpleasantly as he walked, illuminated by the slow-motion strobelights of moonlight between trees. It was uncomfortably warm, and the girl's spit seemed to cling to him and chafe uncomfortably. He longed for a shower and a change of clothes. But such a thing was not to be had for miles. All he had was his grandparent's RV, borrowed for the summer and parked in a balding state forest.

He usually didn't mind being alone -- sought it out by preference, in fact -- but tonight it irritated him. It wasn't just that he had been walked away from first, was it? He certainly hadn't been planning to take her with him down to the town and sit in the local bar....he scratched again at the bite, annoyed. He was pretty certain she had raked her nails -- which had looked grimy even before their grappling in the dirt -- down his back too, and felt a slight stinging there as well. His shirt seemed to be sticking to that place, and he plucked it away impatiently, halting with a gasp as i ripped away with a sharp pain. "....the *hell?*" he said, popping a button off his shirt in his haste to find some relief from his own flushed blood and to see if that bitch -- and he usually never used that word, either -- had actually broken the skin. What had she done? He held his neck awkwardly to the side, trying several different angles, impatient to see.

There was just the slightest hint of mottled skin -- but it was bad light. He scowled, disappointed. These things always feel worse than they look. "Kneel down, Susan!" the memory of the voice rang in his ear. He brushed the dirt from his knees and resisted the urge to play with his collarbone anymore. "You've got something for me, don't you?" she had demanded, not quite playfully. "Maybe," he had sneered. "Shut up, Susan. Your slip is showing." She had tugged at his briefs until they had caught in his groin and made him wince. He'd wished he could say something witty, something revealing. But he couldn't quite get the thread of her game. At first he thought he was supposed to play the blushing schoolgirl, but she got more and more annoyed with him, the more he forced his giggles and flipped his hands at his balding forehead. Finally she had strongarmed him backwards, holding him down by his chest in the prickly scrubgrass. "You can't pull this bullshit on me," she'd spat. "I know more than you think"

"You don't know anything!" he had replied, a bit shocked but willing to see just how far she would go with this. He seemed to have gotten it right that time, because that was when she started threatening torture to make him tell her what he knew, and her version of torture started with pulling his pants down and exploring with an open mouth. And now he couldn't remember whether she'd bitten him as part of the torture or just for fun, or maybe he'd never known, and he had no idea what the scratch was for, but they were both stinging something awful, and he wondered if he was going to get some sort of weird backwoodsfolk disease for backwoodsland, and he decided to go back up to the RV to check himself out, and maybe change his clothes, before he hiked down to the bar.

The shower was lukewarm, intersperced with occasional blasts of icy cold water that smelled sour. The soap wouldn't lather, so he settled from for rubbing himself briskly with a rough cloth until his skin was pink and raw. He stepped out of the small show cubicle and looked in the mirror, craning his neck to examine his injuries. For thr most part, they were long purple welts, but blood had congealed in a few spots like a crust of rubies. He reached a hand around and traced a finger along the raised welt. The resulting sensation was both painful and intensely arousing. He touched it again, poked until he was lightheaded from the combination of pleasure and agony. He donned clothes haphazardly and stepped out of the trailer.

"You little cunt." The words came softly in the darkness, and in an instant she was on him. She raked her nails down his back again, ripping off the scabs so the blood flowed freely and soaked his shirt. He hissed through his teeth at this, and she bit his lower lip. "I brought some panties for you, Susan," she drawled. "They're real pretty. All lacy. And you're going to wear them tonight, just for me."

Stunned into silence by the feel of her fingers, he could only groan and nod as the blood began to seep from a dozen new wounds.

2004-02-02T22:54:00.000-08:00

The Car
I lifted up the edge of the plastic and held my breath. I could feel the cold, damp air seeping out from under it. I lifted the black plastic covering a little higher, till I could start to see the corner of the car. Just then, the largest, nastiest centipede I'd ever seen wriggled its way across my hand, and I dropped everything again.

I stepped back and reconsidered. It had been a good thirty years since Jim had thrown the tarp over his old broken down Cadillac and left it for dead, out by the barn where we hardly went anymore. I didn't expect it to be in great condition. Hell, I was surprised it hadn't collapsed from the rust by now. But the air that had seeped out from under that tarp smelled like something rotting. I shuddered, pulled on my gloves, and prepared to get back to work.

Like a band-aid, I thought. Quick and painless. I gripped the edge of the tarp and gave it a good yank. I winced as cold, foul-smelling water splashed onto me from the tiny little puddles that had gathered in the wrinkles and valleys of the plastic. I pulled again, destroying a dozen more of the foul little ecosystems. I dropped the tarp and stared at the hulk of a car.

It was once a proud red beauty, but the paint had begun to chip and fade even before Jim had put it out to pasture. All four tires were flat and bits of upholstery stuck out between the cracks in the black leather seats. I tried to imagine the car as it had looked brand new and wondered whether it would even be possible to restore it. I pictured myself driving the classic, cherry-red Caddy, chrome sparkling, the exterior washed and waxed, the hood so shiny you could check your hair in the reflection. And a pair of fuzzy, black dice swinging from the rearview mirror. Of course.

I sighed and walked around to the back of the car. Dreams of restoring the beast would have to wait, as I had more important things to do. I slipped the key into the lock, took a deep breath and opened the trunk.

The lid of the trunk opened smoothly, which surprised me. Peering into the dark depths of the trunk, however, I was surprised further.It was gone. I gripped the lip of the trunk, my knuckles turning white. Who could have been here? Who knew? Moreover, how had anyone managed to open the trunk? I was holding the only key in my hand. I swung down the lid, inspecting the lock for signs of forced entry. There were none. I shook my head in disbelief. Jim had been dead of a heart attack these past thirty years. It had hit him right after we'd pulled the job. I hadn't known that at the time, of course. I hadn't known that until this past week, when I'd finally come back from Tangier. I'd been drifting out there all this time, waiting for things to cool off, waiting for the statute of limitations to expire. Who knew what had happened after all this time?

Someone must have found out, must have gotten here before me. I'd gotten the key from Jim's ex-wife, but someone could have stolen it from her, replaced it to prevent suspicion. Hell, knowing Jim's taste in women, she could have gotten into the trunk herself. I opened the trunk again, peering inside. Suddenly, a slip of yellowed paper caught my eye.It was a note.

I glanced around me; the sun was beginning to set, and the clouds were coming back. I picked up the note. The envelope was cream-coloured, and thin, and had my name on the front. Inside was a pink piece of paper, perfumed. I removed it from the envelope, and unfolded it.

Dear Kenton,

I have been waiting for you for a very long time. I
was unable to follow when you left the country, but I
have not forgotten, and I know that not even you
could forget. And you have paid with your gold, and
you will pay with your life.

love,
Carlene.

I blinked after reading it, remembering very clearly what she was talking about. In my mind it was only a simple mistake, the same as any man might make. The note had a postscript: Turn around.

"Oh, Carly," I sighed. "It doesn't have to be like this." I heard the click of a gun being cocked behind me.

"Turn around, you bastard." Her voice sounded deeper after so many years, but it was unmistakeable. I couldn't get a handle on all the emotions spinning inside me at that moment. This was the only woman I'd ever loved, who'd made my life resemble Heaven and Hell in turn. I knew if I turned to face her, it would be my undoing.

"Why don't you just shoot me now, and get it over with?" I asked. My throat was dry and tight, and I knew the words didn't sound as cool as I meant them to.

"I have a reason," she said, "and I'm not going to tell it to you. You always were a clever man, Kenton- narrow, but so clever. See if you can figure it out as we go along. Turn around."

My mind obediently began racing, though I held my ground. She needs to find something. She needs something I know. That doesn't make sense; she could have got it all from Jim. She needs- wait, this is Carlene I'm talking about here. God, I never could figure this woman out, and long absence had only made her worse. She's angry. There's something else. That nasty little sadistic streak she had shown near the end, to poor Mark?

"You didn't get my letter?" I asked, playing for time.

"I got it. All three lines. And a half. Counting the date." Her voice was sounding cooler than mine. Deeper, too. "Turn around."

"If you want the combination to the locks, I've got them, if that's what you're wondering." Another stab, looking at the empty trunk.

"You're still cold, stone cold, Kenton, and if you don't want to add 'dead' to that description, you'll turn around."

There was nothing else for it. I had come to my wits' end, as I always did around her, so quickly. There was nothing for it. I turned around.

It wasn't her. I gaped. Unbelievably, it wasn't her. I couldn't understand it. The voice was the same. And she knew. She knew everything. She had been waiting for me all this time, or she had caught onto my trail somehow and tracked me down. Thirty years is a long time -- God, if I don't know the truth of that, no one does -- and I'd watched as my hair condensed around my ears, my face sagged, my muscles shriveled up, but none of that could account for the change in the woman standing before me. It simply wasn't the same one. The shape of her shoulders, the width of her eyes, the sharpness of her knees -- these are things surgery can't change. And yet... she had something of Carlene in her. The voice, like I said, was exactly the same. And the mouth was like hers, and the neck, and the chin. She was... well, it's insulting to use words like "well-preserved" with women, but she must have been a real looker when she was young, because she wasn't half bad even now. Or maybe it was just the gun.

She took a step towards me, her body weaving smoothly but the gun staying perfectly level. I stayed perfectly still as she reached out a hand. Carlene had always had ragged shards of fingernails, the result of vicious nibbling. These fingernails were smooth, even, and they all tapered to a fine point. Hands pressed around my throat and pricked delicately against my arteries. I began to get lightheaded, and from the woman's pleased expression, she knew perfectly well that I found this arousing. She began to rub against me, moving her hips in a slow abstract dance. The pressure lightened slightly. "Carlene..." I breathed.

Her face hardened and the fingernails dug aruptly into my skin.

"You think you can play me like you did, her?" she asked. I felt the sting of her palm slapping across my face. "It doesn't work like that. Not anymore. You are going to give me what I want, and then I am going to kill you. Understood?"

"I never meant to hurt you," I said. I could tell she wasn't buying it. It was the truth though, I really hadn't meant to hurt her.

"I suppose you expect me to believe that you left the country in an attempt not to hurt me?" Her eyes glinted with something fierce, dangerous. I swallowed, or at least tried to. My mouth was as dry as if I had just awakened from a night of hard drinking. I knew I had to tread carefully. Very carefully.

"I was trying to protect you," I said. I heard the words leave my lips. I realized that, though it may have been part of the truth, it wasn't what I was meant to say. It was the same thing that everyone says, and it is not a strong argument.

"Bullshit," she said. She did nothing. I thought she was going to shoot me. But there was something she wanted, first. "Try again."

This time I did a bit better, I thought. "I wanted you to come with me. I had to make the arrangements in such a rush, on the run really, and if I'd caught up with you I would have swept you in my arms and taken you along but as it was I just couldn't get a message." I stopped at a look in her eyes. "But you figured out what happened," I added hopefully.

She took a step back and lifted the gun to eye level. "And?"

"And I wish it could have happened differently."

"And?"

"And..." I glanced down at my feet, then back up to her, and the cold steel, and I must have been starting to cry. "Carly, I'm sorry."

And she was satisfied.

2004-02-02T22:09:00.000-08:00

New Crop of Round Robins
We tried todo this through e-mail, an experiment which failed miserably. Well, you learn from mistakes right? Theoretically at least.

The Circus

The circus was coming back to town, and that could
only mean trouble. Marianne didn't even have time to dwell on what had happened last time, between the strange mix of acrobats, lion tamers, vagabonds and ragtags, and what they had done to her beloved home. She simply walked as fast as she could to the house
of the friend Heddy, a few minutes away, to warn her, and come up with a plan. She had no idea how effective a couple old women could be, but she knew that this was her home, and the circus was nothing like she remembered it being when she was growing up.

The walk to Heddy's wasn't far, but by the time Marianne got there she had worked herself up into such a state that she pounded on the door with both fists and stormed in before Heddy came to open it. "Heddy, we have to arm ourselves," she said. "We need
axes!" Heddy coughed and hemmed for a second, but no real words came out. "Well, Heddy," Marianne set, stamping her foot on the entrance hall floor, "what are you waiting for? We have to act now! Can't let those circus freaks take advantage of hapless old
women, now can we?"

Heddy looked really ill by this point. Marianne naturally assumed that she was remembering some circus horros of her own. "There there," Marianne said, waving her wooden cane in the best, most reassuring manner she could muster. "We'll put a stop to it this time, Heddy. I won't let 'em cause you harm. But you have to help me. We need to get some protection, and I'm counting on you to drive since my eyesight's not what it used to be." Marianne took another tottering step into the house and put her hand on Heddy's shoulder. "It'll be all right. We've just got to take action."

Heddy cleared her throat and spoke at last. "Marianne, I don't think this is the time..."

"Well whyever not?" Marianne asked. Before the sentence was out, a younger man appeared behind Heddy. He wasn't bad looking either, Marianne thought. Even blurry, she could see that he was a prime specimen. So this was how things were. She'd have Heddy's hide later for not telling her about her new interest (hadn't they ALWAYS shared all the details of their love lives with each other?), but now wasn't the time. "I see that you are entertaining a male friend," said Marianne primly. "I wouldn't dream of interrupting of course. Just call me when your guest has gone home, Heddy dear."

Marianne turned to leave, but heddy stopped her. "Marianne, darling," she said in a strained tone, "I'd like you to meet my son, Richard." She paused for a second before adding, "He is the Director of the circus."

"Oh," said Marianne, and "Oh," again. "Richard.Marianne Sturgid. I'm pleased to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you," replied the circus director softly. Weren't circus directors supposed to have big barking voices, like that man in her yard the last time? She could hardly hear this young person. She leaned closer. "Ah. Yes. Um. How - how *long* have you worked for the circus, Richard?"

"Not long at all," he replied, smiling. "In fact- well, I suppose you ought to be the one to tell her, Mother..."

Heddy summoned up an uncertain smile. "Oh, it's so exciting, I hardly know where to begin! You see, Marianne. The circus..."

Marianne's lips tightened. She didn't like the sound of what was coming.

"Part of the circus has decided to settle in town. As a sort of... home base, I guess you should say. And we've all been offered jobs. You too! The envelopes went out yesterday. And because my Richard got himself the director's job -- it's really something very new, you know. Never been tried before. A whole town turned into a circus! And you've always been my dearest friend, you know, so I was able to convince him to get you one of the best jobs left, after... you get your own cage, with running water and electricity, and cable television, of course, and you're far away from the elephants and those noisy teenagers on their dirtbikes, and you'll only have to be on duty six hours out of every --"

Richard cut her off with a gentle smile. "Well, it's a lifetime contract, and the pay is up to ninety thousand dollars a year, plus a bit more on commission if you do real nice work for us. What do you think?" Marianne may have been thrown off guard, but she was not such a one as to let such a matter settle in such an intolerable manner. She opened up her mouth, wits held tight in one hand with her wooden cane, and said, "My dear Richard, I can call you Richard right, since you're practically my nephew...?" She paused, but not to wait for an answer. She was actually starting to get confused. Just when did Heddy have another son, and would not she, Marianne, her best friend for life, remember such a thing? "Richard, when, exactly, did you get this job for the circus?" she asked.

"Two weeks ago today!" He said proudly. "Before that, I'd been just a pencil pusher, a drudge, wasting my life away in some stupid office in Haverford. But now -- the circus! Can't you just smell the sawdust?" He chucked her playfully under the chin. She jumped back, and almost fellinto Heddy's antique porcelain tea service.

"Young man!" she squeaked, outraged. "I don't know what's gotten into you people today. With your suits and your slick talk and your ninety thousand dollars a year... what did you say it was all about? My... my own cage? My own CAGE?" She stumbled back in terror.

Heddy put her hand out, but couldn't reach her. "Marianne, calm down. You shouldn't get so excited."

"It's an incredible opportunity," Richard said. "You'll be able to entertain thousands of peopl and bring joy into their hearts."

"By watching tv in a cage? I don't think so, sonny."

Richard laid a hand on her arm, "Come now, don't be so negative. Mother wants you to be happy and do this with her."

"I won't," said Marianne. "I won't do it, and I will do my best to make sure everyone else doesn't either."

Richards hand tightened on her arm. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice," he said.

"Oh no you don't," Marianne said. She swung her cane out in a low sweep that knocked Richard to the floor. "C'mon, Heddy," she said, tugging at her friend's arm. "I knew I didn't take those martial arts classes for nothing."

What happened next seemed to defy the rules of gravity. Marianne used her cane to vault herself and Heddy through the door, while managing to score a nice hard kick to Richard's head in the middle of her acrobatics. Neither of the women looked back, so they didn't see the way that his head caved in and leaked a greenish blue substance all over the entrance hall tiles.

Once they were out of the house, Heddy seemed confused. "Where are we going? Marianne, when did you get here?" she asked.

"Do you have a son named Richard?" Marianne asked.

Heddy rubbed at her eyes and blinked in the sunlight. "Marianne, you know I don't have any other son than Sam."

"Uh huh, I knew it." Marianne used her cane again to vault the two of them into Heddy's convertible.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Heddy asked. She seemed more bewildered by the second.

"Martial arts class, I already told you. Now fasten your seatbelt and drive."

"You took martial arts? When? Why?" Marianne waved her hand at the ignition and waited until Heddy started the car to answer.

"Three years ago. I thought it was a marital arts class, and that I might find a new husband. Then I figured I might as well stay instead of admitting my mistake. Good thing I did, too."

Heddy backed out of the driveway, peering left and right and tapping the breaks every couple of inches. "Marianne, where are we going?"

"City hall, I should think." Marianne sat back and let the wind blow through her hair. "We've got a tough job ahead of us, Heddy, but never let 'em say we aren't equal to the task."

"Okay, Marianne, if you say so. Martial arts, huh? Pretty fancy."

"Comes in handy," said Marianne.

"Yeah, I guess," said Heddy. "Say, have you ever thought about trying out for the circus with that?"

2004-01-20T17:31:00.000-08:00

Round Robin E-mail Experiment
This week we're experimenting with Round Robin Social Storytelling through e-mail instead of through live chat. The idea is that authors have more time and less restrictions on length. We may end up with some longer stories than usual. There have been a few glitches so far (and we only started yesterday, good heavens) with two of our members dropping out, a new one coming in and another one's e-mail suddenly refusing to accept new messages, but I am confident that we'll come up with some sort of end product. In the meantime I am working on a short story that I started in a speedwrite last week. When it is finished I may post it here or not. We'll just have to see.

2004-01-05T23:59:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Eve
When Daniel was finally certain that the minister had left, he opened his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. Though it took him a minute for his eyes to adjust to that brand of darkness peculiar to crypts, catacombs, and choir-robe closets, soon he was able to discern shapes and forms in the haze surrounding him. "Jules?" he called in a hoarse whisper, but there was no response.

Daniel sat up, his eyes slowly focusing on the fluted columns of the Windsor family mausoleum. Jules should be here by now, of that he was certain. But if Jules was not here, well, Daniel would take advantage of his absence to explore a little. He carefully climbed off the top ledge where he had stashed himself on hearing the funerary party. The Windsors certainly kept their crypt clean, he thought, as he examined his dust-free hands at the bottom.

Indeed, the whole place seemed just a little too clean. There were none of the dust and cobwebs he would have expected, and the firelight glinted a little too clearly off the polished wood and silver of the coffins around him. Wait... the firelight? Why did he see such a thing here at all, here where he thought he was all alone? He froze, looking down in terror at the room below him.

"Jules?" he whispered again, his mouth dry. The moment the name had escaped his lips, he regretted speaking. He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that Jules had not been the one to light the fire, and he was not at all sure that he wanted to meet the person that had. In response to his call, a scuffling began in a dark corner of the crypt, and it seemed to be moving toward him. Daniel swallowed hard. Why had he agreed to this? It had seemed a fine idea as he and Jules sat in the warm comfort of the pub. But now... now there was no comforting, well-worn mahogany bar before him, no half-drunk pint resting in his hand. There was only the darkness, and worse, the firelight. No sign of Jules. Daniel inhaled sharply as the shambling footsteps grew closer.

Daniel wanted to turn and run, but he knew that doing so would only lead him into a wall. He'd managed to get himself in a corner. Great. The only thing to do was stand there and wait and try to play it out. Maybe Jules was having a bit of fun. The seconds crept by as the figure moved closer and Daniel's heart thudded in his chest. Don't panic, he told himself. He wanted to be able to laugh at the whole Douglas Adams thing, but his throat was too tight and dry. Maybe he'd laugh later, if he got out of here alive. He could see the robes now, and a pale foot shuffling into view. It was bare and callused and covered in sores. They looked like they should have been red, but instead were a washed out purple color that put him in mind of the time he'd spilled Merlot on his sheets and tried to wash it out. Except the sores were much nastier than the sheets had been. They looked like they were oozing. Daniel could see both feet now and he was horrified, He wondered if he ought to look up but every impulse in his body begged him not to. You do NOT want to see the face of this thing, Daniel. Every cell seemed to be screaming that.

He slowly raised his eyes from the figure’s feet. The bubbling skin of the feet led to swollen, distended ankles. What terrified him most, however, was what encircled the creature’s ankle. There, against it’s mottled skin, lay a trinket Daniel had not seen for nearly a decade. The anklet, finely crafted platinum-chain with charms in the shape of ravens, was one Daniel had bought long ago. His fiancee had never able to wear rings; she would take them off to wash her hands, then forget them. When he proposed, Daniel had given her an anklet instead. He remembered the day as clearly as though it were yesterday, bending down on one knee before Raven on the mansion’s expansive lawn. She had thought the nod to her unusual name to be touching, an example of his devotion, and joyously accepted his proposal. Far too trusting, it never occurred to her that Daniel picked the design because he had no idea what else she might like. Nor did it occur to Raven that Daniel was marrying her for her money, that he loved her estates and riches far more than he could ever love any woman. There in the crypt, however, it seemed karma had finally caught up with him. Daniel trembled violently; he had no idea how Raven had risen from the dead, but he knew in his heart that she was going to avenge her murder. By carefully suffocating his young bride, Daniel had avoided leaving any evidence for the police. Up till that moment, he had thought it the perfect crime. But there, alone in the silent crypt, Daniel Livingston knew that he had made a grievous mistake, one that would lead to his demise. Somehow Raven had been resurrected, and no amount of money could save Daniel from his fate.

2004-01-05T23:55:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Neil
Fish was not happy, not happy at all.
He liked to think that his anger wasn't just based on
Samuelson's success, but even if it was, well, didn't
he have a right? Hadn't he worked just as hard?
And hadn't that bastard stolen his prize right out from under him?
He sat and fumed as he thought about what he'd say the
next time they met.

As he seethed, he wondered if
perhaps his favorite friend couldn't express his
feelings better. He fondled his knife, running his
hand over the well-polished handle. He had gotten it
for his birthday ten years ago, and it had never left
his side since. Friends came and went, often turning
into mortal enemies first, but his knife had never
deserted him so. Fish drew it from its sheath and
watched the light glint and flash, playing on the
well-honed blade. Yes, he thought to himself,
Samuelson would get his. And it would be richly
deserved.

The knife was made of genuine Damascan Steel
Replicant. Fish had saved all of his money from the
first two years in her Majesty's service to afford it.
He'd had it custom built and engraved with a message
he felt would always mean something to him: True Love
Above All. The blade had a name, too. He felt
something more than pride for her. He felt love, and
so he named her accordingly. Amora. Amora was always
there for him. She was always by his side and in his
heart. She helped him with his work, and spent leisure
time with him too. And now she would help him cut his
ties to Samuelson. One way or another he was going to
be the lead Major. Amora knew that. Amora told him
everything would be all right.

For the moment, however, all Fish could do was wait.
His division was still eight hours away from the
capital, even at the ship's fastest speed. He exhaled
heavily and leaned back against the curved metal wall.
The knife in his hands was heavy, but the weight of
the blade was comfortingly familiar. He spun it
between his hands without looking down. He had
twirled the knife between his fingers so many times on
his long voyages, that the movements had become nearly
automatic. Aside from the blade, Fish carried few
possessions with him. When he had newly joined the
Service, his commanding officer had said that in the
distance possessions were anchors that tied you down.
A younger, more materialistic Fish had doubted the
man, but he had since come to recognize the veracity
of the statement. Money meant virtually nothing to
Fish. What he wanted; what he lived for and, if
necessary, would die for was power

Whistling between his teeth, he dropped the blade back
into the sheath, and that was satisfying too, feeling
it shoot into place like a bolt on a door. He dropped
his reverie with the knife, and sprang for the ladder
like a man with purpose. It was, however, nearly half
a minute later that the screams and commotion began on
deck, the call sounded for all hands, and a report
sounded.

The mutiny was short and swift, and before twenty
minutes had past, Fish controlled the ship. The
bodies of the former captain and first mate, plus the
communication second who was too slow for his taste
had been removed to the morgue, and Fish was sitting
comfortably in the captain’s chair. He looked at the
assembled crew, his crew, and smiled slowly. “Ladies
and gentlemen” he began “we have a slight change of
plans. We will continue to the capital along our
present course. I wish to be informed immediately if
we catch sight of the Dreadnought or the Incandescent.
Other than that, you should continue as you were.
Any questions?” There were mute shakes of the heads,
and his crew turned back to their work. Fish had a
ship now, and Samualson would be getting his. Oh,
how’d be getting his.

Fish was happy, very happy indeed.

2004-01-05T23:51:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Moss
"You kids never even try to understand these things," he said bitterly. He shook his head, half in anger, half in sadness, and threw the copy of the Advanced Trigonometric Astro-Telemetry manual across the room. It crashed into the wall and fell, landing in a heap, like a bird that had broken its neck. "I've tried being strict. I've tried being fair. I've always tried to understand, but what do you do? Ignore me. I think I've earned your respect. Haven't I? What else do you want me to do? The fate of the planet hangs in the balance, and all you ever want to do is stay out late, hopping freight trains and tripping on cough syrup, or whatever it is you kids call it these days. Haven't I always been there for you, given everything you needed? Food, shelter, love? I even bought you the Lambourghini steamroller you begged and begged me to get you for Christmas, Alec. And this is how you repay me? For all these years?" He fought back tears as he spoke, his hands trembling. He clutched at the mantlepiece to steady them, and fell silent.

Alec sighed and put a hand on his father's shoulder. "Look, Dad," he said, "It isn't that we don't appreciate everything you do for us. Really." He stopped for a moment when he saw the vein throbbing in his father's forehead. The appearance of the vein was never a good sign. He hesitated to go on, lest it make his father worse, but then went on in a rush. "Please don't get overwrought," he said. All of the children knew this word, overwrought. They had grown up hearing it nearly every day. Their mother was always afraid that one or all of them might become overwrought and turn out like their father. "All this talk of the world hanging in the balance is not healthy." Alec put his arm around his father's shoulders and walked him to a chair. "Please sit down and try to be reasonable. Jenna didn't mean to upset you. She just wants to go to the prom like everyone else at her school."

Of all his siblings, his eldest sister was by far the most trying. While the Guinness children were all brilliant, even by their father's standards, only Alec seemed remotely interested in applying his intelligence to any sort of scholastic pursuit. The other children, even fourteen-year-old Josh, cared only for self-indulgence. The Guinness' ample wealth had enabled the children to live lavishly, spending exorbitant sums of money on the kind of whimsical excesses that their peers could scarcely dream of. Despite attempting to placate his father, Alec knew full-well that Jenna's behavior was certainly not normal.

Going to the prom might be a normal desire, but taking the Concorde overseas and hiding out in London was not how most children dealt with disappointment. Nor, Alec grimly reflected, would most children then email their father, claiming to be traveling with a pack of teenage drifters and hopping train cars for transportation. His mother's fears had been more than realized.

"When I was your age," growled his father, although by this point he was past addressing anyone in particular, so the age in question remained nebulous, "When I was your age, we listened to our parents! Respect! Respect is dead nowadays. When my father said to me, "Now, son, you can't go out tonight, you have to stay home and help me devise a source of high-powered coherent radiation, did I decide to go joyriding around Europe with a bunch of druggie hippie hobos?" At this point his wife came padding into the room, a pained expression on her face. It had been there ever since Alec could remember, and the passage of time had only intensified the effect.

While his mother comforted his father, Alec went to retrieve the stricken book. Lifting it carefully, he smoothed the pages, and carefully closed the cover. It was not badly hurt, and would survive virtually unscathed, although he knew that in some years, it would be that much more worn, and the cover would slowly come loose from its bindings quicker than it might have otherwise. He turned his attention back to his parents, huddled closely together, in whispered conversation. So many conversations between his parents were seen, but not heard, that most of the children had learned lip reading in order to eavesdrop. It was, Alec considered, like any other war. The enemy would create encryptions, and you would seek to break them. He frowned, momentarily nonplussed, but then realized the militant description was appropriate in many ways.

Not for the first time, he cursed his family's wealth. He knew that it was essential, that there was no other way they could have a chance of completing the Mission, but sometimes he was afraid it was more of a distraction than a help. It was a heavy burden his family bore, knowing that they would be the only ones with the skills and the technology to face the invasion. With so much money at their disposal, it was easy to try to run off and hide. But there was not much time left. His grandchildren would be only a little older than he was now when the first ships arrived. He and Jenna might well live to see that time, and he didn't know whether to be excited or terrified. He sighed heavily; there was nothing else to be done. His parents' marriage might be falling apart before his eyes, his sister might be trying her best to die at thirty from an overdose of paint fumes, but he was goddamned well going to finish his equations. Now, if he could just find a way to reconcile the phases of the warp material and the third level disruptor beam. Alec knew it would be another long night.

2004-01-05T23:48:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Katherine
"God bugger it!" I exclaimed. I swung my leg around;
there was a disconcerting clicking noise. I let out a
small scream as I toppled to the floor, and lay there
moaning for a bit. Then, I slowly stretched my leg
out, getting about an inch before the pain returned.
Cursing silently to myself, I rolled onto the stomach,
and stared at the wall ahead of me. This was not the
time to have a sprained ankle

The water was boiling on the stove, Harris (the dog)
was whimpering to be let out of the closet, and the
Jenkinsons were due to arrive in less than ten
minutes. Cursing the slippery tile of the floor, I
pulled myself towards the counters at the other end of
the room, where I hoped I could climb into some
semblance of a standing position. I was going to have
to work and think quickly.

Latching onto the handles of the cabinets, I clawed
my way to my feet. Pain shot up my leg, and I caught
my breath. I could stand, though. Barely. Could I
walk? Gingerly, I took an experimental step. I gritted
my teeth and inched my way to the closet, where Harris
was howling. Hobbling as fast as I could manage, I
prised open the door. The wolfhound, now freed, showed
his gratitude by leaping upon his hindlegs and
thrusting his paws onto my chest. Unbalanced by his
weight, I crashed to the floor, shrieking in pain.

That was where Mrs. Jenkinson found me. Harris had
knocked my glasses off and I could only make out a
blur of Mauve above me, but the voice was
unmistakable. "Prudence, dear, are you all right?" she
crooned. "We came a few minutes early and I just let
myself in, because I know you never mind about that,
and then imagine my alarm when I heard you shrieking
in here! Well I never did think you should have such a
large dog in the first place." She shook her head,
something I could tell because the mauve blob was
moving and making me seasick. I still had a dog on my
chest -a 150 pound dog, mind you- and the pain in my
ankle was making me nauseous already. This threatened
to put me over the edge. I closed my eyes and willed
myself not to vomit.

As my last surviving relatives, the Jenkinsons had legal
power of attorney over me. I never did think they
should have the right to decide what I could and
couldn't do, but the state of Nevada disagreed.
After Harold passed on and I took a fall one morning
getting the newspaper, some busybody neighbour
suggested that maybe I was too old to be
living by myself. Just thinking about it made my
blood boil. I've done alright for the past 112 years,
and I have no intention of quitting this joint anytime
soon. If I let on to how badly I was injured, though,
I knew the Jenkinsons would move to have me placed in
a nursing home. With that thought, I steeled my
resolve and stood up quickly. The pain was blinding.
It would've felled any young person (the younger
generation have no pain threshold whatsoever) but, for
a woman who bore 11 children at home, the pain was
quite manageable.

"It's quite all right," said I, in the general
direction I had last seen the Jenkinson female (for
nothing but stars, spots, and wheeling pain-colored
sunbursts were presenting themselves to my vision at
the moment) "I was shrieking in delight over some
news I recieved from a very old friend - Orlando Bloom
signed her forehead at an unexpected appearance in her
hometown." I grinned sickeningly at her (not
difficult in my condition) and batted my eyelashes. I
knew she had a teenage daughter, and so would
recognize my reference well enough to be traumatized
by it. It had the desired effect; she started
muttering excuses and heading for the door. "Pass me
the telephone, will you Maude? There's a dear. I've
got to phone my bridge club and pass around the happy
news. Squee," I added. She handed me the phone and
scuttled out, and I, with a sigh as much of relief as
blinding agony, sat down to dial my osteopath.

2004-01-05T23:45:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Anne
We sat on the steps of the library at four a.m. talking in the dark. We'd gotten off from work at the factory a half hour earlier, but we both needed wind down time before we went home to sleep. I lived with my mother and my little sister, so I couldn't make noise when I came in, and Jerry was married and had three kids. We'd started taking walks together after work six months ago. Jerry said it helped clear his head from all the paint fumes. Normally we just talked about whatever. Shootin' the shit, Jerry would say, but I could tell that this night was different.

Everything about his demeanor was altered. Normally, Jerry seemed to walk aimlessly, his steps slow as though he had no reason to hurry. He probably didn't, really. From what I had gathered from our late-night conversations, Jerry wasn't a man with a lot to live for. The night I met him, he said off-hand that his father and his grandfather and every ancestor before them had been born and buried in Tullahoma. With three kids and a nowhere job, Jerry was headed for the same destiny. I'd met men like him before. To people who didn't know me, I suppose I seemed bound for a similar fate.

Tonight Jerry was animated, filled with energy almost to the point of mania. He cracked a grin at every small sound, at the wind around the rooftops, at the cats in the alleys as if they were communicating some fabulous secret. Whoooosh. You have been selected. Yowwwwrrr. You may already be a winner. "T's up?" I asked eventually. "Nothing," he answered promptly, vigorously, and automatically. Then "Mike, I've got something to tell you."

It shouldn't have surprised me, in retrospect, that I - we - had come to a certain closeness. Was I his confessor? No, but it was inching that way, and maybe today, here, before a temple of knowledge we would take a great step forward. And maybe we would arrive safely, or maybe we would discover that we had been standing on the edge of an abyss, and we would not land at all. My mind stretched that second out, an eternity of hyper awareness, and then "Yeah, Jerry?"

"I'm leaving, Mike" came the reply "I'm going. There's a train out of here in two hours, and I'm gonna be on it. I'd like you to be with me"

I didn't know what to think. Jerry was my best friend, and he meant a lot to me, but could I really abandon all I'd been working towards for these eight years? Would I really abandon my masterwork for him? I was all so uncertain. I wished I knew more--where he was going, what he was planning. I could feel the fear coming over me. The night seemed to eat into my bones. But I knew what I had to do."I'd like to, Jerry," I said, heavily.

Jerry smiled. "It'll be great, man. No more factory. We'll head out for the coast. Nothing but easy living from now on. Sun and ocean breezes, and no more damn paint fumes. Think I'll open up a little shop, sell fishing tackle, bait. I got a little money saved up, but I'm not takin' anything else with me. Starting over. I might even change my name. A new life, you know?" I wrung my hands nervously. Could I abandon the experiments? I was close, so close. A few more months, and I knew I'd have my functional prototype. But was it all a pointless quest? Hadn't I just been using my work as an excuse to keep going, something to cling to? Some reason to justify to myself my prolonged existence in this nowhere town?

I opened my mouth to speak, unsure what I'd say. Probably something along the lines of "Sure, Jerry. It'll be great." But just as I began to form the words, an animal cry rent the night. Seconds later, great gouts of flames licked up from a house four blocks away, and without even looking, I knew. It was my house. The prototype had gotten loose. Dread clenched my stomach in knots. I'd taken every precaution. This couldn't be. This meant... I didn't want to think about what it meant, but in my heart I knew. I had only time enough to shout "Take cover!" and to push Jerry to the ground as the shockwave hit. It was all over, I knew. I felt the heat of the flames on my face, felt the flesh of my face char and slough away in great strips. All over. The brick facade of the library crumbled down on us, and then everything was black.

2004-01-05T23:38:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Story Begun By Julia
Her purse was full of butterflies. As a little girl, Theodora had spent long afternoons in the fields near her grandmother's house trying to catch the delicate insects. Beautiful though they were, the butterflies never lived long in captivity. Once snared and placed in jars, they quickly sickened and died. Those days had been all but forgotten, however, after Theodora grew up, for in the city she never saw butterflies. In her dream, though, the butterflies strong enough to withstand being confined and they glistened like dragonflies.

Some one of her co-workers, back in the days when she had still carried guest checks in her apron pocket, and had laughed with the other servers passing in and out of the kitchen, had taught her a few origami shapes - crane, fish, frog, butterfly. The last was the only one she remembered now, and if there was ever a small scrap of paper to hand, she would often find herself a few minutes later slipping a miniature folded butterfly into her purse. She never noticed when she was actually folding it, and there was always a moment of pleased surprised when she found one in her hand.

A fleeting moment, but a moment none-the-less, and then into the purse it would go, among its many brethren. She occasionally would go through the handbag, sorting out the butterflies, remembering, when she could, where the paper came from. Receipts were quite popular, although generally a uniform color, white, with purple-black ink embossed on them. An embarrassingly colorful run, left over from an abortive interview where her hands had occupied themselves for an hour using the potential employer's multi-hued post-it notes. She hadn't gotten the job, of course, but she had the butterflies to remind her.

She thought back to that day, to sleeping on the subway as she rode home from her interview. She'd told herself she never really wanted the job in the first place--that she was only interviewing there to get some practice--but she knew she would have taken it if she could have. The stress of working at the plant was getting to be too much for her. No time to make butterflies there. All she could hope for was to dream of them for a few minutes during her commute. How suddenly it had all changed!

It had all changed, of course, that day she'd been riding on the bus, going nowhere in particular. She'd been so tired, yet at the same time restless. She hadn't anywhere to go, and nothing to do, and it was her day off. She had tried, fitfully, to nap, and when that failed she'd watched television for awhile. It was no use. She craved movement. She needed something to catch her attention. So it was she found herself at the bus stop, having walked thirty blocks, thinking of nothing in particular. Her feet aching, and the sky threatening rain, she had paused at the nearest bus stop and boarded the first bus to come by, not even bothering to check where it was headed. She would ride it to the end of its route, she thought, and back again, and she would watch the tall grey city through the windows. Her hands fidgeted in her lap, and she cast about for some small scrap of paper to occupy her in her restlessness. By chance, she picked up a discarded slip lying at her feet. It was a lottery ticket.

She'd barely looked at it at first, her fingers ready to fold it into butterfly shape as she was so accustomed to doing with every other scrap she found, but then a voice in her head said, "Look! Theodora Rose Palmer, look!" She heard the voice clear as day, and she could have sworn it sounded like her grandmother, who had died when she was fourteen, but of course that was impossible. Still, she listened to the voice, and she looked at the paper and saw what it was and she decided then and there to get off at the next likely place and find a newspaper. The ticket was a day old, so the numbers had already been announced. Since someone had thrown it away, it obviously wasn't a winner, but Theodora thought it would be fun to make a game of it anyway. Of course she'd been shocked when it was a winner, and not just any winner, the winner. She scarcely knew what to do with 67 million dollars (and that was after taxes), but she wouldn't ever return to the plant, that was for sure. She thought she'd share her house with butterflies. Have a butterfly garden all her own, and all the scraps of paper in all the prettiest colors she'd ever wanted. And so she did just that. And if her friends, or the people at the shops thought she was crazy when they caught a glimpse of all the blue and the yellow and silver and crimson every time she opened her purse, well they didn't say a thing about it now. Millionaires were allowed to be eccentric.

2004-01-05T23:24:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Time Again! This time with Neil, Katherine, Moss, Anne, and Eve. Enjoy!

2004-01-02T00:22:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Aarika

I remember when I preferred books to movies. I was an unstoppable reader from the moment I learned till some time in my early twenties, often finishing three or four books a day. But somehow the combination of college and work left me too fatigued to keep it up. These days, I like nothing better than to lie back on the couch with some popcorn and spend an evening watching videos.

I buy videos, too - that's another thing that's changed. I read far too many books to keep pace with my spending money, and so I kept the libraries both of my friends and my city my constant creditors. Movies, on the other hand, you have to own. Well, at least I have to. Nowadays.

I think I might still read if they made more Choose your Own Adventure books. For adults, though, not kids. I used to love them. I have often thought about this since my college days, but it wasn't until last month when I was watching 28 Days Later with Hal that I had the big one, the mother lode idea. Instead of dvds with alternate endings, why not make choose your own adventure ones? Think of the possibilities! In the mood for a comedy? Rather see it end tragically? If you think he should have kissed her skip to chapter 24 if you think he should have slipped on a banana peel, go to chapter 8.

It was a brilliant idea, and it had the potential to transform movies forever! It would change the dynamic of storytelling, make it better. Plus, it would appeal to the ever growing "do it yourself" sense that more and more people exhibited these days. I immediately bought a digital video camera, and together with a few friends set out to create a prototype. All I needed to do was capture the essence of the idea on some sort of film, and Hollywood would be falling all over itself to throw money my way.

God I was a genius! I began, perhaps simply, vaguely, with too many ideas to put any to good use. Before a month was out I'd filmed three weddings (between four characters), two bedroom scenes (they weren't willing to experiment all that much), sixteen arguments, a dozen or so heart to hearts, and perhaps half a dozen tragic demises. I needed some sort of story to put things in order.

I needed a story with truly universal overtones, a story that would speak to the heart of every viewer. I needed an epic. I needed, at least, an excuse to use both of the bedroom scenes. After many drafts, many late nights spent staring into the soulless blank eyes of Microsoft Word, inspiration struck at last. I fired out an initial treatment, working and reworking it, honing it til it was perfect. Only then, as I gazed with pride over my Meisterwork, did I realise that I had neglected to film the pastry-chef's-convention-attacked-by-giant-helium-breathing-squid-demons scene that would prove the emotional lynchpin of the film.

My mother's kitchen was the scene of the key plot twist. My younger brother wore a white apron and a tall chef's hat. Also, a mustache and sunglasses. When these last two costume choices were questioned, my brother calmly answered, "I'm also a spy in this scene. All chefs are spies." Several of his friends were game for playing the giant squid and I made them all stand on stools, after taking off their shoes so as not to scuff Mom's newly-sewn seat cushions. Their costumes consisted of several cans of silly string and each was equipped with some frozen octopi that was tied on top of their head with ribbon found in my mother's sewing basket. The whole thing looked, well...amateur, frankly. I mean, it was a valiant effort but in the end, it turns out that movies weren't meant to be chosen. They're formed and provided for our amusement and should be viewed in the order given to us. I apologize to my friends from the sex scenes who thought they were going to be onto the big screen. And even bigger apologies to the sexy folks who didn't realize they might have ended up on the big screen.

2004-01-02T00:19:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Noah

"I said give me your wallet, motherfucker!" and he hit me a second time. I felt something liquid and warm oozing from between my split lips, and I knew I was bleeding. I could taste it now. He landed a third punch squarely in my stomach and I fell, half-unconscious, slumping against a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. He loomed over me, and i could see my blood on his knuckles. 'The wallet,' he said, kicking me in the ribs.

"I don't have a wallet. I have nothing," I moaned, flat on my stomach against the boxes. I could hear him standing over me, breathing heavily.

"Nothing? A rich-lookin' guy like you? I don't believe you," he yelled, angrily, inches away from my face.

"Nothing, I swear! I left my wallet and keys in the office this evening. I didn't even have money for the bus--I've been walking since 39th Street. Please, you've got to believe me!"The hoodlum blinked once or twice. I could see doubt in his face. I only hoped it was enough. It was a dangerous game I was playing, but I was desperate. He couldn't be allowed to find what I was carrying. If it got into the wrong hands... I shuddered to even think of what might happen.

"Your jacket," he said, and from the satisfaction in his voice I could tell he though himself very clever. "Hurry!" I struggled to disentangle myself from its sleeves, shaking as much with relief as with fear, and as much with cold as both. I handed the jacket over, and he snatched it, feeling for the pockets through the fabric. "And - uh - your watch!" This I removed without even thinking about it - it had been stopped for three days anyway. Don't let him remember my pants pockets, I silently pleaded. Or my shoes. Those would be just as bad, and maybe even worse.

I was only three blocks away from the drop off point. Losing the stuff now would be horrible. I didn't want to have to face old Lou empty-handed. He wouldn't give a shit that I was bleeding and bruised. He was very business-minded and didn't much care about operative well fare o long as the transports went smoothly. I handed my watch over to the kid and started forward. "Not so fast," he said, blocking me with an arm. "Can't have you going off and getting the coppers out on me the second I turn my head."

"I won't, I swear it," I said. My voice was trembling.

"I'd love to take your word for it," the kid said, "But I'd love kicking you in the face, more." The last thing I saw before I blacked out was his leer and the steel toed Doc Marten.

It was dark when I regained conciousness, which meant I had probably missed the appointed time, but with luck I would still get there before Lou left. I picked myself up, and tried to clean the dried blood off my face as best I could. Then I staggered out of the alley, and toward the drop off point. It would not be good for my credibility to show up late, but it was better late than never.

I could only wish that they had picked someone more suited to the job, but I'd been doing this for years and I'd never run into trouble before. It was not by accident I left my wallet in the office: if I were to be found I would at least want them to have to work to know who I was. Certianly Lou appreciated precautions like that, though if it were to fail... I shuddered, from the cold, from the pain in my leg, from the thoughts in my head, and I found myself already leaning against the right door, and knocked. The door opened smoothly, I nearly fell inside.

"You're late," Lou said.

I mumbled something. I took the notebook from my pocket.

"What did you say?"

"I said I've got it, Lou. Passwords, backdoors, whatever you need. I got mugged, but I didn't let the stupid shit take it." I normally watched my language around the likes of Lou. It was a small thing to make me feel superior. But tonight I was showing just what a tough guy I could be.

2004-01-02T00:13:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Moss

Robert was a thin, fierce man, but he feared that this job with the refrigerator would tame him. It was a squat, chunky, General Electric affair, and it sat there at the bottom of the stairs, seeming to mock him in its mute white obtuseness. There was something rather perverse about a refrigerator unplugged, he thought vaguely, as he moved into position. As if it were no different from any other container.

As he approached he notice that its door was slightly open, and the black fluid that had begun to form inside it the week before was trickling onto the parquet floor. Lydia would have his hide if he didn't get that cleaned up before she got back from the grocery store. He didn't want to clean it up. He didn't like the thought of getting a hand too near the stuff, even with a greasy rag and rubber glove for protection. Maybe he'd watched The Amityville Horror one too many times as a teenager, but he couldn't help feeling the stuff would try to devour him. He stood on the landing for a minute scowling at it before picking up his resolve and moving in for the attack.

Halfway down the stairs, he thought better of it and went immediately back up to the garage, where he kept his things. After several minutes of shifting through the accumulated detritus, he found what he sought: it was an old-fashioned blow torch, and the propane tank was nearly full. Thus fortified, he returned to the basement steps. Even armed with fire Robert still hesitated before descending once more to face his enemy.

Also armed with a good putty knife, he was ready to work on the floor. Just as he thought, the black goo would budge only a little with his scraping efforts. Two minutes into the job, he lit his blowtorch. At first he tried simply heating up the knife, to see if it would do a better job scraping, but that didn't seem to make any difference. If he didn't know better, he'd say the goo was already burning a hole into the floor, and he didn't know how much more damage he could really cause than that sullen refrigerator. He turned his torch on the floor itself.

The torch sprang to life with a satisfying pop, and the bright blue flame licked and hissed eagerly, anticipating the taste of flammable material. Bending low to the floor, Robert ran the torch's flame over the black river of ooze that disfigured the floor. His plan was to heat the goo back into a tractable state, and then to scrape away the softened black mess away with the putty knife, hopefully without destroying the floor in the process. He was mildly surprised to discover that the flame's heat had no effect whatsoever. If anything, the torching had tempered the unknown ichor of the refrigerator, forging it into a seam of pure black basalt. Cursing under his breath, he faced the inevitable -- yet he could not deny taking a grim sort of pleasure in the contemplation of his task. He would have to just hack the stuff out, floorboards and all.

Heading back from the tool shed, Robert had a sudden thought: maybe the saw and the hatchet weren't both needed. But that was quickly quelled by the heft and feel of walking through his house with a huge, sharp thing in each hand. It made him feel manly, alive and ready to kill anything that got in his way. That included little black stains that seeped out of the refrigerator and sought to make his life a living hell and ruin his marriage. No stain was going to get away with such a thing, not if Robert had anything to say about it. The first cut into the floor was a bit rough, it's hard to start a nice hatchet throw without something towards which to aim. But a thick black marker provided the much-needed black X and everything went smoothly for a few minutes. That is, until Robert discovered the first rule of sharp things -- they have no discerning power. They cut through wood and electrical wires with the same ease. Also, water pipes.

By the time he got down to the basement to turn everything off, the kitchen was under four feet of water, and filled with an eerie blue smoke. The old refrigerator was bobbing up and down, floating slowly but inexorably towards the cascade of water running down the front steps. Something in Robert's face changed. He had the smile of a man no longer completely in control of himself. He flung himself at the refrigerator and pushed it further down its path. He crashed through the door with it just in time to see Lydia walking up the driveway with two bags of groceries in her arms. As he came to a rest at the bottom of the steps, the refrigerator in front of him, torrents of water around him, he grinned sheepishly up at his wife. "Sorry hon, there weren't nothin' else to do. My pappy always said there's only one way to deal with a problem 'fridge--you gots to float the damned thing out!"

2004-01-02T00:07:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Katherine

There were fourteen of them in the box, as far as he could tell without lifting the paper off. He glanced nervously toward the chimney, and reached for the red book. "In nominos detritus parkas dominos quantum," he intoned as he lifted the heavy volume from the table. He always thought that saying a string of impressive Latin sounding words helped satisfy the customers.

Mrs. Greeley leaned forward in her armchair and scrunched up her grey face in awed concentration."What does it mean?" she asked, her voice a trembling whisper.

"A good luck charm I learned from a Swami in The Hague," he answered. "Now then, let's begin, shall we?"

Opening his book, Mr Leviticus Hutch, Necromancer, Physician, and Ice Cream Manufacturer stared at the pages for a moment. He glanced again at Mrs Greeley, and then quickly back at his tome. After a few more moments, he set the book down, and riffled through his pockets, until he found his wand. He flourished it, to a rather satisfying gasp from Mrs Greeley, and tapped in on the box sitting in the middle of the table. "Spirits of air and darkness" he breathed "I command and abjure you to appear!" The lights in the room dimmed, and his client huddled a little. Then, from the box, a thin swirl of smoke appeared.

"Lev!" Mrs. Greeley gasped. He did not even register noticing her. The smoke twirled towards Mr. Hutch like a showman's moustache, slowly entering his body with every passing breath. And with each breath, his eyes turned a lighter and lighter shade of blue. Outside, in the front room, children came and went, happily licking cones of Levi's Famous Peppermint Stick Ice Cream. Every now and then one small child would catch a glimpse into the back room, and his ice cream would melt, unnoticed, as he wandered the streets outside.

With almost imperceptable slowness, the body of Levicticus Hutch faded and paled, his colour and substance ebbing away to an etherial clearness. His very flesh was subsumed by the smoke, and took on its milky translucency. Mrs Greeley beheld his transubstantiation with increacing alarm, as Mr Hutch was rapidly losing his form altogether. His features streamed and blurred into one another, stirred and shifted at whim by chance air currents wafting through the room. Before she could even think to speak, an arc of blinding green light shot from the box, cleaving the intertwined wisps of smoke and Hutch in twain. With a motion not unlike a cyclone, the two clouds spun into eachother and swept with the speed of a squall back into the box. The lid slammed shut, and Mrs Greeley was left quite alone and quite baffled in the ill-lit backroom of the store.

Mrs. Greeley chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, deep in thought in the middle of the storeroom. She scratched the back of her left leg with her right foot as she pondered. Suddenly, she exploded with words. "Did he say something about The Hague? I think that's the Polish restaurant a few towns over! Why, he must have tricked me into looking away with those fancy wind and smoke machines and snuck out! Hmph. He thinks he can pull one over on Lynn DeWalt Slarmer Greeley, does he? I'll see about that." And with that, she strode from the back into the ice cream shop, shuffling several of the smaller customers to the side with her bustling skirts. The door slammed behind her and all that could be heard were the continuing murmurs of satisfied sugar fiends.

Hutch, meanwhile, found himself in a state of increasing confusion, his now unmatter'd spirit fluttering left and right in its new enclosure. His transformation--from a quiet midwestern fraud magician, table rapper and ice cream man to a disembodied consciousness trapped in a wooden box--had been unsettlingly quick, and he was unsure of how best to embrace his new place in the world. Indeed, he was starting to fear that he could be trapped forever. Such was often the fate of those who crossed the ancient and mysterious Power that watched over the Greeleys.

"Such was certainly my fate, at least," croaked a dismal voice in what would have been his ear if he still had a body. This aforementioned lack also impeded his ability to jump with surprise, but a startled quiver shook his formless frame.

"Who are you?" demanded Mr. Hutch, with all the bluster he could manage under the circumstances. "And what are you doing in my box? There's nothing in here but my dry ice cartridges. And me, I suppose," he added.

Spectral laughter resounded all around him. "Oh, far from it, Mr. Hutch, far from it," sighed a new voice on his right. "You're going to have a great deal of company."

"And not much to do."

"But there's plenty of ice cream."

"Ice cream?"

"Yes, ice cream- the one substance which transcends all spiritual planes. I can only hope your successor is as talented as you, Mr. Hutch, for you make as fine a butter pecan as I have tasted these five aeons."

2004-01-01T23:49:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Anne

He watched the smoke slowly unfurl from the tip of his cigarette and up, languidly, into the rainy sky. It had been raining all night long and it showed no signs of stopping, let alone slowing. Smoking in the rain gave him some sense of empowerment in a world gone insane. Or so he told himself on the nights when things were going badly. In reality, he had no choice. It wasn't an addiction so much as a compulsion, always having a cigarette nearby. It was something to touch, something warm to hold when no one was around to spare him the loneliness that his position warranted.

He felt the slow, heavy drops falling from the sky, running down his face, soaking his tattered grey sweater. It was funny, he thought, how the only way he could ever get out and enjoy the night air was to inhale smoke into his lungs. He wouldn't stop, though: he enjoyed the paradox of it. Even more, he enjoyed doing something he didn't have to think about. As he stood there, leaning against the cool brick wall of his house, he heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. An animal of some sort darted out and across his lawn, and then, out of the bushes, the figure of a girl came into view.

It didn't occur to him to be puzzled, it didn't occur to him to be apprehensive. Nothing in particular crossed his mind, indeed, for he relaxed with the same fervor and dedication a man in his midlife crisis shows for his jogging or his bicycling.

"You got a light?" inquired the girl, who had by this point approached him. Wordlessly he held out one of his stock.

"I don't smoke," said the girl. "Disgusting habit."

"You don't smoke? But you wanted a light," he said. The words came out in a huskier tone than he might have employed other times. The combination of the smoke in his throat and the surprise of having to speak after so many hours of silence left his vocal chords rusty. The girl sized him up and looked behind her before she spoke. He could see in her eyes that she was going to bolt in a second if he didn't stop her. He didn't particularly know why he should want to stop her, come to that, but before he'd processed the thought, his hand was on her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," the girl said. Her shirt was soaked through completely and she held her shoulder rigid.

He eased the hand away and flicked the cigarette onto the concrete patio. "Come inside," He said. "I've only got kitchen matches."

He led her through the dank concrete corridor that served as a foyer, into his kitchen. It was little more than a box built of cinderblocks and cement, an ancient sink, and a rusting stove. A bare and flickering bulb hung from a sting in the middle of the room. He found the match box, and offered it to the girl, who hovered in the doorway. She ignored the matches, and continued to stare around the room.

"You live here" she finally asked, in a quiet voice.

"Yeah," he rasped, and tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice "Have for a couple of years." He proffered the matches again, which she gingerly accepted.

"Thanks" she turned, and hesitated, then "I'm Talia"

"Allen" he replied.
She had an image of a man in hermitage; a poet gone lost and gone mad, hidden from a world in which he might once have run wild.

"What do you do?" She asked.

"Librarian," Allen said. "I work the stacks at..."

She had stopped listening. She knew the place. The gothic tower which was possibly the oldest building in town, full of enough books to keep an army of worms busy for a century. This man certianly could have been lost there for twenty years without anyone knowing the difference.

"Why do you ask?" He finally said, and she tuned in.

The answer floated to her mind. "You don't have a television. Everyone has a television." Allen could see she was feeling uncomfortable again. He wondered if she would burn the place down. She seemed the sort.

She turned the matches over in her hands, thoughtfully, and something in her manner made him want to snatch the matchbook back, but he checked himself. She was only a girl, after all, and she'd made no threats. Still, he found himself at a loss for answers, and he had to ask. 'What do you want with the matches?'

She flashed him a look of pity, and shrugged her thin shoulders. Rainwater dripped down her face, and her hair hung in lank, wet strings. Brushing her bangs back away from her face, she slipped out a match and struck it against the matchbook with natural, practised grace. She held the burning match out to Allen, her eyes fixed on its small but sturdy flame. Turning from the burning match, she studied him intensely. Inwardly he floundered, having no idea what was expected of him in such a situation.

Neither of them moved until the match had burnt itself down to Talia's exposed fingers. The flame had singed her skin, but she had not cried out, nor had she flinched. Having reached her damp fingertips, where beads of rainwater had pooled, the flame snuffed itself out.

She remained where she was for a moment, watching him wordlessly. Then she handed Allen back his book of matches, opened his door, and disappeared back into the dark and the rain.

2004-01-01T23:46:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Neil

It was something to chew on, thought Brianne as she surveyed the scene. Certainly it wasn't the case last time she had been here. Alysin was completely new to the scene, at least since last October, and she seemed the most put out about the regulations. Just what would it would mean for the rest of her old friends, she would have to find out.

She decided to call Olivia and ask her opinion. The phone rang and rang, but no one ever picked up. She shrugged to herself and left a message. A day or so later, she tried again, to no avail. The day after that, she was shocked to see a grainy black-and-white image of Olivia's face in the newspaper. Scanning the accompanying headline, she read that Olivia was dead.

Names and faces flew through Brianne's brain as she tried to absorb the news. None of the "usual" suspects were applicable here. Olivia wasn't someone who made enemies. She kept her nose clean and stayed out of trouble. This was the primary reason why she had been the first call that Brianne had thought to make upon learning of Alysin's suspicious behavior. Something would have to be done.

Unable to think everything out for herself, she tried to get in touch with the rest of her old crew to see if anyone knew more than she did. She called Andrea's house, but got no answer. Jack's answering machine picked up after a few rings, and she hung up without leaving a message. And so she went, making her way down the list, working herself up into a panic as none of her friends seemed to be home. It was nothing, she told herself. On a warm friday evening like this, surely she couldn't be surprised to find nobody at home. But still she couldn't help worrying. She felt sick to her stomach. Grabbing her coat, even though she didn't really need it, Brianne headed out into the night to look for any hint as to what was going on.

She would check the old place first, she told herself. It was the logical choice. Still, it was where she has last seen Alysin before the disaster, and she had been avoiding it instinctively ever since that day. She reined in her reluctance and set her steps firmly toward the old place, and was disturbed to find how short the way still was from her house to her destination. When she pulled open the door, she saw the usual chaos and pandemonium, but something was different this time.

Children were playing with dolls in the front hall. That was normal enough. The clinic area was always busy between five thirty and eight. All the parents with days jobs ended up coming in then. They'd supplied the office with several toy bins just for that reason. But there hadn't ever been any blood on the toys before. She didn't want to look closer. She wanted to turn right around and get out of town, but she had to get to the bottom of things. She resolved to walk calmly past the children without alarming them and then go into the reception area and ask for Alysin. She lifted her chin and started to pick her way through the play-group. She'd gotten halfway to the reception room door when she noticed the real horror.

Someone, or something, had been through the entire office, meticulously stabbing people in the chest. There was Courtney, slumped over the copy machine, and Todd, sprawled in the hallway. Brianne raced through the halls, the cubicles, the break room. Everywhere, dead people and puddles of blood. She resisted, oh how she resisted screaming, but after the fifth body, her stomach rebelled and she vomited all over the carpet, spasming, gasping for breath and falling to her knees. The police found her there hours later, curled into a ball.
Brianne was never the same again.

2004-01-01T23:44:00.000-08:00

Round Robin Begun By Julia

I needed to cut my toenails again. Unlike Rosencrantz's they did not get cut in my sleep. This was possibly because I didn't sleep. I mused about the basic unfairness of life. Or death. Here I was, dead for nearly one hundred hears, and my damn toenails kept growing. And I couldn't sleep, because what is the point of being the 'restless dead' if you can just nip off for a nap? None whatsoever the powers-that-be had decided, and so I was stuck with long toenails.

At least, by the end of my life in 1915, I was fully versed in the art of cutting my toenails. Just imagine if I'd died a child. No. I'm quite glad that I did not. I can assure you, however, that bleeding slowly to death from a nearly infinite number of shrapnel wounds acquired in the bottom of a trench somewhere in France is not a good way to die. Once I tried to swim across the ocean, but I was beset by sharks almost immediately. It was a few months before I'd regenerated back from a scrap or two that must have washed onto the beach. Almost as painful as death itself that. Terrifically unfair.

Not, of course, as unfair as my toenail situation. I don't have bad-looking toenails, as far as toenails go, if I may say so myself. They are pearlescent, shapely nails, strong and even, with no unsightly yellowing or thickening. I once met a fellow with a chronic toenail fungus that had followed him even into death. Persistent malady, is a toenail fungus. Not even beheading by guillotine could shake it. Not, of course, that one should expect removal of the head to result in easement of toe disorders. Completely different ends of the body involved.

Why should such lovely nails that happen to have ended up on my feet, instead of the classically-chosen hand position, have to suffer so? I ask myself this every single day of the eternity that is my lifespan. I mean, deathspan. Yes, deathspan, if I may be allowed to create new words to fit my own interests. I think that I may. Now, back to the toenails, already in progress.

As I sat on my coffin, snipping off my scarily long nails one by one, I briefly thought about painting them, too. Something festive, a nice bright red, maybe--a little something to add a bit of color to the old corpse. It's a dreary life (or a dreary death, I suppose I should say), dragging your chains 'round the market square at half past three each night, always frightening a few drunks, then dragging yourself back to the hills by dawn to catch whatever animals you can find in the old woods. Never any change. Almost makes a chap want to take some sort of Extreme Measures.

I know some folks that take positively neurotic care with the removable bits of their body - I mean, removable in the ordinary, animated course of things, hair and so on - on account of the nasty things that are said to happen if the wrong sort of people get hold of bits of you. Still, I can't say I've ever worried much about that. Just let the scraps fall where they will, I say, and the grass around the grave can be the richer for a few shard of toenail. It's rather nice to think about at least one part of me pushing up the daisies as it ought. Reassuring, you know. Great Cycle of Life and all that.

Now my old friend Tom did get into a spot of trouble with a voodoo queen once, but that was entirely his fault. I warned him not to keep harassing her during her paid seance sessions, but he didn't listen. "Oh come on now, Hibbs," he said. "It's just bit of sport. Who could mind a bit of sport?" Well he changed his tune after the green fuzz started spreading over his flesh. It smelled awful, I can tell you that, but he said the worst bit was that it made his body ooze trails of slimy bile and itch like ten devils all at once. Now I know a decomposing body isn't necessarily the world's sexiest thing in the first place, but let me tell you, not even the other dead lads wanted to be anywhere near old Tom in that state. Who knew if it might be contagious? He had to plead with the queen for weeks before she took pity on him. Now they have a deal worked out where he actually helps her with seances instead of causing a ruckus. She says if he even thinks of bailing out, it's back to stinky ooze for him. She's got a chicken's foot with his name on it all ready to use at the drop of a hat.

I've had nearly a century to practice the toenail cutting on the coffin thing, and I can do it in less that 45 seconds if pressed for time, but you and I both know I've got all the time in the wold, so I usually let it drag on for a while. I consider it my weekly reflection period. This is the first time I have written about it, though. I know it's a bit of a strange topic, but when Fred gave me this Leather bound blank book for Christmas, I knew I had to fill it with something. I think if it really takes off, I may send it off to some publishing houses. Manheim has a great grandson in Moore and Glossop, so maybe if I can get in good with him he'll put a kind word out for me. As it is for now, I must put aside my noble writing so that I can attend the annual Beheaded Barons' Ball held by Messrs. Gloust, Mercer and Wainwright. None of them are headless or of noble lineage, as it turns out. They just thought nming the ball that way would draw more dead debutantes, because really, who doesn't want to deflower a virgin, even after she's past her living prime? I'll let you know know if I have any luck after next week's toenail reflection period. Adieu, fair readers. Papa's got a ball to attend, because indeed, dead can dance!

2004-01-01T23:29:00.000-08:00

New Year, New Exercise! We had a great group of seven for the first Round Robin Storytelling Social of 2004. Each story that follows was started and finished by the person whose name appears at the top. Each of the other paragraphs was written by a different person in the group.

2003-12-29T18:22:00.000-08:00

Today's writing is something nobody gets to read. but this is just to say, I do have 345 new words so far. And at least 655 more to come before the day is out. I got behind over the last couple of weeks owing to a visit from Mirabai and then a flurry of Christmas stuff, but now I am back in the game.

2003-12-10T23:50:00.000-08:00

Post NaNoExercise 5: Tonight Neil and Moira and I did a line by line round robin with dragonflies as a theme. I've put mine in with each of the original line breaks and cut it into several stanzas for readability. Neil made it a piece of prose with paragraph breaks. It looks quite different in the two forms. Neat.

Dragonflies in August

Brilliant speeding shimmer
They glitter in sunlight
dazzle over the water
In lazy patterns. The damselfly flutters, her husband flies firm.
He is the flight without a target

We gaze at them through faulty lenses
through the jellied water of our eyes
I think I can see her thorax

once, one sat on the back of his hand
He could feel it, and examine it in close detail, but he never bothered to look
he wished he could feed it something
He asked me if it would eat pomegranate seeds
I said I thought it would. Who wouldn't? round and glassy and plump and red
But of course, dragonflies are meat-eaters, not fairies
they're not stupid enough to eat in hell
He looked at me when I said that, and grinned

I could never resist that about him
Or any other thing about him, really.
I didn't have a pomegranate, but there was an apple in my bag
I'd offer it, but I knew he would cut me down. He always did.
So I cut the apple up instead
Into four slices, and slowly ate each one

I never did understand why he had all the luck
Why life for him was wholly without seeds.
I glanced at him, quickly, and then away again
I fancied I could her them buzzing
as if one of them would come to rest on my apple
My hands were now sticky, and I had lost all interest in the dragonflies
And I knew I should tell him that this had to end
The air was still and the water was silent
I felt heavy, as if I might sink into water, sink into the world itself

And then he took my hand and said, "We're going"
and the apples fell into the water
I smiled to myself, and thought "Isn't this always the way?"
Comings and goings and never quite settling so that I was too dizzy, too distracted to leave
I was held, nearly pinned, over the water
A damselfly foerever stuck to her mate

2003-12-09T22:20:00.000-08:00

I didn't do one yesterday, so today it's on. Post NaNo Exercise 4: Write a sestina. I've never tried one before, so it's bound to be interesting. I'm going to ask three friends for two words to get my six. And they are: arm, rocky, space, alien, slippery, and streetlamp. Off we go.

2003-12-08T21:31:00.000-08:00

The concept of time is so messed up for me now. We got up at 3 last night so we could get Moss to work by five. We hadn't actually made it to bed until just after twelve. Naturally, when we came home at three in the afternoon, we "napped". It's now six and a half hours later and I should be getting to the winding down part of the day, not just waking up. But I guess since I am awake after all, I'll put a writing exercise on here. Or not. You know, I kind of think not. Not today. Brain still sort of zombied out. All I can think about is how I really want some blueberry muffins.

2003-12-07T22:12:00.000-08:00

Results for Post NaNo Exercise 3:
What do you collect? Why? How did you start?
I don't know that I actively collect anything. I do tend to get things that are similar though. If I like a shirt I'll end up buying other shirts just like it. The winter before last it was all red shirts and sweaters. A particular shade. It helped of course that I needed warm shirts and sweaters and that the stores all had that one shade to offer. See how it is? You fall into it.

Now I guess I collect silver and china. I didn't set out to. But I was given a ton by my Grandfather who just moved out of his house and into a retirement community. Mismatched tea cups mostly, and one set of dinner plates and salad plates and cream soup cups. There are lots of neat cups ad saucers in the mix though, some from England and others from Russia or Germany or France. I don't really suppose I collect them, though, even though I have a collection, because I didn't try to amass them a little at a time. I just got handed them all in one day. Same with the silver.

I've got an old bacon warmer, which is this smallish rectangular box with a shallow pan for the bacon, and a hollw inside underneath where you are supposed to put boiling water. I don't know if we'll ever use it. I don't think we've ever made bacon (British or American style) at home, but it's interesting to have around. There are platters, too. Oblong and round and scalloped and smooth and ornately detailed with floral wreath edges. Then there are two gravy-serving devices. One gravy boat on its own little tray and one little cauldron on a stick. They were both of them black when I got them, but I polished them up with Tarn-Ex and now they're gleaming almost white. Of course, I inadvertantly also polished my abdomen and am now paying for it with an itchy and painful rash, but that's another story.

I used to collect things, though. I mean really. Even if I don't now. I collected teddy bears for a while when I was a wee slip of a girl. I had teddy bear wall paper and teddy bear... I'm sure I had other teddy bear things. Mostly I was jealous of my sister's teddy bear, which I had originally wanted, but which my father had told me I was too old to have. I felt that as a five-year-old I was NOT too old, but he was bigger and stronger and had the money, so my sister got it instead. She was only a couple months old at the time. Now I've got Oatmeal, who used to live with James, but who came with me to France after she fell in love with The Lemur. They're both here now, and happy enough, and Oatmeal's as good a bear as my sister's if not better, so I suppose it all worked out well enough in the end.

I also collected all things having to do with Ireland for a while. That was sometime around seventh or eighth grade. I had calendars and books and t-shirts and tapes and even a video called Jig, Don't Jog, which was supposed to be an exercise video for people who wished they were in Ireland, I guess. There were a few people, who were "jigging" (by which I mean doing low impact aerobics) on an irish hillside. It was taped on low-quality film by someone who either didn't know much about video, didn't have any money whatsoever, or just plain didn't care. The green grass all looked like a sickly fluorescent yellow. I'd watch it over and over and wish I was there with them. There was a book of photographs, too. It was a good one, though, shot by pros with good quality equipment. And in it was a picture of a place called Kylemore Abbey, which the book said was a boarding school for girls. I wanted depsperately to go there, but my parents didn't think paying ten thousand Irish pounds a year for me to go to high school in County Galway was a worthy use of their hard-earned incomes. Also, they didn't really have it. So I kept on collecting things to do with the country, thinking I suppose that if I got enough Irish stuff, my bedroom at home would become a portal to the Emerald Isle. I even had a piece of peat for a while. I'm not joking. The Irish import shop near my granparents' house sold them, encased in plastic. A bit of Celtic sod. And I bought one, which just goes to show that people really will buy anything.

I'm sure I've collected other things too. Some would claim I collect blogs. I have... seven that I can think of. I don't write in each of them consistently, but they're out there. And I can think of at least two more that got eaten by teh intarweb because I left them alone for too long. But I'm not really sure what the point of collecting things is. In the end, i usually chuck it all because I have to move or something. I collect and collect, but then I clear it all out to start again. What does that say about me, I wonder? My, this has been self-centered. Ah well. It's writing practice. I suppose writing exercises are just another thing I collect, right? A good thing, even if they often make for tiresome reading. No one ever said you had to in the first place, though.

2003-12-07T22:10:00.000-08:00

Post NaNo Exercise 3: Doing a random one from Daydreaming on Paper (which I found through Tricia). I'm tired, so it likely won't be very long.

2003-12-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

#1 (opening sentence and last paragraph by Tricia Paragrahs one, two and three by Julia, Moira and Jenny)
The line was getting longer instead of shorter. Emily swatted at the flies that buzzed around and wondered when she'd be able to get out of the hot sun and into the small building. It didn't look any cooler in there, but at least there was shade and a little electric fan. All around her children where whining and tugging on their mothers' skirts. None of them were screaming, though. It was too hot for that.

She smiled at one beautiful little olive-skinned black-eyed girl with long, shiny straight dark hair carefully braided into intricate small cornrows, but the girl merely stared at her, sucking her thumb, and clutched more tightly at her mother's skirt. Emily felt the smile dry out and cake on her face, as if it would flake off in another moment, and jerked her eyes back to the little building where the shade and electric fan, which was supplied by the low current in the village so that it barely rustled the papers on the official's desk, looked more inviting than ever. She mused again on the fact that in foreign countries small gratifications that would be taken for granted rose to the status of luxuries, dismissed it as a travel book thought unworthy of the work she was supposed to be doing down here, thought once more of Emily Hahn, and sighed.

The line slowly inched forward and eventually Emily was inside the building where the air was only slightly cooler, but no less filled with flies. Finally, there was only one person between her and the desk, a small, thin woman. She tried not to stare as the official, Mr. Nagerelli according to the small, black nameplate on his desk, began arguing with the woman. They weren't yelling in English, but Emily could pick up a few words, could figure out the general gist of the argument. Apparently the woman didn't have the proper paperwork. The woman began crying. It obviously wasn't an act, those were real tears she was sobbing, but Mr. Nageralli showed no sympathy and waved her away, then looked coldly up at Emily. "Oh, you," he said in a thick accent, but Emily couldn't complain, as it was at least English. "Do you have -?" but Emily cut him short by smiling and thrusting at him a manilla folder, thick with papers. She definitely had all of her paperwork.

Mr. Nageralli gave a quick glance over Emily's paperwork. "Yes, all in order," he said. "But I'm afraid you're not going anywhere for a while." Emily looked confused, and bewildered as he grabbed her and cuffed her. "You are my hostage!" he shouted. "I refuse to have to deal with this paperwork anymore. If they don't succumb to my demands, I will keep you tied up forever." Emily tried to explain that she didn't have anything to do with the government. She wished very much that she had taken care of her travel visa a different day. The fan buzzed, not blowing any air on her, but it seemed to symbolize her life so far. Left, right, and going nowhere.

#2 (Jenny, Tricia, Julia, Moira, Jenny)
He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it until now. The cows were laying down in the field, the sheep were huddled by the fence, and the cats were mysteriously out of sight. Bob couldn't remember when he had last seen Tabby, in fact.

There was a great disturbance in the haystack as he approached. Something was in there, and it was moving. He gripped his wooden hayfork with trembling fingers, hesitant to commit himself to the task at hand. The people in Barlow had talked of a monster and he'd laughed. "No sech thing," he'd said. "Ever'one know ain't monsters no more." He supposed God was smiting him now, and he knew he'd have to face it one way or another, so he gathered his resolve and inched closer.

Suddenly, before he could stab at the haystack with the pitchfork, he saw a great blinding light descend from the sky. Wind scattered hay everywhere, and he clung desperately to the pitchfork, not so much as to defend himself but just to be able to exert control over something. He couldn't see anymore, and the violent windstorm was ripping the breath from his nostrils. He opened his mouth and screamed, but heard nothing, and he knew he was screaming as loudly as he possibly could. He felt his feet leave the ground.

He fell over onto his back, hitting his head on the edge of a wheelbarrow and at the same moment the light dimmed, and he found himself looking at a small, gray form. It was short, barely three feet tall, had an oval shaped body, and eyes the size of dinner plates. Its head was directly connected to its body, no neck at all. It had long, spindly arms and short stubby legs and its open mouth revealed rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. It was standing by the haystack and didn't seem to notice him, for which he was thankful. He glanced over at the hayfork, which lay on the ground a good two feet out of his reach. He held his breath, stayed perfectly still, wondering if he should risk running for it when the thing looked directly at him. It waddled forward and stopped a foot away from him, grinning and showing all its teeth. It poked him in the arm with a long, gray finger and said in a high-pitched voice, "You're it!" Then it ran away, out the barn door and into the night.

#3 (Moira, Jenny, Tricia, Julia, Moira)
Years afterward, she still wondered what would have happened had the avacados not been underripe. It wasn't her fault, after all, although she knew that he blamed her. She thought about him often, and then felt guilty about it. She knew she shouldn't complain about how things had turned out. She had a good life, a good husband (a rebound from *him,* but still, a very good man) and things may have seemed satisfactory. But like an underripe avocado, things only looked good on the surface.

It's the squeezing that's the most important. Whether in a marriage or a search for the perfect fruit. Yes, she often seemed to compare her life to cooking. The guacamole with her husband was good. But not as good as it could have been with *him* - she really thought at one time that they would be growing old, putting down roots, and having wonderful meals together for a good long time.

She'd met him in Boston when she was in school. He'd come from the southside and worked in the produce section of a grocery store that she didn't normaly use. She'd beenat a sorority sister's apartment preparing for a Mexican theme party with the Sig Eps. She was supposed to make guacamole because she was the one from California, but there was no way she could with the rocks that Melissa had picked up. So she'd gone back in a rush, trying to get things done before the frat boys arrived, and there he was. He was cocky and vulgar and put up a fight when she tried to exchange them. She'd been angry and weary and snapped at him, but she'd liked the jut of his jawbone all the same. In the end they spent five months fighting and having stupendous sex before things fell apart.

It wasn't just the arguments about you-went-to-college-I-never-had-the-opportunity, you're-from-California-I'm-a-Southie, but the sense she had that even if those gulfs had been bridgeable, his attitude would doom any attempt to even try. She thought it was his braggodoccio about being from Southie, about growing up hearing gunshots in the afternoon outside his school and continuing to play on the jungle gym with the other kids because it was so normal, the neighbors laughing at the bullet holes in the window and two out of his five closest friends from high school dying before they were twenty-five. If you weren't from Southie, you couldn't really talk to him. He would be polite as he could, but in the end he really considered anything not from his homeland a waste of time. This wasn't the Hoosiers-like usual granfaloon; it was as if he had been captured and raised by an outside tribe, and his only home was there, even though he'd been released into the world again. She hadn't thought this was really possible in modern-day America, but there he was. Like an underripe avocado: something which looked familiar and as if there were a way to deal with it on the surface, but when you touched it, was a kind of alien rock, a space egg, and nothing would hatch from it.

#4 (Julia, Moira, Jenny, Tricia, Julia)
Herbert was a very serious sort of dog. He would always cock his head and look intently at you, ears akimbo, pupils big, as if he were trying to figure out some kind of doggie mathematical theorem. I had the feeling that if he were not a dog, and furthermore, if he were not a rather stupid dog, he would be a canine Einstein, having not one (as Keats did) but two annus mirabilises (mirabili? And I start to wonder how smart a human I am) figuring out not special and general relativity, but a kind of Grand Unified Theory of Smells. Since dogs communicate primarily by means of smell, this would be the greatest communication leap ever known to sentient beings, surpassing perhaps even the rosetta stone or the stone tablets detailing bribes given to priests at Sumer.

Of course, few people would agree with me on that. Especially those who didn't know him well, and even more especially to those whose crotches he was earnestly sniffing. While I don't necessarily condone that sort of behavior (I couldn't get away with it, and it was my apartment) but I also didn't feel it was right to curb an animal's natural instincts, even if it included sticking his nose up the skirt of a female guest (not that I had many of those lately.)

So, it was quite a surprise when one day, little Herbie ran away. I assumed at first that he had simply decided to go a little further at the doggie park, and that he would return in a few minutes. But I waited, and then I called, and then I started to worry just a little bit. He loved to run off the leash, and he had always come right back before. This was unexpected. I posted leaflets around the neighborhood, asked everyone I met, and generally mourned the loss of a truly great friend.

I thought about getting a new pooch for several weeks, but conceded that none would have been quite the same as Herbert, and besides which I hadn't wanted him in the first place. I inherited him from my Granfather's fishing buddy. Didn't think I could turn it down. Respect for the dead and all. Anyway, as I said, Herbert always seemed like a serious old chap, so you can be certan I was as surprised as anyone to hear about the whore house. Wouldn't have known at all if the Mrs. hadn't made me take him in to the vet to get vaccinated. Turns out they put one of theose micrchips in him when they did all that. Technology these days just kills me. In any case, when they found out he was running an operation as a sort of doggy pimp, they busted it up and called us to come and get him. Said they recommended we neuter him first, but I'm still fighting the Wife in that particular issue. I did let her insall the electric fence, though. And Herbert's mostly indignant. Lays down in front of MTV and on't budge. I half wonder if we ughtn't get him a little chiquita to keep around, but don't want puppies, and I don't know how he'd take toa lady without all her parts. ort of a cheap trick after he had the whole neighborhood at his beck and call, you know? So we'll just wait and see. I think he's smart enough that he might find a way around the fence and run off again, and you know, I couldn't blame him if he did. Seems only fair for a man to be free.

2003-12-06T18:01:00.000-08:00

Post NaNo Exercise 2: Tonight I have the privilege of working with Moira and Jenny and Tricia, so we're doing a round robin. We're each coming up with an opening sentence and then passing it on to the next person. After that each of us will write a paragraph to go with that sentence and passed again until there are four stories of four pragraphs. Of course the result is bound to be madness, but that's the nature of the beast, and half the fun.

2003-12-06T01:18:00.000-08:00

Second result for Post NaNo Exercise 1: The table had a glass top. Its legs were made of black metal, and it had brass joints. The chairs matched it and had flora printed cushions in mint green and mauve that matched the curtains. It was a decorating nightmare that could only have come out of the 1980s. There was a basket of fruit in the center, mostly apples and oranges with one banana. A math textbook lay open on page 242 with a scattering of lined loos leaf paper next to it and a half chewed yellow No. 2 pencil resting on top. Someone had gotten to problem number five before leaving it, seemingly for just a moment. There was a calculator, too. Texas Instruments was the brand, and it displayed the number 336.667 in clumsy digital graphics. The chair had been pushed back a little when the person had left, and its cushion was just a bit off center. An aqua windbreaker with fuschia stripes down the arms was draped over the back of the chair and a glass of milk, two thirds empty sat above the text book. There was a wooden post in front of the scene with a plaque atop it that read, "Afternoon Break From Word Problems, J. Salinski, 2056. On loan from the Meredith Detwiler collection, Huntgrove, PA."

The scene was impressive when you stopped to realize it wasn't real. How had he done the milk? It even had bubbles at the top. And the calculator. Was it real? Had he made it himself? A lot fo time had to have been spent gathering the pieces together even if he hadn't constructed them all out of raw materials. Glass-topped tables were nowhere to be found these days after the lawsuit in 2012. It was the little things that really made it though. Particularly the parka. It was draped so casually, not balanced perfectly, but hanging with the left side just a bit lower than the right. The use of bold colors was striking, too. The fruit was bright, of course, but the parka was different. Perhaps it was that it mirrored the shades in floral print on the chairs and drapes. The mother had chosen those, but her daughter was young and vibrant and not ready to be confined with muted tones and pastels. The half chewed pencil seemed to indicate that, too. Here I am, it said, I am someone who doesn't care about leaving no trace. I'll take what I can of life and leave a mark. One had to wonder if she softened and stiffened with age or if she'd retained the fire. People would stop and stare at it for long stretches trying to cull meaning from it. There were a thousand theories about what he had meant. He wasn't sure he knew himself.

2003-12-06T00:34:00.000-08:00

First result for Post NaNo Exercise 1: The table was the center of the room. It wasn't a terribly small room, but as it was all part of the log cabin, and left in natural wood hues, it seemed smaller than it was. The table was the same color as the walls. It was made of the same wood, as a matter of fact, and was so large that it looked as if the cabin must have been built around it. Of course, that wasn't the case, but it looked it all the same. There was a runner along the center of the table. It was made of red linen and had been a gift from Shelby's mother. Shelby had done a lot for the place, Ron had to admit. She gave it color, like with the runner, but more than that, she gave it life. In the center of the table was a cracked bowl. It was pale green stoneware that Shel had found at a yardsale. Too beat up to serve food in, but she never let that stop her from taking it in and putting it to use. It had broken on the way home in the car, something that Ron had warned her it would probably do, but she didn't say a word. Didn't let him get away with an I told you so or anything. Instead she took it into the back room, which she'd staked out as hers and filled with craft stuff, and the next day it came back out glued together just so. Ron would be damned if the crack didn't even look artistic. Shel filled it with pretty rocks for a while, and then in winter she switched to pine cones and these little red berries that she glossed up with some enamel stuff. Ron didn't know much about that sort of thing, so he couldn't say exactly how she'd done it, but the berries came out like little hard beads, and werenice to look at in the bowl. They were a good contrast to the green, and they matched the linen runner perfectly. There was nothing else on the table, but Ron's elbows. There should be placemats and two dinner settings, but there was just empty wood. The grain running legthwise and glazed in honey colored finish. His elbows were big and bulky, but that didn't seem so out of place witht he table being what it was. It was solid. He'd built it himself. A real table for real people. Not some fancy flimsy thing like Shel might have found in the city. There weren't any intricate carvings on the legs or the sides. The lines were smooth and clean and sturdy. It was a man's table in a man's house. He wished he didn't feel like his blue work shirt clashed with everything on it so much. How could a few little things make everything seem more fragile and soft? He wasn't soft. He couldn't be. He supposed that was why she'd gone, after all, wasn't it? He reached a hand into the bowl and closed his fist around two little pinecones and some shiny berries before letting them slip through his fingers. The sound they made as they fell back into the bowl was almost like music. He had a friend who had one of those rain sticks. It wasn't exactly the same sound, but it was close enough. Hypnotic. He sat there and kept at it as the sun set. Come home to me, he called out with his mind. Come back. It was after midnight when he dusted off his hands and went to bed.

2003-12-06T00:17:00.000-08:00

Post NaNo Exercise 1: Describe a table in someone's home, and pick one detail that makes it unique or that says something about the place or the people who live there. You may describe everything about the table or very little about it, but you must concentrate on the detail you choose and bring it to life. It may be an aspect of the table itself or an object on the table.

2003-12-06T00:04:00.000-08:00

I finished it. Not the entire novel, but the 50,000 words. I ended up with 50,403 in November. Of course I haven't written since then, but that, dear (most likely non-existent) readership, is about to change. Natalie Goldberg begs us to do at least two years of solid writing practice. I suppose if you add it all together, I've done more than that in my lifetime, but you can't really ever do too much. So, this blog is going to go back to being the catch-all for writing exercises. Starting now. Today.

2003-11-29T02:14:00.000-08:00

Wow. Thanksgiving and moving stuff really set me back. I was terrified with having 14k left to do over three days. Now, i think i can do it though. I wrote over six thousand words today! If I can get 4k the next two days, I'm in! I need my winner icon. I can do this.

2003-11-25T19:54:00.000-08:00

Wow, it's been a long time with no updates. Bad Julia. I am currently at 36k, but I will hopefully get some more tonight. Why did I agree to take on Thanksgiving dinner? Oh well, I am sure it was a good iea. Or it will be or something. Myarr. December should beso much less stressful compared to November. There's a U-haul truck outside just waiting for Moss to get home so we can unload it, and we have to have dinner and I don't want to cook ANYTHING. And my back hurts. Grar. Also, I am becoming one of these uninteresting bloggers who lists complaints. That won't do at all. The good news: I still have places to go with the novel, so I shouldn't run out of material to cover. Also, having cleaned the living room feels pretty nice.

2003-11-13T19:01:00.000-08:00

Current wordcount: 22,172. This puts me just about exactly on schedule (a little over by the 1,667 words a day scheme). Most of what I have written is crap, but I do think I have one good scene. And once the crap is finished I will edit it until it becomes more like something that isn't complete crap.

Just at the moment I am completely in love with Nancy Kress. I want to marry her and have like ten thousand of her babies. She's so good at helping me not get (too) stuck in the middle. And getting stuck in the middle is a huge problem for me. (see as evidence: not finishing most of the stories I have ever started).

In other news, I've been looking into paying markets due to some wacky (it's wacky!) notion that I might try to get paid for writing things. Lavender Sparkle Fish, my NaNoMascot (NaNoMasCo?), has been in stitches over this all day.

2003-11-11T03:28:00.000-08:00

Well, I suffered a big setback when I had a day of blockage and then a three day weekend of illness and sloth. It all seems to be turning out okay, though. I feel better for having rested, and I managed to get 2,727 words in today. I am two thirds of the way through the John Wayne Bobbitt and Fabio scene, which is being as fun to write as I had hoped. Tomorrow I'll go back and work on bringing the rest of the story up to connect to that scene. I just had to jump ahead because that scene demanded that I write it. I believe giving in to these sorts of demands is a good idea.

2003-11-05T22:25:00.000-08:00

Okay, got to the goal of 12k today. Felt pretty awful about the plot, but I think I am starting to come out of the funk. Thanks are definitely in order to Moira, for helping me to see my plot more clearly. I had the ideas she mentioned before I talked to her, but it's nice to see that they do seem to carry through and that I am not just retarded and lame. Even if I think I am. and I got my 2k for the day. I'm okay. Just gotta keep pushing.

2003-11-03T23:35:00.000-08:00

Oof. Got past the 8k mark today. Definitely looking to break 10k tomorrow. Thinking the story might need to be entirely from Braid's point of view. Orchid and Rose do okay, but Braid seems to have a lot to say. We'll see what happens as things progress. Today Mirabai told me that she thought I didn't have writer's block typse things liek other people becuase I had posted the writing exercises all last month. What's funny is that I did them as a way to force myself out of being blocked. I am starting to learn something about writing. It's that all those witers who give advice too new writers and say they should just put one word after another are probably onto something. Not that I am good enough to count myself among them, but that might just be a matter of time if all it takes is a hell of a lot of persistence.

2003-11-03T00:02:00.000-08:00

NaNoReport for the 2nd of November

Final word count for the day: 5,804. That's more than a tenth of the way to the goal!

Last year I worried an awful lot about making sure the story was good and readable. This year I am trying to just let what comes out come out. I am getting to know my characters based on what they want to say or do in a given situation. I think half the stuff I am writing now will have to be chopped or at the very least changed for a final draft, but it really does help to get it out now. It gives me more of an insight to what's going on, what direction things will take, and why.

Something else, I've decided: I'm not going to read anything I've already written until after the whole story is done. Then I will let it sit for a month or so, and after that, I will try my hand at revising. I think I have a real chance at finishing this year. This makes me very happy.

2003-11-01T23:56:00.000-08:00

All right! First NaNoDay is officially at an end, and I have bagged 3,325 new words! My novel may be rough and choppy, but hey, words are words. My characters are telling their story, little by little. They've already surprised me more than once. This will need a ton of editing after it's finished, but so far I have been very good about not editing as I go. This is a GOOD thing. Yay! Hopefully I can keep up the good rhythm.

2003-11-01T00:58:00.000-08:00

Okay, going to bed! Managed to get 602 words on the novel, which is tentatively titled, The Orchid Avengers.

I also managed to finish my Africa story from way back earlier in October, and wrote a total of 1,681 new words altogether today. If I can keep this kind of pace up all month, I'll be golden. The best thing is, of course, that when I wake up tomorrow, it will still be the first of November. Yay!

I think I am going to steal Moira's idea and type things like "STOP EDITING ME!" everytime I feel compelled to change something. The point is not to edit this first crappy draft. he point is to write. And yelling at my internal editor will even up my word count just a tad. Heh. Anyway, bedtime. Oh, blessed sleep.

2003-11-01T00:21:00.000-08:00

The rest of the Africa Story:

Madueke lost himself in thought. He was not sure how much time passed. It felt like days, but may have only been minutes. The night air was completely still while he thought. He could not even hear the drums from the village. It seemed as though time had stopped. Perhaps it had, he mused. He would not discount such ideas on a night like this. He looked up at the stars for guidance, but star-reading was not his province, so after a while he closed his eyes and searched his heart. After a time he breathed deeply and opened his eyes.

"I am ready," he said.

Enwelumokwu stood is the same place. She hadn't moved at all. "If you are ready, then ask your questions, beloved one."

Madueke looked into his wife's eyes. "First, is the killer of our people?"

"No,"said Enwelomokwu, "the killer is not of our people. He is a stranger here."

Madueke nodded. He had suspected as much. He thought he knew what he must do, but he would use his other questions anyway. "Enwelomokwu, what will help me the most now?"

Enwelomokwu smiled. "I was right to think you would ask wisely," she said. "What will help you now is Faith, Madueke. You must look within and without, and you must have faith if you are to succeed."

Madueke knew that when he asked the last question the magic of these precious moments would end. He took one last look at his beloved, memorizing all the lines and curves of her face and body. He tried to engrave them on his soul, so that he would never forget. "My last question," he said at last. "Enwelomokwu, I know now that there is an afterlife, for you are here with me. I knew before, but I have doubted at times. I love you and I miss you. Please tell me, will I be with you after this life?"

Enwelomokwu's eyes filled with sadness. "I cannot answer this question to your satisfaction, beloved. I am with you always, and I will always be with you, but more than that I cannot say. I am sorry." She stated to shimmer and fade away then. Madueke felt the tears appear again on his face. Enwelomokwu said one last thing as she disappeared. The voice were distant and distorted, but still recognizable as hers. "I love you, Madueke. If you are feeling alone, do not forget that I am with you. If you call to me, I will come and surround you with warmth. This I promise." The last words echoed in the night breeze until the last of Enwelomokwu's ethereal light had gone away. Madueke stood at the creek for a few minutes longer, staring at the spot where his dead wife had stood. Then he straightened his shoulders and headed back to the village and his hut. He knew he would not sleep tonight. He had much work to do.

Back in the village the drummers were still at their work. The noise seemed louder than before to Madueke's ears. His time at the creek had been peaceful and quiet, but now he was back in the thick of things, and he needed to take care of the troubles that were plaguing his people. He went to his hut and prepared a special blend of herbs, which he then spread in a circle on the earthen floor. In the center of the circle he placed a chicken's foot and then sprinkled it with the blood of the victims. Then he chanted for an hour. When he was finished, he waited. The killer would come to him soon. He lay still on his pallet and let sleep take him.

It was dawn when Madueke woke. He heard the steps outside his hut even though they were very soft. Madueke moved into the shadows in silence and grabbed his weapon. When the killer entered, the hut looked deserted. The killer stepped up to the body of the woman and began to speak to it in a low tone. "I would not have killed you, my cousin," the killer said, "if only you had not been so unfaithful." He reached out to touch the woman's dead hand, and stopped cold. Madueke had stepped into the light.

"You will stop right there," said Madueke. He held his gun in front of him, aiming with a steady hand at the killer's heart. He reached with his other hand, very slowly for the metal rod on the table next to him. Then he began to beat it against a metal bowl, pounding the bowl in quick steady pulses. It was the village alarm system. No one had ever used it before, but everyone who heard it would know what it meant. The killer seemd to know, too. His eyes were wide and scared. He looked at the gun and at madueke and then took a step back toward the door. "Do not try to run,' Said Madueke. "It will only make things worse for you."

The sound of men running was coming closer. The killer slumped. It would be a matter of the men coming in and taking him out into the common area, now. He would not run, but it was only because he was a coward. He had proven himself to be dishonorable. He would pay the price now.

"Madueke!" came the voice of one of the village elders. "May we enter your space to investigate this noise?"

"Please enter, Father," said Madueke.

Three men entered. One older than the others. The younger ones were warriors, full of lean muscles and marked with the ritual scars of warrior initiation on their chests. They stepped forward on the silent command of the elder and flanked the killer. Then the elder spoke again, "Is this man a danger to our village, Madueke?

"He is."

"And what do you charge him with?" asked the elder.

"Father, this is the man who has murdered three of our people. I have seen him speaking to the woman's corpse. He confessed his murder then."

"Very well," said the elder, we must take him and hod him for trial when the mourning is done. With that, the two warriors placed their hands on the killer's arms and led him out of the hut.

"He will stay in their custdy until the trial, Madueke," said the elder. "It is good that you found him. How did you know he would come?"

Madueke put the gun down on the table before he spoke. "I knew..." he thought of Enwelomokwu standing in the moonlight. "I knew because it ws logical. The common thread was the woman and her daughter. They were all found together. The woman was not of our people originally. The killer was her cousin. He wished to have her for himself, but she left him, and so he came after her. When he found her, he killed her and her child. No doubt our finest warrior, even though he was old enough to deserve rest and peace, tried to save the woman and child from this dishonorable man. He is little more than a pirate, after all. A pirate who would steal our goods and kill our people. But the killer had magic on his side. He is a coward of the lowest sort, who would appeal to dar gods for help in his dishonorable quest. And so our warrior was defeated. The woman and child were killed. But the man who killed them could not be at peace. Especially after the spell I cast made him see their shades. He came back because he had to, because the though t of them was driving him mad. He will welcome his punishment. I only wish it could bring the dead back, but it cannot. What will happen to him?"

The elder stroked his chin with a bony hand. "The killer will face trial. The village will hear you words and any of the killer's own. Then the elders will decide. He will either become a slave, or be put to death. It is uncertain at this time. We will wait until the proper mourning period has passed out of respect for the dead. Thank you, madueke. I hope that you will have no further problems as you prepare these bodies for their eternal rest."

Madueke bowed and showed the elder out. The he swept up the remains of his spell with a rough broom made of twigs. He put one hand over the medicine he wore next to his heart. He missed his wife, but he felt less alone now. "Thank you, Enwelomokwu," He said. When he had disposed of the herbs and the chicken foot, Madueke sat down on his pallet and picked up the gun. It was plastic, and very light. "Only a coward would be more scared of a gun than of dealing with black arts," he said aloud. Then he laughed, because he himself would not touch a real gun. "A coward, or a fool. Which am I, I wonder." Madueke gave himself up to sleep again for a few hours. He would need rest if he was to finish his work well.

In his dreams, Enwelomokwu came to him and slept beside him. "Madueke," she said, "You are only foolish for thinking yourself a fool." And then she was gone, but her warmth lingered on.

2003-10-31T21:00:00.000-08:00

My results for 29 are in longhand. Sorry. Exercises thirty and thirty one? To fill out character sheets and try to get a plot ouline based on exercise 29 and your sheets. I'm not posting them because, well, the novel won't actually be on the web. From now on, this is a writing about writing blog. But I will update each day with a word count and such. Good luck one and all!

2003-10-30T13:29:00.000-08:00

Exercise 29: Okay, time to start plotting. This article gives some excellent instructions about free-writing your way into a plot outline. For this exercise, take one character (your protagonist), and do the ten free-writes. I am going to let myself go for five minutes on them, which will mean more overall time spent, but then this is a novel we're planning here. Spending a bit more than thirty minutes collecting thoughts about the plot seems entirely reasonable. This exercise is only the ten free-writes and not the follow up work. We'll mess around with that later.

2003-10-30T13:23:00.000-08:00

My results for #28:

The snow had been falling for two days. It fell in fat, lazy clumps, too thick to be called flakes, really. Tonight the town was quiet. Everyone was inside with hot cocoa by their fires. Everyone except Nan. Nan stood alone on the corner of Elm and Holly, just under a street lamp, and watched the snow falling. She stood with her hands in her pockets, the hood of her parka thrown back so the breeze ruffled her hair. Everything was silent. It was so hushed that you could feel the quiet. Nan thought she might be able to hear each flake settling softly onto the others as it touched the ground.

There was something sacred about times like this. There were no tracks in the snow, no tire marks in the road. Everything was pristine and white and soft. Tomorrow would be another snow day for the kids. Most of the businesses would probably stay closed, too. Everyone in town had enough supplies to last a while in a storm. They might run the ploughs just for show, but no one would really move. What was the fun of living in a town with cold winters if you couldn't take a few days off to relax and spend time with your family? Of course, Nan didn't have a family, but that was beside the point. She wasn't really a part of this town after all. If everything went as planned she'd be leaving it before dawn. Which is why she was out here on the corner of Elm and Holly, waiting under the street lamp.

Nan sighed and shuffled her feet. Her boots kicked up clouds of fine powder. It was cold enough not to be slush, but Nan was dressed for cold, so all she had to do was enjoy it... and wait. She'd signed up over the internet. There was a money-back guarantee if it didn't work. And she'd know by midnight if it didn't.

The deal had cost her all of her savings. Quite a nest egg, really. She'd been saving for a house and had enough for a down payment. She'd hoped to find a nice old place. A Victorian or something. Then she'd seen the program. It offered complete comprehensive training, which she would undergo once she arrived at her destination, and guaranteed placement in society after the training was complete. She'd be able to keep in contact with the others in her training group if she wished, and she would have the option of acting as a mentor in the future. Future, she thought, was a funny name for it. In the past? In her future in the past? Best not to think about it. She wouldn't be allowed anything from here once she arrived. They'd outfit her and give her a sufficient amount of money and supplies to get started. She have training in a profession of her choice, with the option of being a middle-class widow, in search of a new mate. They had people in place to over see things. People who had gone to live there as volunteers and even as part-timers, who came back to their real time on holiday breaks. Nan was ready for the change. She could opt out any time in the first year free of charge, but she knew she wouldn't. She was going to stay. (562 words)

2003-10-29T13:21:00.000-08:00

In which the author takes a moment to babble about scattered, relatively NaNo-related subjects

I am reading this amazing book by Betsy Lerner right now. If you haven't read it and are a writer (published or no), you should really think about picking it up.

Several things have conspired to make me choose an idea for the NaNovel, and so, even though I spend at least fifty percent of the time thinking it's no good, I'm sticking with it (which is good since the official start time is in just a couple of days). I'll probably let you see a little more about it in the next couple of days, whether you want to know or not. My last few exercises for the month are dying to be rather plot-outlining geared.

Tricia seems to be writing the words that echo in my head when she talks about wanting to find a job soon while also wanting not to find one until the end of November. It's nice to know that other people are in my situation right now. Also, check out her photoblog. It's delightful.

2003-10-28T20:11:00.000-08:00

Exercise 28: Write five hundred words or more with snow as a theme or key word.

2003-10-28T19:37:00.000-08:00

My results for number 27:

Alchemist in a tower with a refrigerator and no electricity. Can he invent an outlet and wires and such? how did he get the fridge, you may wonder. Well, it's like this: The Nazis succeeded in inventing a time machine, sort of. It had flaws. They tried to send an officer forward in time, but the mission apparently failed. Instead they sent an object back in time. The object was the fridge. It came from 1999, which was the year they tried to send the officer to. Instead the fridge, which was in the same spot (exactly) where the officer stood in 1942, went back to 1342. Why 1342? Well as it turns out, the alchemist, who was a rampant black mage of the most despicable order, had just performed a ritual which called for divine help and prosperity. It was a ritual which hinged on proper alignment of stars and events, so the Nazis had no idea that their actions, which they felt driven by an unseen hand to perform, were actually serving a higher purpose. Or at least, a different purpose. Evil serving evil might not be higher, after all. He was hoping for gold. Instead he got cold. Well, theoretically, if the fridge had worked in 1342 he would have had cold. Oh who are we kidding? He was in Europe in winter in 1342, he was definitely already cold. So the alchemist and the strange box square off warily. There is mutual eyeing, or so the alchemist thinks... then he grows to realize that the box is not sentient. It is big and on its side. It is warm to the touch, but that probably has something to do with the lightning blot that zapped it into the tower. It has a door. Dare he open it? He dares. This box has come to him through divine intervention. He has asked for prosperity. Perhaps this is a box of gold. Inside there are strange objects. He doesn't recognize them. There are boxes and vials and strange jars made of a material that has not been invented yet. There is a head of lettuce. He recognizes lettuce. But it is shielded by a strange and wondrous thing. Something transparent and flexible, but thinner than the thinnest sheep's bladder. What can it be? Is it safe to touch? The alchemist has much to do in the way of experiments. He sends for an assistant. Why should he risk death? He shouldn't. He won't. He has taken many precautions to become invincible, but he knows not what these foreign things might hide. There could be magic more powerful than his. The alchemist puzzles over things. There is a jar of something yellow. He will have to see what it is. A glass vial has broken and spilled its contents over the inside of the box. The liquid is thin and brown. It smells of salt. Perhaps these ingredients are the components to a special potion. He wonders if he has stumbled across the ingredients for the elixir of life. He will find out. He will test it all carefully. This gift from the gods will not be lost on him. His assistant arrives. Finally. If the assistant lives through the experiments, the alchemist will punish him for his tardiness. He will be an example for others. The alchemist loves making examples. He enjoys the process as well as the result. And the blood is useful for spellwork when he remembers to collect it. (584 words)

2003-10-28T19:30:00.000-08:00

Exercise 27: Stream of consciousness, yo. The point is to write continuously and not stop or worry if it makes sense. Just get the words out. Ten minutes or until you reach five hundred words.

2003-10-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

My Results for Exercise 26:

I knew she was lying through her teeth. It's really obvious when she lies because she starts shaking and she won't ooka t you. "Where's my stuff?" I asked for the second time.

She started shuffling her feet and wringing her hands. "M-m-mon has it. It's... in the car."

"You're lying," I said. She didn't answer. Sometimes I hate having a little sister. Especially when she steals my stuff and then lies about it. We both didn't say anything for the next few minutes. I just stared at her while she kept her eyes aywhere but on me.

The thing aboiut my sister is that you can't really get very mad at her, because mostly the crap she pulls isn't intentional. She's been seeing a psychiatrist since she was nine when she first was arrested for shoplifting. She has a huge problem, and she doesn't know how to control it. It's not even like she needs the stuff she takes. Once I found a plastic bag full f dentures in her locker at school. She'd stolen them from the nursing home where our grandfather lives. She didn't want to keep them, but she also didn't know how to give them back without getting in trouble. What can you do with a kid like that?

I have sympathy for my sister. I really do. I mean f drugs and therapy don't fix this problem, she probably won't ever be able to have a normal job and life. That said, I WANTED MY FUCKING STUFF BACK. It wasn't just random things she took this time. I let it slide when it's just a sweater or some cds, but this was important. I need my backpack and schoolbooks. For one I need to be able to do homewok and all that because I'm a responsible student and blah blah blah, but there was definitely another reason. A more delicate reason. If my backpack was out wandering around in public I needed to know. It had two things in it that I didn't want anyone seeing. One was my journal, for obvious reasons. I mean who wants other people reading their private journal? And the second thing... Well, I kind of had a secret pet that no one knew about. (time. 376 words)

2003-10-28T18:26:00.000-08:00

Exercise 26: Write for ten minutes starting with, I knew she was lying...

2003-10-28T18:05:00.000-08:00

My results for #25:

Some Thoughts on Frogs
by Jamie Whitaker

Frogs are green most of the time, but sometimes they can be other colors. There are many different kinds of frogs. Some frogs are tree frogs and bullfrogs. In France they eat frogs.

Frogs are amphibians. That means they can live in water or on land. Baby frogs are called tadpoles. Tadpoles live in the water. Tadpoles have tails, but grown-up frogs have legs.

Frogs eat flies. They catch flies with their tongues. Frogs have round eyes. They look like bubbles in the frog heads. Frogs make croaking sounds. They say, "Ribbit."

Frogs live in ponds and other places. They can live in swiming pools like happened to my friend Stephanie last year when she went away on vacation. They came back and there was a pool full of frogs. Some Frogs like tree frogs live in trees.

Frogs are not very nice to touch. They are slimy. Frogs are hard to hold onto because they jump. They are slippery and smooth, not like toads. Toads have lots of lumps on them.

Some famous frogs are Kermit the Frog and Keropi from Hello Kitty. Mr. Toad is not a famous frog because he is a toad. There are also songs about frogs. One song is the song about the speckled frogs who sit on the log and jump into the pool. It is realistic because some frogs have speckles and live in pools. Another song is "Froggy Went a Courtin'". It isn't realistic because frogs don't really go on dates or marry mice. That is all I know about frogs. I liked learning about bears better.

2003-10-26T02:44:00.000-08:00

Exercise #25: Write an essay by a grade school aged child entitled "Some Thoughts on Frogs".

2003-10-26T02:41:00.000-08:00

My results for #24:

The Apartment was pretty dark, even with all of the candles we'd managed to find in Tara's bedroom. Will and Melinda were glued to each other, but no one else said a word about it because it was so cold. I think rules about not touching your ex don't apply in a blizzard. All of us half wished we could huddle into a big ball with them, but we just sat there rubbing our hands together and shivering in our layers of wool and polar fleece.

The trick was not to fall asleep. We had to stay awake until daybreak, when we might be able to try to find our way to someplace warm. I think it was Alan who suggested we tell stories. Tara tried to make it all creepy, but we couldn't really work up the desire to be scared by the man with the hook story. Real life was being a bit too scary on its own at the time. We didn't have any food except for some chicken bouillon cubes and a bottle of vanilla extract. There was no running water, no electricity and no phone. Outside, the sky was a flurry of heavy white flakes. At least it wasn't as cold as it could have been.

I don't know quite how it got around to bizarre personal experiences, but somehow things like that always tend to come up in these situations, don't they? Alan had already told us about his old neighbor who had a thing for training cats to behave like dogs. Apparently had them chewing on those awful rawhide "bones" you can buy at pet stores and everything. Will followed it with story about a dog he knew who thought it was actually a cat. it had been raised with kittens and didn't realize it wasn't one of them. Tara was the one who asked if anyone had any real ghost stories. Most of us rolled our eyes and laughed. Tara was the resident occult lover, and we liked to jab at her for it, but it was a trait that did come in handy at times. I mean, if she hadn't been so fascinated with uncovering the truth behind pagan rituals, we might never have had any candles that night. Anyway, like I said, we all laughed... except Melinda.

"Actually, I do have a story," said Melinda. We were all pretty surprised because Melinda is so straight-laced and normal. I think that made her statement all the more intriguing. We all listened in silence as Melinda took a big breath and began her tale.

"We were at my uncle's house in Virginia. It was summer and I think my father must have been out of town on business. It was just my mother and my sister and me. My uncle was nice enough, but he didn't really pay us any attention. He was a carpenter and he had a big thing for some rich people who'd just moved into the area, so he was off all day everyday. My mother was sick and stayed in bed mostly. Sometimes she'd come out and sit in the sun with us, but mostly she just wanted to stay in and sleep or read.

"My sister and I were expected to go off and amuse ourselves. I really loved the area where my uncle lived. It was in the mountains and full of great walking trails where you never ran across anyone. My sister and I used to pack bags of juice boxes and sandwiches and stay out all day. Sometimes we'd pick wildflowers, and I always wondered what their names were, but you know, I never did learn them. Anyway, one day we went off into the hills and came to place we'd never been before.I swear to you, i don't even think the trail existed before that day. It was lined with trees that arched over it and made a sort of living tunnel. When we got through to the other side of it, we found a beautiful meadow surrounded by trees and mountains, with a stream running through it and everything. One of the mountains that faced us had a cave in it, and my sister, who'd just finished reading Tom Sawyer wanted to explore it. I think I was a little scared to, because I've always been a little claustrophobic, but she said she was going with or without me, and I didn't want to be lost and alone, so I went in with her. And this is where things got really weird." Melinda had moved away from Will as she was speaking. Her eyes looked far away, as if she was actually re-living her story. It was very unlike her. I'd never known her to go in for stories and such. Usually sharing magazine tips about weight loss or make-up was as close to telling stories as Melinda got. She seemed dead serious about this, too. No one else said a word. I think we hardly dared to breathe while we waited to hear what happened next.

Melinda brushed a hand through her hair and went on. "So we go into this cave, right? And my sister is going on about how we need to go farther in, except that then she realizes she doesn't have any string with her and how are we going to get out now, right? Anyway, I don't think we could have gone very far at all, because we could still sort of see and we didn't have flashlights or anything. I was ready to make a break for the entrance and the daylight, but my sister was trying to figure out what she could do to get through the cave in the dark. And that's when the weirdness started. The first thing that happened was that this little man appeared. And I mean little. Like he was a dwarf or something. He had a long white beard and he was all wrinkly and scruffy looking. I have never in my whole life seen such a man or even heard of one except in fairy tales. I swear he reminded my of Rumplestiltskin or something.

"Anyway he comes out and he starts yelling at us. He's like, ' I know you girls! You're the ones who made me get killed!' We had no idea what he was talking about, especially since he appeared to be alive and all, but he kept on shouting. I think we both sort of stood there, frozen for a minute before I came to my senses and pulled my sister out of the cave. I was really certain we oughtta head for home at that point, and I think my sister actually might have agreed with me for once, but the guy was following us. We were just a little ways into the meadow when we realized that things were much worse than we had thought. I swear I am not lying about this, and I have never told anyone about this before. But you can ask my sister and she'll tell you it's true. In front of us, there was a ghost... of a bear! I'm totally serious. We were really just like oh shit, because there was a crazy little man chasing us from behind and then this huge ghost-bear directly ahead of us. You could tell it was a ghost, because you could see through it. It was still brown and stuff, but we could see like trees and things through the bear. We just stopped dead in our tracks and stood there terrified. i mean really, I know you probably have no idea, but seeing a fucking ghost bear is really terrifying.

"So we're like stuck there and the bear is just standing in front of us, growling, and we know the little man is going to catch us any second and do I don't know what to us. It was like that one little second went on for hours. It was the scariest second of my life. Honest to God. Anyway what finally happened, I still don't understand. The little man was like, 'Oh no! Not you again!' And the bear started stepping closer. And even though he was all see-through, every step he took made the ground shake. God I think I almost peed my pants. And then he actually spoke.

"This see-through ghost bear started to talk! And he was like, 'I told you never to touch these girls again, old man! I have killed you once and I will kill you a thousand times if I need to. Let these girls pass in peace.' I still have no idea what he meant by it, or how he knew who we were. He must have mistaken us for someone else. Although I really have no idea what other two girls might be friends with a ghost bear. But whatever.

"Anyway, so the man listens to the bear and he goes away into his cave and stuff, grumbling all the way about treasure. I have no idea what that was all about, because I certainly never saw any treasure. At the time, i just wanted to be away from there. So then the ghost bear tells us to go home to our cottage and tend to our mother and he says, 'I am sworn to protect you, but you know I am not really meant to be here as a bear, for i am busy in my life as a golden prince. Please try to stay away from that bothersome dwarf in the future, okay?' We agreed, of course, because what else were we going to do? And we ran home to my uncle's place and told my mother all about it and she sort of smiled and said we had big imaginations for little girls and you know we have never ever spoken about it again to anyone, not even each other. I have no idea what it means or if it was even real. It seems like it can't have been, but I swear it happened. I remember it so clearly. Anyway, that's the most bizarre thing that's ever happened to me. If we ever get out of this stupid storm, non of you had better ever bring it up or make fun of me, because I will never speak to you again if you do."

After that no one said anything for a long time. We just sort of tried not to look at each other and wondered what the hell to talk about. I think we finally got onto the worst action movies we'd ever seen, which was safer. I've never been able to forget Melinda's story, though. It's just so... well, I don't think she made it up. I really don't. (1,791 words)

2003-10-26T01:59:00.000-08:00

Exercise 24: Write a scene wherein one character tells a tall tale to the others. Incorporate elements from a fairy tale, but have the story take place in modern day and have the character tell it as if he or she personally experienced it.

2003-10-26T01:58:00.000-08:00

My results for #23:

The warehouse was full of boxes. Stacks upon stacks of them. They were white and rectangular, and each one was labeled with a number. The boxes were six inches tall by eight inches wide by ten inches deep. They were stacked one on top of another with each box touching the boxes on either side of it so that they looked like white bricks. The warehouse held hundreds of thousands of them.

The warehouse was full of white light. The lights were fluorescent, but extremely bright. In addition, the warehouse was only operational during full daylight hours, so that if the door was opened, sunlight would pour in and reflect on all the white within.. The floor was made of cement. It had been poured and smoothed by experts who made it as slick and shiny as a mirror. Of everything in the warehouse, though the most striking whiteness was in the walls. The walls of the warehouse had been painted white with Adamson's Super Spray Paint. The workers had used one hundred and twelve cans of the stuff to do the job because the boss believed that if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing right. The boss had very strange notions about which jobs were worth doing.

The workers were to keep the boxes pristine. Each worker was equipped with a special white duster. The dusters had wooden handles and soft flannel tips, all in purest white. The workers carried them around in the belts of their white worksuits, and ran them over each stack at least once each day, if not more. Sometimes a new box was added. This happened about two or three times a day. When it did, the number was used as a filing code. The workers would take the box and place it in the stack which held the two numbers nearest above and below the new one, then they would re-arrange all of the other boxes so that the stacks were of uniformly perfect height and so on.

It was tedious work, but the workers didn't complain because they were well-paid. Most of them had been there for more than ten years. In that time they had al seen some workers come and go quite fast. The reason for this was simple: the work was tedious but precise. The boss required discretion and silence. Workers did not talk to one another during shifts, and they did not look into anything. Their job was to keep things clean and orderly. It was not to be curious, loud, or innovative. The boss was very clear about his.

If the workers did notice anything (and they all did, though they never dared speak of it), it was the peculiar numbering scheme. The boxes all had number, but none of the numbers were even. Even farther than that, none of the numbers contained any even digits at all unless one counted zeros. In fact, the strings were all made of zeros and prime numbers; endless combinations of 0, 1, 3, 5, and 7. No one knew the reason for this. Though many had their own secret theories about the number patterns, it is safe to say that none hit upon the real reason. It was quite beyond their wildest fantasies.

2003-10-23T21:39:00.000-07:00

Exercise 23: Describe (or write a scene that takes place in) a warehouse. Old or new, clean or dirty, abandoned or um bandoned... these all all up to you.

2003-10-22T19:03:00.000-07:00

My results for #22:

Tie a goldfish round your neck, make him holler, "What the heck!?" those with longer, swishier tails are recommended for this trick. We call it Poisson Mode. Sometimes I think I'd like to attend a party with all the dead people, with all the famous people that I never knew. I think it would be interesting, enlightening fun. But then I think no, it would just be depressing or scary or both. There are good eggs and there are bad eggs. You can tell it's a bad egg if it sort of explodes and overflows with nasty green goo when you try to hardboil it. This happened to my father once at Easter time. They say you shouldn't smell clean laundry. It can make you sick because it has all sorts of stuff in it. I guess it isn't actually clean. Sometimes I worry that I am a walking disease. We collected pretty stones on the beach a while ago. They are brown and blue and green and red and white and grey and black. I don't think people realize how much variety there is to the outward appearance of stones. Maybe they do. Maybe it's just me. There's a place called the container store. I wonder what it contains. I know it's really for bins and buckets and drawers and boxes, but wouldn't it be neat if it was for magically binding beasts? You can apply online to work there. They say they give top notch training. In subduing demons? Static cell phone monkey blip. Imagine a world of trampoline ground where everyone could bounce everywhere. what would hi-tech transport be like? Staplers are really pretty exciting inventions. Sometimes you just wish you could get all your friends together to eat cake. And maybe exchange presents. That's why every third Tuesday of the month is present and cake day. I wish I observed it more often. Because I pretty much never do. Alcohol cotton swab ship deck patio wood floor tile e-mail forward. My friend used to have socks that said e-mail now on them. Who comes up with these ideas? If I could design an eighties outfit I would make it as crazy as possible with a hot pink off the shoulder shirt and fifty billion gel bracelets and bangles and charm bracelets, too. With something made of fishnet and lots of lace and maybe some crimped hair and a big floppy bow and glitter and hair spray that gives you color streaks and lots of ridiculous eye-shadow and some high top sneakers with silver laces. Maybe the whole sneaker would be silver. And a jean skirt. And something involving splatter paint. And those socks that you scrunch down. or maybe legwarmers. And I'd wear it to a futuristic halloween party where everyone arrived in sky-cars or using the moving sidewalk that of course takes you everywhere you want to go. But we'd all go retro and eat real food instead of pills. And robots would serve us drinks and there would be exciting futuristic music and dacing with blacklights and glow sticks and someone would have a hula hoop. I don't even know why. but it would glow in the dark, that's for sure... and we'd all be friends and no one would be unpopular and everyone would be happy. (time. 552 words.)

2003-10-22T18:59:00.000-07:00

Exercise 22: Stream of consciousness steam off-letting fun. Just write whatever comes to mind at all, ta, for fifteen minutes. Today has been too gloomy to follow rules. In light of the frivolous nature of this assignment, I'll be posting mine directly to the blog when the timer dings.

2003-10-22T18:41:00.000-07:00

My results for #21:
In my dream...

In my dream I know people are dying because it smells like cotton candy and the air is pink. I know that whenever the air is pink it's because people have died and their bodies have given off fumes. The pink isn't from the bodies, it's from the government. The government made air purifying mist so that people wouldn't catch the disease from the dead bodies. I don't know whose idea it was to make it smell like cotton candy. It's too sweet for death. I don't like it. I can smell it even through my mask.

I'm in an abandoned city with a team. I was with a team. I don't know where the rest of them went. We're here to find something, or was it someone? I am getting very tired. I think we've been searching for more than 24 hours straight at this point. Whatever we have to find is important. They don't want us to stop until we find it. I can't remember what it is anymore, but I know that I should know if I am getting close because my pack will begin to pulse. My pack is not very big. Just about six inches by six inches. It's strapped to my abdomen with a special harness and the part that will pulse is pressed against my skin.

My suit is made of a new material called Zevron. It doesn't let any toxins in and it will bond to things if it is programmed to. It is bonded to the pack around the edges of the hole where the pack touches my skin. I can't take the suit off myself. I have to wait for the official government staff to help me back at the base. When they do, they will take me into one of the white cubicles and seal it off. Then they will aim a laser at the Zevron and melt a split down my back so that I will be able to peel it off. Zevron molds to your skin and once it's on you forget it's there. It keeps out extreme heat and cold.

I can see the bodies now. There are a lot of them. Maybe fifteen. All lying on the ground. Two of them are in business suits, one with a hand still clutching a briefcase. The disease kills very quickly. Within five minutes. These people may not have even known what it was. There are some children. They say it is always the hardest to look at children, but I don't know about that. It's pretty awful to look at anyone. After a while it doesn't seem real. Like you are in a simulation or something instead. I feel like that now. I try to hang onto that feeling because I know if I let myself think of how things really are I will collapse. I will not be able to keep going. Perhaps I will try to rip off my mask so that I can get the disease and it will be over. I won't be able to, though, even if I try. The mask is also bonded to the Zevron.

I try to focus on what I am looking for. I think it has something to do with a flower or a baby or a gem. I can't remember. I might not actually have ever known. The average usable life-span of a government agent is three years. I have been doing this for four. I have outlived my government life-span by a year. I should be in the psych ward with my old peers from first level task force. Everyone goes crazy eventually. I wonder if this is my time. I wonder if they will put me away when I return. If I return.

But of course I will return. i have no choice. even if I stay here and cry and shake and refuse to move, they will locate me and fish me back out. They will put me in the psych ward because that's what they always do. It is what is done. I think I am losing it, though. I am beginning to wonder if they are ever going to get us out of here. I am beginning to think maybe they already got the rest of the team out and I am considered MIA. I think it could happen. If the tracking device failed. Perhaps they lost me. I am no longer a blip on the tracking system. What if I have to make myself a life in this wasteland city where there are no more people. What will I eat? How will I do it? I won't be able to take off the suit. I will die of starvation. I begin to consider where one might find a laser in civilian territory. A doctor's office? I should try to find one. Maybe. Maybe I should just keep searching for the thing. It's a gem. I'm pretty sure. a special gem. I don't know why I thought it was a baby or a flower. I think I must associate all of those things with brightness. I wonder how close I will have to get before my pack begins to pulse. (time. 867 words.)

2003-10-21T22:07:00.000-07:00

Exercise #21: Today's exercise is another one from Cacoethes Scribendi. This time it's all about writing a dream sequence. See this page for details.

2003-10-21T19:01:00.000-07:00

My results for number 20:

Rose-- When she was born, she was pink and perfect. Her parents marveled over her little fingers and toes. They gave her a tea set for her fifth birthday, and tried to teach her to sew. She didn't take to it. Rose always wanted to be in the sun, even as a little girl.

Orchid-- Orchid came from Florida. The men all found her dark and mysterious. She was the only woman who I ever thought looked attractive with her hair in cornrows. I wished that she was a lesbian, but she wasn't. We still hung out after work.

Tractor-- Tractor's parents always wanted to live on a farm, but they were afraid to leave the city with its job security. When they had a child, they named him after the symbol of their ideal. They thought about calling him John Deere Wilkins, but they thought Tractor sounded more unique. Sometimes the other kids made fun of his name, but Tractor never minded. He was a hard worker and always looked ahead.

Stone-- Stone was ften accused of being cold and unfeeling. He didn't really mind where he was or what he was doing, and he wasn't very emotional. This always upset his mother. Lana was the first girl who ever understood him at all. She swore to her friends that he warmed up if you held onto him long enough.

Ant-- Ant's real name was Anthony, but no one called him that. He was small, but strong. He didn't play sports in school, but later he made a decent living in construction. Hauling concrete came naturally to him. Sometimes he thought about joining the army.

Mirror-- She had a dozen nicknames because everyone called her something different. She didn't have one group of friends. She fit in everywhere. She learned early that mimicking other people's body anguage would set them at ease. Once a boy asked her who she was, really, and she replied, "Who do you think I am?"

Shell-- Shell was a nurturer. She was always gathering weak friends to protect. In the Springtime she harvested wounded birds and kept them from the cat until they healed. She wasn't soft and pretty, but she was beautiful nonetheless. Her parents sometimes worrid that she'd let boys take advantage of her kind nature when she got old enough to date.

Moccasin-- Moccasin was soft, but tough. No one ever heard him coming. When he was eighteen the army asked him to train as an intelligence expert, but Moccasin said no. He didn't want to be stuck in foreign cities finding out things for someone else his whole life. He became a trail guide instead.

Braid-- Braid was strong and efficient. She put things in their place and got them out of the way. Her room was never a mess. She led the dance squad in high school, but she never really got into all the makeup and things that the other girls liked. She just enjoyed being part of an intricate pattern.

Clay-- His mother called him Clay because she liked the idea of something that came from the Earth. When he was in grade school she worried that she'd named him too well. He always came home covered in dirt. He was a very biddable child, but he grew up to be set in his ways. At least she taught him to clean up his own mess early on.

2003-10-20T22:11:00.000-07:00

Exercise 20: Create ten characters named after flowers or other objects. Write five sentences about each character and make each character's appearance or personality traits match his or her name.

2003-10-20T19:55:00.000-07:00

My results for number 19:

The black coat was really beginning to itch in this heat. Mary wished she hadn't worn it. She couldn't possibly take it off, though. Why had she worn a suit? Cecily wasn't wearing a suit. Cecily was flouncing around in a pale yellow sheath and sandals with ridiculously high heels.

They were at the crosswalk now, waiting for the light to change, and a man had just pulled up in a Camaro beside them. She could see him eyeing Cecily, though the object of his desire apeared to be oblivious. Mary brushed back her hair. It was a nervous habit left over from childhood. She knew the man wasn't looking at her -men didn't look at her- but being next to Cecily made her terribly self conscious. She hoped that she wouldn't sweat through her suit. It was very expensive to dry clean and she really couldn't afford it. The light changed. Finally. Cecily realized it first and was halfway across before Mary started. Cecily's long legs moved in perfectly smooth strides. Mary had to run to catch up.

"Oh there you are. I wondered if you were coming or if you were lost forever in a daydream where you'd beeen whisked away in that Camaro." Mary didn't know what to say, so she hurried forward and held open the door to the Smoothie Hut.

Inside it was blessedly cool. Mary found herself sighing in relief. "Poor thing," said Cecily as she perused the menu, "you must be dying in that funeral garb. What possessed you to wear that to the annual conference?"

Mary blushed and mumbled something about hearing it was a formal thing, then she hid her face in the menu. The smoothies all had preposterous names like "Bananaberry Blast" and "Hot Tropic" that Mary couldn't imagine saying with a straight face. She was pretty sure she wanted something with either blueberry or peach in it, and she was scanning the menu for contenders when the clerk cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the counter. How had she gotten to be first in line already?

"Um, okay, I'd like something with um... pineapple, please," she said. Pineapple? Oh no! She meant peach! She couldn't say anything now, though. It was too late. She brushed her finger through her hair again and tried not to look nervous.

"You want Luscious Luau, Hot Tropic, or Pineaplunge?" The clerk sounded bored and world-weary.

"I uh, I guess I'll have the first one," Mary said.

"Luscious Luau?"

Mary blushed, "Yes. Please."

"One Lush," the clerk yelled. "That's three twenty-five." Mary fumbled in her purse to find the correct change, eventually giving up and handing him a five. He handed her her change without even looking at her and motioned her aside before calling, "Next in line, please."

Mary stood off to the side, flustered and wondering where exactly he should pick up her smoothie. Would they want to see her receipt? She'd already put it away, so she'd have to dig it out again. God, her purse was a mess. She looked over at the register. Cecily was ordering and the clerk was smiling at her.

"Give me a Bubbalooberry," Cecily said. She stretched ou the third syllable so that it came out as "loooo," and then she winked at the boy when she finished. "Where do you guys come up with these wild names? I mean they're completely camp." The clerk smiled and shook his head. He was dazzled by her. Everyone was. Cecily had exact chage ready and she shifted aside after she was finished ordering, but stayed up again the counter, chatting away. By the time her smoothie was ready before Mary's (not that Mary was upset, but it did seem unfair), the entire smoothie team knew what she was in town for, and one of them had invited her to a party. Mary tried not to feel bitter. She loved Cecily. Of course she did, everyone did. You couldn't not love Cecily, because she was genuinely nice. That was the worst bit. mary couldn't even feel bitter in peace. Oh well, maybe Cecily wuld take her out to the party tonight. Maybe this time she'd know what to wear and what to say. Maybe. Probably not, though.

2003-10-19T21:07:00.000-07:00

Due to a technical glitch (which should be resolved in a day or two, I'm not able to change the contents on my exercise page. It's stuck at number 17. I'm still doing stuff daily, though, and posting it here the day after as usual. So, without further ado, Exercise 19, yo: Write a scene starring two characters. One of the characters is cool. The other wants to be cool or thinks (s)he is cool, but actually isn't. Try to make the distinction clear without having either character say he or she is cool, or that the other is (or isn't). The characters can be any type, race, age, religion, gender, species. No limits.

2003-10-19T20:53:00.000-07:00

My results for number 18:

We are everywhere. You don't really think about us. You prefer not to even acknowledge our existence, but we're there. We feed on your rubbish, your cast off pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the bits of processed cheese that melt into your McDonald's wrappers. We aren't picky about where our food has been or what it might have touched. The fiction is that we only appear in big cities like New York or Chicago, where we lurk in alleys and skulk about in the dark. The truth is we live all over this country. We live all over the world. Some places are better than others, it 's true (there are places where food is so scarce that people try to eat us).

I knew a guy who had a cousin in Africa. He got over there by means of freight ship; said he was gonna make it big. The poor kid came back a year later and he was the skinniest thing you ever saw. My old pal Pinko thought he was actually a mouse. That's how skinny this kid was. People go on and on about malnutrition and the crap that goes into American food, but I'd take it any day of the week over having to fight tooth and claw over a piece of millet.

We're not all mean-tempered, either. That's another common misconception. I mean sure, we're defensive because we have to be, but at heart, we're pretty sociable. Honest. It's just that all people ever see are the red eyes and the tail, the tail's a big one. Then they freak because we don't look fluffy like squirrels or some such nonsense. Mind you, I've seen some mean-ass squirrels in my day. Anyway, we're around and we're fairly harmless. We look out for each other.

And that shit about rabies? Mostly lies that the government spreads to make people afraid of us. We're honest rats who work hard scavenging and don't pose a threat to humanity. Okay, yes, occasionally a rat or other rodent (hey, it could just as easily be a squirrel, you know. Their fluffy tails and acorn-gathering way don't magically make them immune to disease) comes down with it, and all of us morn. We don't want it to happen to us, and we're sad for the loss of our friend, but at that point, the friend is dead to us. It's like all those zombie movies you people like to watch. Rabid animals are like zombies. Monsters in the shells of our compatriots. It's really a very sad business.

It's true that some of us are not very nice. I mean you get the occasional bad seed; the junkie, or the psychologically imbalanced kid. But you know, we're not the only ones that have these problems. People get caught up in that stuff all the time, but for some reason it's okay to try to kill rats en masse just because we're rats. You try to do that to people, and suddenly it's considered genocide and the United Nations is breathing down your neck and waiting to kill you or at least lock you away. Now I ask you, is this fair?

You know what else you don't see? Money-grubbing, power-hungry rats. We kick it with our friends and if one of us spies a likely trash heap, do we try to hide it? No. We call out, "Hey guys, good eatin' over here!" and we share. Because rats know that there's enough to go around and that if you share with others, they'll be a lot more likely to share with you. I don't see why you people don't get that. But really, I don't understand a lot about people. Why throw away good food? I mean hell, I'm glad you do it, 'cause more for me, right? But it really makes no sense.

I think if people stopped and payed a attention, they'd be able to learn a thing or two from rat culture. I'm just sayin'. (668 words)

2003-10-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

Exercise 18: Write a passage (500 words or more) from an animal's point of view.

2003-10-18T21:38:00.000-07:00

My Results for #17:
KILLER GOLDFISH SWALLOWS MAN WHOLE!

John Morton of Salem Oregon was viciously murdered --by his pet goldfish! Morton had been missing for about a week before Salem autorities broke down his door and found nothing but part of his left foot, still in a brown leather penny loafer. "Those were his favorite shoes," said Morton's longtime friend Al Williams. "He wore them everywhere, so I guess it's fitting that he died in them."

Salem's forensics team had a tough time resolving the case, but the evidence was clear. Morton's pet goldfish, Sammy, had gotten a wee bit too hungry for his owner's good. "We think what happened is that Sammy acted hungry so that the victim would feed him, and when the victim's hand was near the water's surface, the fish attacked and pulled him in," said Greg Davis of the Salem Police Department. Davis added that they had to call in an animal control expert to remove the perp from the premises. "It wasn't pretty. That tank was full of blood and bone fragments. I never knew a little goldfish could be so vicious."

Morton's friends and family were less shocked at the horrible crime. Morton's ex-wife, Miranda told us, "That fish had a mean streak a mile wide. I'd probably still be married to John if the fish hadn't come between us. John never saw it, though, and now it's too late." Annabelle Morton, John's mother, voiced similar feelings.

"Johnny never believed me when I told him that Sammy was a monster. I knew it from the way he'd stare at me when I visited. Johnny used to laugh at me for refusing to get within ten feet of the tank, but I knew better. Poor Johnny. I guess he's with God now."

So what will become of the fish? The federal government plans to keep him and study him in hopes of building a new killer weapon. Enemies of the United States, beware! As for Morton, "We've got his foot and his shoe," said williams. "We plan to give it a proper burial. I think that's what John would have wanted."

Aside from memorial service plans, Morton's loved ones are also planning on hosting a special information session to help other people recognize killer pets before disaster strikes. "It's too late for John," said his ex-wife, "But maybe we can help other people. Maybe we can even save a marriage or two."

If you're wondering how you can save yourself or a loved one from the same fate, Annabelle Morton has some tips for you:
*Look at the eyes. If they are red or devoid of emotion, your pet may be a killer.
*If you turn your back on your pet and he or she insists on having your attention, your pet may be a killer.
*Most importantly, if you feed the pet and he or she doesn't eat, but always seems hungry, call a professional now! You pet is almost certainly a killer!

2003-10-17T19:58:00.000-07:00

Exercise 17: Write a Weekly World News style article on the subject of your choice.

2003-10-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

My results for Exercises 14, 15, and 16:

Exercise 14
Weeping Willow: A willow tree is lithe and slender. It has many branches which are thin and supple and covered in leaves. The leaves are long and slender and bright to medium dark green in color. The trunk of the willow tree can grow quite thick. It is covered with thick brown bark that has a coarse texture. If left to its own devices, the willow's leaf-covered branches will extend all the way to the ground. Since the branches are thin and supple, they sway in a breeze (and thrash about in a strong wind). Weeping willows grow well in moist soil. They are often surrouned by lush greenery.

Silver Dollar Eucalyptus: This tree is often very tall, with sturdy trunk and branches. Its leaves are flat, round, grey-green discs (hence "silver dollar") that grow in clusters on the branches and brush against each other when the wind blows. The Silver Dollar Eucalyptus is not a good tree for climbing because the trunk is smooth and the branches are high up. The trunk is whitish in color and covered with smooth, thin, reddish brown bark that peels off easily. Silver Dollar Eucalyptus trees grow well in dry climates. It is fairly unusual to see them surrounded by vibrant greens.

Jack Pine: The Jack Pine is a conifer and an evergreen. Its natural shape is a cone, formed by multiple branches jutting out in all directions from the trunk. The branches are covered with long, thin "needles" that exude a fresh smell. Pine needles are dark green, but may be yellow, brown or red when they are dead. The Jack Pine also produces pine cones, which are brown and carry seeds. Pine cones come in a variety of sizes, but are on average, roughly the size of a man's fist. These trees often grow in the mountains, but can also thrive in other environments.

Exercise 15
Beth opened the door to her room and sighed. It was good to be back. Everything was just as he had left it. Golden light was pouring in through the window and casting a cheerful glow on her unmade bed. She stepped over a stray blue sneaker and a pair of jeans so that she could set her Hello Kitty duffel bag on top of the oak dresser. She'd unpack later. For now she would just revel in being home after two whole weeks away. Her eyes swept over the blue and white striped walls and her desktop full of papers and pictures in frames. Her favorite was the one of her and Lindsey that was taken last September at the beach. They'd had so much fun that day! In the picture, Beth and Lindsey were pointing at the sand castle they'd spent two and a half hours perfecting. Ryan had managed to catch their sand castle on film right before Jeremy had fallen on top of it while trying to catch a frisbee. Beth couldn't wait to call Lindsey and catch up with her. Maybe they could go out tonight. She'd have to convince her parents that she wasn't too tired to go out, but that was doable. She flopped onto the the bed and picked up the portable phone from its charger on her nightstand.

*****
Deborah sighed as she entered the room. It was a mess as usual. Beth had said she would clean it before her two week camping trip in the Rockies, but of course she'd "run out of time" and hadn't even so much as made her bed. Deborah surveyed the room in dismay. She couldn't have the carpet cleaned in here with clothes laying all over the floor. She picked up a shoe and a pair of jeans before she came to her senses. The girl was going to have to learn. She would just wait to have the carpets cleaned until Beth got back and cleaned this mess up herself. A deep clean was in order here. The floor needed to be cleared of clothes and vacuumed, the surfaces all needed dusting and everything needed to be organized. For heaven's sake, how could Beth find anything in that mess of papers on her desk? Deborah was going to have to make her a checklist of tasks. Let's see, floor, bed (oughtta make her change the sheets and wash the dirty ones), desk, dresser drawers, closet... Deborah didn't even want to think aobut the closet. Last time she's hazarded a peek it had been full of jumbled boxes, winter sweaters, and roller skates. She didn't need to look again to know it needed to be rearranged. She'd better go get a pad of paper and a pen, this sort of thing needed to be catalogued. With mind set and teeth gritted, Deborah dropped the jeans and shoe exactly where she had found them and marched out of the room.

Exercise 16
She ran through the cereal aisle at top speed, just missing an elderly woman who was examining a box of Fruit and Fiber. At the end she made a sharp right and plunged into the soup section. She loaded her basket with cans, grabbing the first ones in reach, and careened onward. He wasn't far behind, but at least now she had weapons. She skidded to a halt at the end of aisle five and tried to look both ways without attracting attention. She couldn't see him, but that didn't mean he wasn't there. She decided to take her chances and headed to the right. She was pretty sure there was an exit in the back behind Meats and Poultry if she could make it that far undetected. Her heart was pounding, but she was so full of adrenaline that she couldn't even feel it. She streaked past Frozen Foods (aisle 7) and Heath and Beauty (aisle 8), and was about to make a break for it up Snacks and Soda (aisle 9) when she saw him munching on tortilla chips right in her path. He played it cool, dropping the bag of chips and pulling out his tazer in one fluid movement. She launched a soup can at him and bolted for Bread. Bread was at the end of the store and had lots to tables full of cakes and cookies in it. If she could make it that far, she might have a chance of working her way through it using the tables as cover. She could hear his boots aainst the linoleum. She didn't have much time. Then she saw the bargain table and knew her luck had changed. On special this week were oranges. A whole mountain of them. She bashed her basket against it as she passed and dislodged a good number of them. She half wanted to stop and see if he fell, but she knew that sort of thinking was folly. Now she was in Breads, weaving her way through the table maze and coming up on Meats and Poultry. She couldn't hear him coming anymore, which she hoped was good. She made a right at the end of the aisle, preparing to dash to the door into the stock area. So far so good. She could see the door and pushed herself a little harder to get there, when suddenly she was hit. She fell face first and shuddered with the jolt of electricity. She'd been so close to freedom. She could hear him coming up on her now, felt his hands putting the cuffs on her wrists. "By order of the intergalactic police council, I have come to take you back to X-Terra 19. You are charged with illegal time-travel and failure to comply with an officer. You have the right to remain silent." She couldn't move, but she could hear shuffling behind her. "Pick her up boys, we've got the time-pod in the storage room. Miles and Orliss are staying behind to resolve things here and will meet us back at headquarters." With that, she was hauled up and jostled forward. "Be gentle with her, boys. The captain's not going to be pleased about us having to arrest his daughter. We'd better at least make sure she gets home without any damage." All she could think as that she was definitely going to be grounded for this. Damn.

2003-10-16T16:26:00.000-07:00

So, a surprise trip to Southern California prevented me from being near a computer to post exercises for the 14th and 15th of October. Never fear. I am back and ready to mend this situation. Here are instructions for Exercises 14, 15, and 16 --AT THE SAME TIME!

Exercise 14: Name three types of trees and describe the shape of their leaves, the size and texture of their trunks and branches, thier heighth and width, their flowers (if they blossom), fruits (if they bear fruit), etc. Try to give a complete physical description so that a reader who was unfamiliar with this type of tree could visualize it if he or she stumbled across your prose.

Exercise 15: Describe a room from the perspective of a character who is very happy. When you are finished, decribe the same room from the perspective of a character who is very unhappy (example: a hospital room in the maternity ward described from the point of view of a new father and of a would-be father whose child was stillborn. Write yours about something else, though).

Exercise 16: Write an action sequence that takes place in a grocery store. Don't use any adverbs. Do use dialogue.

2003-10-14T22:40:00.000-07:00

My results for number 13:

Excerpt from a letter to Dr. Hanz M. Klein of Dresden, Germany. The letter was found in his desk at Dresden's Academy of Progressive Science after his death eight months ago. The whole text is in the custody of the International Alien Relations Fund. Copies are available by mail order for a donation to the fund.

It was purplish blue and emanated light. It was like nothing you've ever seen. I'm not even sure if human minds can comprehend them. They're made of fifth dimension material. I say this one was purplish blue, but you can't really see them with your eyes.They are both warm and cool at the same time. This one was cooler than most of them, generally speaking. It found me when I had lost my way, stranded and helpless in a far galaxy.

I was supposed to be on a normal scouting trip, but the M-gage blew and I had to abort. The pods we have are equipped with emergency features that think faster than any of us can, so before I knew it I'd been ejected and dropped into the nearest breatheable atmosphere. The pod also ejects an intense sedative into you before the drop so you won't panic and do somethng harmful. The good thing about this is that you have a pleasant fall and the parachute is smart enough to take care of your so you don't get bumped and bruised. The not so nice thing is that you awaken a few minutes later in a strange place with no idea where you are. It's rare for a hostile to come around, but not unheard of. The odds are about 130 to one in favor of friendly or neutral species. I had a friend who got creamed by a hostile in the J-956 sector a while back. Lucky for him he managed to survive and get back home where central set him up with a quick heal and some material comp. Of course, he still did lose that leg, but he's got the other three, so it isn't all bad. He can still walk and all. It's rough losing a limb, though. Or at least I imagine it is.

Anyway, I was talking about my little adventure. You wanted to know about the creature I met, Professor, and I'm going to do my best to lay it out for you in terms comprehensible to humans. It's not easy, though. I explained about the color thing. Not all of them are this tone. They usually have some blue in them, but they can be purplish or greenish as well. This one was very light sort of lavender and periwinkle, although these are not adequate words. You do not have a sufficient supply of descriptive words, I'm sorry to say. I do not know anything about how they reproduce or if they have genders. Perhaps this has something to do with color and warmth, but perhaps not. The one that found me transported me to a free zone of departure and helped me to contact Central to get out. The planet is a fairly advanced one and though it is not home to a terribly diverse number of species, it has well-developed communication systems.

The creatures communicate with each other through vibrations. It is like music or speech, but not audible (though the whole planet does have a sort of hum to it), they also create their own energy source. They absorb starlight in the night hours and then their vibrations generate enough energy to run any technical gadgets on the planet. They are a moneyless society, because they have no need for trade. They are quite friendly, but they do not have a lot to offer other species, nor to take from them (They don't eat, they don't need raw materials or finished goods from outside sources). Historically, attacks on the planet have failed due to the vibrational energies which are a strong protective force as well. One interesting thing was the fact they they did seem to exhibit an interest or kinship with your Earth elephants of old. I don't know when the last elephant lived, but I seem to recall reading that they died out about five hundred Earth years ago. I have not had the chance to explore this elephant connection in detail, but I have reason to believe the creatures of this planet could possibly create a new elephant, given time. I would of course be happy to report further findings in the future...

To read more, send a donation to The IARF, and specify item #34755B. (763 words)

2003-10-13T19:57:00.000-07:00

Right. I wrote 483 new words in the story for last Friday's exercise. it isn't finished yet, but I do plan to post the thing in it's entirety once it is. I think I will make a separate page just for it. I don't imagine it wil be terribly long. It's only around 2,200 words at present, but I still think it deserves a page to itself. Anyway you can expect to see an update about it when I am ready to put it up. In the meantime, here's exercise number 13 for you: Describe an alien or mythical creature of your own creation. Explain what it looks like, how it eats, communicates, lives, etc. Make this around 400 or more words. Be creative!

2003-10-13T19:52:00.000-07:00

My results for #12:

The smell of cinnamon lingered in the air. Jody could only think that it wasn't fair. None of it was fair. Her grandmother had been baking cookies only twenty minutes ago, and now she was shriveled and grey on a stretcher. The paramedics were talking to each other in loud, fast voices that were full of medical terms. Jody didn't understand anything, it was as though she was hearing the words underwater. She wanted to scream, or to run, but she couldn't make herself move. She didn't know if her granmother would be okay, and she had no idea what to do. She was the only one home. Her parents were both out Christmas shopping and didn't plan to come back until after dinner. Grandma had come over to keep Jody company while they were gone. The Paramedics had asked if she wanted to call them, but she didn't know how she could. She didn't know where exactly they were, and they didnt have a cell phone. She looked around the kitchen. Everything was familiar and foreign all at once. The table with its cheerful placemats seemed to be mocking her. She was twelve years old and just this morning she'd told her mother that she was grown up enough to be able to take care of herself. Right now all she could think was that she would take it back if only Grandma would be okay. The Paramedics were carrying the stretcher outside now. They said she could come with them to the hospital. Jody had always been afraid of hospitals, but it seemed like a better idea than being home alone. Maybe when they got there Grandma would wake up and everything would be okay. She would say it was just a joke or something. Jody knew it wasn't, though. This was real. She began to walk toward the hallway and the front door, following the stretcher. Her movements were stiff and jerky. "Listen," said one of the women, "Jody? Your name's Jody, right?" Jody nodded. "Well, Jody, you're doing a very good job of being calm in a hard situation. We're going to take care of things as best we can. I need you to think for a minute, though. If there's no way to reach your parents, is there anyone else we can call? Anyone who can come down to the hospital and wait with you?" Jody couldn't think of anyone. Her older brother was away at college and her Aunt Maria lived five hours away. Then it hit her. She could have them call Grandma's bridge partner, Edna. Edna was a nice old lady. She always wore funny hats and dresses from thrift shops, and she carried chocolates in her purse at all times "in case of emergency." Jody noticed that emergencies happened a lot in Edna's life, judging by the amount of chocolate she ate. Edna would come and make everything better. She'd say, "Alice, honey, you just have to wake up. We've got a game!" and Grandma would listen to her. (Time. 508 words)

2003-10-12T23:44:00.000-07:00

Exercise 12: Another ten minute writing prompt. This time we're starting with The smell of cinnamon still lingered in the air...

2003-10-12T23:05:00.000-07:00

My results for #11:

She lay her small head
On the softest down pillow
And slept for twelve years

He could only watch
In the witch's looking glass
He could not touch her

As the years slipped by
He saw the witch growing weak
And formed hopeful plans

The prince searched through each bowl and each vessel,
He looked under every bridge trestle,
And sought out a potion
To win the devotion
Of the maiden with whom he would nestle.

2003-10-11T18:33:00.000-07:00

Due to a splitting migraine, I'm calling off the completion of the story for today. And I'm making exercise 11 really easy. Three haiku and a limerick. To spice things up, I have chosen four random words from the fridge magnet poetry set (picked with my eyes closed). Use one word in each of your poems. And the winners are: pillow, watch, weak, and bowl.

2003-10-11T18:06:00.000-07:00

My results for Exercise 10 (part one):

The village Madueke lived in was dusty. More often than not there wasn't enough food to go around. The gods had not been kind recently. The crops were failing again. He knew many of the villagers were casting blame on each other, but he didn't have time to think about it. He had a job to do. In this dark time, he had more than enough to worry about without leaving his work.

The last three bodies had all come to him in the night. They were found in the twilight, slashed and marked with the traces of sorcery. He did not know who was responsible for this bad magic, but it made his heart ache and his hands tremble as he took them into his hut and dressed the wounds. A young girl, an old man, and a woman in her childbearing prime. The worst was that the old man, Akin, had been a great warrior many years ago. The village was mourning his loss with their drums, and would not stop for three days and three nights.

It was mid-day, but the sun was hidden by clouds. Madueke stopped his work and put his hand over his heart talisman. This talisman was all he had left of his one wife, Enwelumokwu. She had been a good wife, and she had had strong magic, but she was not strong enough to fight the illness that took her.

Every day, with every body that Madueke dressed for burial, he remembered his Enwelumokwu. He had dressed her body, also, though he had wanted to throw everything away and run into the distant mountains like a wild man. He had spent many nights asking the gods why they would take her from him so early. Before they had even had a chance to have children together. Madueke believed he would be sad about this loss for the rest of his life, but he knew that he could not be irresponsible. He could not shirk his duty, for who would dress the wounds of the dead if not Madueke? Who would prepare their bodies for final rest so that their souls might fly free in peace?

It was unfortunate that he did not have a son to whom he might pass on the sacred secrets of his trade, but he knew that sooner or later there would be an apprentice. He knew that he did not have to try to lay with a new woman just for the sake of begetting a child. Some of the villagers would talk disapprovingly of him, he knew, but in their hearts, they understood, for they had seen his with Enwelumokwu, and they knew that he had been a part of something God had chosen for him. They would not try to force him into another union. Now that Akin was no longer with the living, Madueke was probably the most holy man in the village. He would trade all of this status for a chance to be with Enwelumokwu again, even for one day.

The talisman was made of leather and herbs and Enwelumokwu's own lifeblood. She had given it to him on the eve of their marriage and a physical reminder of her love vow. She had given it to him when they were finally alone. She hadn't told anyone else about it beforehand, but had gathered the ingredients and performed the rituals in secret. When she put it around his neck, she told him words that he would always cherish, though remembering them now was sometimes painful. "You need never fear that I am not with you, for you will always have my magic, the blood of my own heart which beats for you. If you are troubled and I appear to be gone, hold this close to your own heart, and you will know that I stay always with you."

Madueke was troubled now. He was more troubled than he had ever been in his life. To lose three villagers at once to a killer who was vicous and used bad magic was a horrible thing. He was frightened for his people. He was frightened for their hearts and souls. Madueke held his talisman against his breast and stroked it with three long fingers. His touch was all tenderness, and as he did this, he could see his beloved in his head so clearly that it hurt him as much as it comforted him. "Enwelumokwu," he said, "I am troubled. I am alone in darkness and I need you, but you are not here. I touch your talisman and I see you inside me, but you are not here to help me. I miss you with everything that I am. I wish you could help me with your strong magic. I wish you could show me how to heal our village. How to help our people. Enwelumokwu, our people suffer. They are starving and dangerous, and now it is possible that we have a dark sorcerer among us. I do not know what to do. I do not know how to save us." As he spoke, the talisman grew warmer, and if he had opened his eyes, Madueke might have seen that it was glowing faintly. He stayed in the same pose for a few minutes, eyes closed, thinking, remembering, wishing. Eventually he sighed and rubbed his hands together. He should not waste time when he had so much work to do.

He prepared the little girl first. He body was so small, she was only four or five years old. He knew she was Lotanna, the daughter of Azubuike, who made clay pots for water and food, and clay masks for secial rituals. The woman, Nwamaka, was her mother. Madueke supposed here was a place to start making connections.

Nwamaka was one of Abuike's three wives. She was beautiful, and had come to the village from a different place. Her cousin, Oguejiofor had married a woman from this village, and had sent Nwamaka in return. When she arrived, many of the men wanted to be with her, but Nwamaka stayed ith a group of widows until a proper man wooed her. She was cooperative and quiet. She understood her role as an outsider in this village. She did what was expected of her, helped with community work, and bore a child after only one year of marriage. No one seemed to have anything against her, but Madueke knew that the famine may have changed that. There were some who would blame her for the wilting crops and the lack of game. Madueke wondered if anyone would hate her enough to kill her and her innocent child. It was possible, but was about Akin? Madueke did not understand this crime. He frowned as he prepared ointments and powders to preserve and decorate the bodies. There must be an answer. He would search until he found it.

When it was evening again, Madueke walked away from the village and down to the creek. He could still hear the drums here, but they were less of an intrusion on his thoughts. He puzzled over things, with three dead bodies fresh in hid mind. He was not any closer to finding an answer. As the moon began to rise, he saw a glimmering in the distance beyond the fields across the creek. Madueke rubbed his eyes as he tried to focus. He couldn't make out what it was, but it seemed to be coming closer. He knew that it was magic, and that he should perhaps be afraid, but he was too tired. He had been worried and scared without reprieve for more than two days. He had only slept for three hours during this time. He knew there was a dark sorcerer out ther, but he felt that if the end as near for him, it would be more of a relief than anything. Perhaps he then would be with his beloved again.

No sooner had madueke thought this than he saw Enwelumokwu walking toward him. He could scarce believe his eyes. "Is the time for me come, then?" he asked. "Am I no longer alive?" Enwelumokwu did not answer, but kept coming closer. She did not stop until she was facing him directly across the creek. Then she spoke.

"Beloved, Madueke, you have called me, and so I have come. You are not alone. I am always with you." In the night she shimmered with bluish light. Madueke longed to touch her firm flesh and pull her close.

"Come to me, please," He said. "Come close to me. I miss you."

"I cannot come closer, my beloved. I must stay here. if you try to touch me, I will vanish. This illusion is not really me. I am inside you, and I am with God. When it is your time, you will see, but now, if you wish to speak with me here, you must not come closer."

Madueke's cheeks were wet with tears. "But why do you come, if you cannot be with me?" he asked.

"Because you are troubled. If you tell me your troubles, perhaps I can help. You may tell me everything and then you may ask me three questions. I will not be able to answer more. I am sorry for this, my heart, but it is the way that God has chosen."

Madueke felt sorrow in his heart, fresh again as the day she had died, when he had taken her lifeless form in his arms and wept. He pushed it aside and told her the story of the famine and of he distrust among his people. He said the words without emotion, because he could not allow any of his feelings to be free. He ended with the bodies and the marks of sorcery, and when he as finished, he waited for her to speak.

Enwelumokwu stood in the moonlight with her hair blowing behind her head. She was the most beautiful thing Madueke had ever seen. Even more beautiful than she had been in life. Her eyes were full of the universe now. He could see that she understood many truths and was far holier than he was. "I know what has happened," she said. "I can answer three questions. Please ask carefully. When I have finished answering, I shall return to where I belong, but I shall never leave you."

Watch for exciting conclusion in a later entry!

2003-10-10T23:39:00.000-07:00

Exercise 10. Myarrr. Breaking out the big guns and aiming for a whole story churned out at haphazard pace. I don't know how long it'll take (or how long it'll be). All I know is that I'm getting the key elements from the Instant Muse Story Starter. Join me, if you like in writing a story like this:

My main character/protagonist is a male. My main character is an undertaker. An archetype present in my story is Pirate. A key object or symbol in my story is a toy gun. My story will be set in an African village. My story is about faith.

Off to Africa!

2003-10-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

My results for number 9:

Ten Orange Objects:
1. Cat
It sat curled up on a window in the middle of the afternoon. It was large and lazy and softer than peaches. The girl loved it more than she loved her own brother.
2. Poppy
They grew in bunches by the side of the road, and even in people's front yards. They were sweet and fragile like warm little dancers that people were afraid to touch.
3. Shorts
She bought the shorts on clearance at the end of September. She thought they made her skin look yellow, but the heat out here was just too much for her. She couldn't stand to keep driving through the desert in Jeans.
4. M&M
In the entire package, there was only one orange one. Matthew was very upset about this. He didn't think it was fair dividing them by colors, but he was the youngest so he didn't have a say.
5. Car
Martha thought the little orange bug was cheerful. She liked that it was round and small, but not as much as she liked that it outraged her wealthy parents.
6. Sky
It was picture perfect, so long as you made sure not to look around at ground-level. The clouds were ruby splashes in the orange glow. It was true what they said; that war and smog made for pretty sunsets.
7. Chair
The plastic was about as comfortable as it was pretty. That it was shiny seemed a cruel joke, as though it were masquerading as something clean. She shuddered and tried not to think of all the thousands of other passengers' germs.
8. Eye
About fifty times a day somebody would come up and ask if it was a trick, or where he got the contacts. Most of them backed away when he focused it on them and the iris began to undulate, but some of them didn't. He figured they got what they deserved for being too curious and intrusive (and he got a tasty snack).
9. Fire
It licked the night sky with a hundred small tongues while everyone watched. Firefighters moved in teams and fought for hours. It was the strangest fire they'd ever seen.
10. Traffic Cone
He'd found it all bent in a ditch. It was labeled with black stenciled letters, "Starminster Municipal Property". He wondered how it had gotten here as there was no such town in the state. (398 words)

2003-10-09T21:21:00.000-07:00

Exercise #9 is going to be a bit different. It wil involve a few steps. First (step one): Pick a color. Any color will do. Got it? Good. Second (step two): Name the first ten things you can think of that are the color you've chosen (now, if you chose Restaurant Creamer, that may be difficult, but since we are accomodating, we'll let off white or eggshell or even muted pearl objects slip through). Third (step three): Write two or three sentences about each of your objects. Make them distinct somehow. The sentences don't have to be descriptive, but the object must be a main element. Okay, go!

2003-10-09T21:19:00.000-07:00

My results for Exercise #8:

The building was at the southern edge of the field. It stood alone and was surrounded by scraggly, waist-high grass. No one had mowed there in ages. The wood had once been red, but the paint was peeling and faded, and now the barn was mainly a drab grey-brown. There were no people around. The farm had been left alone for three years. The day was bright and sunny and drenched with burtterflies. It was a perfect summer day for two young girls to be out with their net. They never kept the butterflies for more than a moment. They just wanted to look at them closely. They'd been out all morning, and they had a picnic basket full of sandwhiches and fruit. They were twelve and thirteen years old, and cousins. They didn't like to talk to each other at school because they belonged to different groups, but in the summer they were fast friends. Perhaps it was something about the day, the way the light fell so effortlessly, or the mischievous charm of the fox they'd seen bounding through the brush. Neither girl could have told you what made them do it, but they had agreed without even speaking that this was the day they would explore the old barn. They danced around it for hours, drawing closer and then to the side and away. It was a tender and delicate process of studied carefree frolicking. They ate their lunch by a stream at the eastern tip of the woods and spent some more time picking wildflowers as they edged closer. "There are better ones over there," said Carrie, the older of the two. She didn't point or make any other sign to indicate where 'there' was.

Tina hesitated. For a moment it looked as if she might head away from the barn, but then she shook her head. "I'm tired of waiting," she said. And then after hours of being without, a few seconds found the girls within. The door had been surprisingly easy to open, and inside the air was fresh and sweet. It surely wasn't normal, but neither girl noted it, for they were too caught up in delight. Inside the building, in heaps here and there, were golden chains of straw. The chains were woven with intricate care in a host of fanciful designs, and the thin beams of light that shone in through the chinks and slats in the wood made everything appear to be magical. "But who could have done it?" They asked one another. Neither of them could respond adequately, and so they set off to explore in earnest. (434 words --I let myself go over time by two and a half minutes because I wanted to see where this was going.)

2003-10-08T23:41:00.000-07:00

Exercise #8. Spend ten minutes describing a barn or shed. Try to convey a certain mood in the description.

2003-10-08T23:38:00.000-07:00

My Results for #7:

#1
Full Name: Tania Nicole Whitaker
Age: 26
Birthday: March 5, 1977
Current Occupation: Legal Secretary for the high profile New York law firm, Palmer and Associates.
Work History: She's been at Palmer and Associates since she left Columbia University three years ago. Before leaving college, she worked at a printing shop near campus. Her first job, which she held for her junior and senior years of high school was as a dog grooming assistant at The Preening Pooch in her hometown of Millpoint in upstate NY.
Favorite Comfort Foods: Ben and Jerry's Fudge Brownie ice cream, her mother's tuna casserole, York Peppermint Patties.
Love Interest: Currently single and very unhappy about it. She doesn't trust men after her last serious boyfriend, Gerald, burned her by sleeping with her sister. She wishes she could feel comfortable with the idea of casual sex, but she just can't.
Favorite Non-Work-Related Activity: She loves shopping in big department stores. She feels a bit bad about it because it seems shallow, but she loves being able to buy hih end cosmetics and clothing. She limits her purchases to a couple each month, but she likes to scout for deals at least a couple of times a week.
Favorite Animal: She loves the idea of rabbits, but not the reality. She likes dogs well enough, but doens't really want one. She's indeifferent to cats and doesn't like most small rodents. She hates insects and arachnids.
Personal Dwelling Space: her apartment is small, but in a good neighborhood. Safety is very important to her. She's afraid to walk at night, but she doesn't want anyone to know. She keeps her apartment very clean and takes good care of her clothes. She has eveything organized, and she takes pleasure in the act of organizing her personal items.
Random Personal Fantasy: She sometimes likes to imagine herself as a big name fashion designer in Paris. She loves the idea of being able to create beautiful clothes and have a team of underlings to bow to her every whim.

#2
Full Name: Gerald Anthony Kirsch
Age: 31
Birthday: August 12, 1972
Current Occupation: Inside Sales Representative for a corporate event hosting company. He lives to schmooze and reap the benefits, which include free tickets to top events and occasional gourmet girft baskets.
Work History: He's been with Mansfield Event Planners for four years. Prior to that he was working his ass off for comparatively little at an electronics supplier (Hudson Tech, Ltd.). He has an MBA from a lesser business school, which he got through an accelerated evening program while he was working as a filing clerk because his parents wouldn't let him live at home after high school.
Favorite Comfort Foods: Caviar and Ritz Crackers, vodka tonics, cheesecake.
Love Interest: Gerald likes his women pretty and plentiful. Someday he'd like to settle down, but not for a good long while. He doesn't want a serious relationship, but he isn;t afraid to pretend he does if it'll get him some fine booty. Usually it ends when he's bored or when she finds out he's a cad, which he pretends to be hurt about, but doesn't really mind... Unless she's got an overly protective big brother.
Favorite Non-Work-Related Activity: Combing random conferences at major hotels for fresh female companions and free refreshments. He's a master at the art of getting in free. "Oh, I've lost my nametag... " is one of his most convincing lines. Other than that, he likes to Have occasional football watching parties at his place with the guys.
Favorite Animal: The lion, because he thinks of himself as one. King of the jungle, lord of the chicks, eater of meat.
Personal Dwelling Space: Spacious apartment on the upper east side with modern furnishings and lots of gadgets from The Sharper Image. Bigger is better. Newer is better. Flashier is better. He wants to be the envy of all his friends.
Random Personal Fantasy: Throwing the first pitch of the World Series.

#3
Full Name: Mario Cesar Enrique Montalba
Age: 28
.Birthday: December 16, 1974
Current Occupation: Taxi Driver for Manhattan Cab Co.
Work History: He's been at this for three and half years. Before that he was a busser in a pizza place, and before that he worked in his Aunt's restaurant in Mesa, Arizona.
Favorite Comfort Foods: Cheese enchiladas, refried beans, Oreos.
Love Interest: No real one, but he digs the girl across the hall, Lucy. He looks at a lot of other women, too, but doesn't really pursues them. He asks Lucy out every week or so, but she usually tells him off for it. They have an affectionate way of insulting each other. Mario is not really worried about love, and he isn't afraid of rejection. He figures when the time is right, something'll happen.
Favorite Non-Work-Related Activity: Playing Playstation games with his six and ten-year-old cousins at his sister's place. He also enjoys walking in Manhattan and people watching.
Favorite Animal: Mario loves dogs, especially his sister's golden retriever, Sparky. He thinks about getting one of his own, but would feel bad leaving it all alone for long periods.
Personal Dwelling Space: Mario lives in a modest apartment in Queens. He knows most of his neighbors and likes at least half of them. He doesn't do so well with cleaning, but occasionally his sister will take pity and help him do a major deep clean. He lives on Frozen food and pizza when he isn't mooching off her and her husband for home cooked meals.
Random Personal Fantasy: Sometimes Mario imagines himself as a head surgeon like on ER. He likes the idea of saving lives and having peole think of him as a hero, but he doesn't really want to be a doctor. He's happy for the moment where he is, but thinks about eventually starting a business of his own. Perhaps a small market or restaurant. (1,019 words)

2003-10-07T22:46:00.000-07:00

My results for Exercise 6:

It was raining, and the woman was holding her briefcase over her head as she ran. Gerald smiled a bit as he thought of how generous he was being by allowing her to catch up to him and offering to share the cab. It was positively chivalrous of him. He checked his watch. 5:45. He had a couple of hours before his dinner meeting. Perhaps if she was agreeable he'd buy the woman a drink somewhere. He couldn't quite see her face because her briefcase was hiding it, but she certainly looked good from the neck down. Her suit was of good quality grey silk and she had complemented it with a very soft rose colored blouse. The colors went well with her pale complexion and the cut of the fabric flattered her slender frame. He liked a woman who knew how to dress. Pity the suit was being soaked in the downpour.

Inside the cab, the driver sighed and cleared his throat. "Look pal, are we goin' or stayin'? This is a no parking zone and I got better things to do than sit around."

"She's almost here. Now shut up or I won't tip you," Gerald said.

The driver pushed a button on the meter and the fare rose by two dollars. "Asshole."

Gerald glared. "What was that, buddy?"

"Nothin'. I don't talk, remember?"

The driver was leering in the rearview mirror. Gerald was about to make a snide remark when the woman reached the cab. She scurried into the backseat and brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. "Thanks for waiting. I need to go to-" at that moment she saw Gerald and her expression changed to cold contempt. "You."

"You," said Gerald. he couldn't believe his luck. Of all the women to hold a cab for, it had to be her.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"You're not even going to thank me for being a good samaritan?"

"Oh, now that's a good one," she said. "Been trying to develop a sense of humor in your quest to be a real human being?"

"Hey now," said Gerald, "You're the one who left me with no place to stay in a foreign country on Christmas day. I'm surprised you haven't won the Miss Sensitive award yet."

The woman was visibly tembling with anger. "You slept with my sister."

"I didn't know she was your sister at the time."

"Oh, so that makes it all okay? You cheat on me and that's okay because you didn't know the other woman was related to me?"

"I wouldn't go that far. Now come on, we weren't exclusive. I mean we'd only been seeing each other for a few weeks."

"We were at my grandmother's home together for the holidays at the time, in case you've forgotten." Her voice was slowly rising.

Gerald was quiet for a second. "Well you're the one who killed my dog."

"That was an accident and you know it! Oh God, why am I even bothering to defend myself to you?"

"Just ran the poor little guy down in cold blood," said Gerald. He turned to the cab driver. "Now does that seem nice to you? Killing an innocent puppy? Would you say that's a humane thing to do?"

"I say that we need to-"

The woman cut the driver off. "Don't talk to me about bloody humane. I can't help it if your dumb dog got loose and happened to run under my back tire as I was leaving. You have no right to talk to me about being humane. Because of you, my sister and I didn't speak for months, and my grandmother had a heart attack during Christmas dinner."

"I wasn't talking to you, sweetheart," said Gerald. "I was talking to the driver. And I think if you examine the last few moments of conversation, you'll see that you interrupted him very rudely without even excusing yourself."

"I'm sorry," she said, looking at the driver in the mirror. "But you can see that he is an incredibly poor excuse for a person, and impossible to deal with, can't you?"

"I can see that-"

"Don't listen to her. It isn't as bad as it sounds, I swear. If she hadn't driven me away with her frigidness, none of this would have happened."

"Gerald," the woman said, but he was too caught up in his speech to hear.

"She was a complete ice queen. Never wanted me to go anywhere."

"Gerald..."

"I mean, I bought her tickets to the Super Bowl and she wasn't even grateful."

"Gerald!"

He looked up, surprised that anyone else had been speaking. "What?"

"Um, darling... You've just interrupted the driver quite spectacularly. Right after reprimanding me for the very same thing. And I don't even like sports, but you never bothered to ask me one way or the other, did you?" He started to reply, but she stopped him. "No, no, let the driver have his say. I mean, it's what you wanted, since you're so courteous, right?" She met the driver's eyes in the mirror. "Now tell me, honestly, what do you think?"

"You want me to be honest?"

"Oh yes," she said, "be very honest." She was practically purring.

"Well, honestly, I think you two are seriously wasting time. You haven't even told me where to go yet and you already owe me twenty dollars." Then he laughed and added, "And the guy's a total asshole, but I thought that before you got in, baby. You'd be much better off with a nice guy like me." (891 words)

2003-10-07T22:17:00.000-07:00

Exercise 7 coming atcha. Today we're going to do some character sketches. Take a few characters, we'll say three, and ask yourself the following questions about them (you can have the characters answer in first person if you like, whatever feels right to you).

Full Name:
Age:
Birthday:
Current Occupation:
Work History:
Favorite Comfort Foods:
Love Interest:
Favorite Non-Work-Related Activity:
Favorite Animal:
Personal Dwelling Space:
Random Personal Fantasy:

2003-10-06T22:02:00.000-07:00

My results for Exercise #5:

The streets were narrower here. There was less light. The buildings overshadowed all the street life. He was starting to get used to it, but only just. he'd grown up on a farm in the country and he still missed it. Not least for the taste of fresh milk and eggs. His mother had had him collecting eggs since he was old enough to walk. It was the sort of skill that didn't give much weight in the professional or academic world, but did win charming points with certain girls. There were two kinds of girls, he had come to understand; those who wanted sleek shiny executive sugar daddies, and those who wanted to grow old in a cottage in the country. Preferably on the moors. With Heathcliff. Or Mr. Rochester. He wasn't a brooding dark rogue, but he'd learned to play up the "mystery" of simple country life over the past couple of years.

He had just about enough time to get to the library for an hour of studying before he had to get back home and meet Renee, his latest starry-eyed romantic girlfriend. He sometimes wondered what he was playing at with her. She had a dreamy vision of him as a poet who whiled away his childhood pondering the meaning of life under a weeping willow, when in fact he'd really just grown up as any normal country boy might. Running and laughing and doing chores and getting into the occasional fist fight at school. He didn't really connect to any of the girls he'd been with here. He'd thought getting away from the country would usher in a whole new era of finding kindred spirits, but in fact, it turned out that people were pretty much the same no matter where you went. They always wanted to have what they didn't. More money, a bigger house, a more fashionable boyfriend, a shinier car... Or if they had that already they wanted less money, but a closer family, a cozy little home in a quaint village, a garden with fresh vegetables, the list went on. Renee was from a well-to-do city family, so of course she wanted to live the rustic dream. He always felt like he was part of an elaborate sham when he was with her. he wondered why he bothered, and whether having a warm body in bed next to you was really worth all the fuss. It was, though. He knew it really was. He'd gone through two brief periods of single university life, and he hadn't gotten proper sleep in either of them. Plus it was nice to have someone to keep you grounded. Helped you remember to eat at a decent hour and the like. He wondered though. Wondered if this was what the rest of his life would be like. Playing a part to appease a companion who wasn't his ideal just because having someone, anyone, was better than having no one. It just didn't seem right.

He was nearing the end of his short-cut route to the library, and his mind turned to other things, planning ahead. He would look up some more blueprints of Italianate houses for his historic preservation project. The Grummel-Spark house was a good start, but he needed at least three more to compare if he was going to write a successful thesis on the structural stability of them. He'd try to find at least two tonight and maybe another couple tomorrow between eleven and twelve-thirty before he met privately with his advisor. He needed to remember to buy milk before he went home or Renee would complain in the morning. She would want some to put in her tea and her cereal. If he forgot, she'd blame it on his romantic nature, which she would claim was cute, but which wouldn't stop her from bitching. He'd rather not have to put up with any of it just now. he was getting enough for "being distant" these days. He had tried to explain that unlike her, he was in school to work, and learn, and get somewhere in life, but she didn't understand. She probably wouldn't ever understand. He wondered how much longer they'd stick together. He wondered who'd do the leaving. He wondered if she'd be cold and insensitive when the time came, or if she'd play the hysterical woman, ruined by passion. He wondered if he would remember her when he was eighty, or if he'd have forgotten her. he wondered... And then he pushed open the oak door to the library and he stopped wondering about anything except old houses.

On the way home he felt better; less distressed about his life, less fake. He thought about how it would be nice to see her again, about how he would take her in his arms and smell her expensive shampoo when he kissed her hello. He thought about what they would share for dinner and whether they'd go for a walk after or just watch some television all curled up together. He was comfortable and comforted, and he was already setting his books on the hall table before he remembered the milk. (856 words)

2003-10-06T20:28:00.000-07:00

Exercise six. We're going to take writing prompt number 81 from CreativeWritingPrompts.com and write a dialogue-heavy scene of 500 (or more) words. And the prompt is:

Take two people who dislike each other and stick them in the backseat of a cab. What happens?

2003-10-05T23:05:00.000-07:00

Dear Lord, exercise 5 gave me a tough time. I swear sometimes it just feels like wading through tar. But I did it. I just made myself keep going until I had overshot the target wordcount by quite a ways. I don't think it's my best writing, but at least I got something out. I can do this.

2003-10-05T21:41:00.000-07:00

Exercise 5 is in da house, yo. We're going to take a different idea and write about an image this time. I searched high and low (and found an adorable adaptive technologist who is so getting a fan letter from me, but that's not NaNoRelated so I'm not going to go on about it here, but he's such a cute little... Awww. He even plays the French horn... the letter is totally gonna have stickers on it and stuff. Maybe I should make that a writing exercise for you, too. Write a fan letter... Wait no... Off topic. Not a real writing exercise. Ahem, yeah, anyway...) to find this picture. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write 500 words about le photo. You can describe it or write a scene based on it or do what you will, and remember no editing yourself. Just get it out. Screw quality. We're just stretching here, not performing.

2003-10-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

Exercise #4: Contrary to popular belief...

Contrary to popular belief, there is NO such thing as a four-eared platypus. I mean honestly, people, where do you come up with these things? There are no purple hippos out there in the wilds of Africa, and there aren't such things as singing alligators. Okay, maybe these aren't popular beliefs, but whatever. For real though, nobody ever sees pink elephants and blue bunny rabbits while drunk. I mean I've certainly never met anyone who did. My sister-in-law sometimes sees little men with sacks on their backs at night (which makes her not the best person to have driving you over a mountain road on a winter evening -- what with all the swerving and screaming...), but that has no relation to whether she's been drinking or not, and it isn't even like she sees animals at all. In fact I don't know of anyone who hallucinates because of alcohol. I mean acid, sure, but booze? No, usually it's just "Ha ha, everything's funny," "boo hoo, everything's sad," or, "I'm fucking gonna kill everything! Rawr!" I prefer not be around the last type really. The others are at times annoying and at other times amusing, but not because of rabbits or pachyderms. At all. Ta. Like this one time I got really drunk with my college roommate, Jenny, and we thought it would be a good idea to throw all sorts of stuff out of the dorm window, which it turned out really wasn't such a good idea (you know pudding dries in really gross ways in the sun?), but it definitely was a reality-based idea. I mean we weren't throwing imaginary animals, you know? Okay we might have actually done a bit of that. But we knew they were imaginary. And we didn't really think we were doing it. It was more a talking about it thing. "Hey, wouldn't it be cool to throw a giraffe down there into a vat of pudding?" That's totally different. And the animals were animals that do exist in this world. I mean giraffes are real. That makes a difference, you know? Jenny might have asked if it would be cool to dye the giraffe purple, now that I think of it... But we both knew there was no giraffe. And if we'd had a real giraffe and dyed it purple, then there would be a real live purple giraffe there that we would have seen and not an imaginary, non-existent, naturally purple giraffe. I don't even know why I am bothering to argue this with you. You probably don't care. It's just that it really pisses me off when my mother or some other sap tells me I shouldn't "overdo" on the margaritas because I might end up seeing pink elephants and blue bunny rabbits. Clearly I won't. I never have before. I never will in the (time) 476 words.

2003-10-04T21:22:00.000-07:00

It's time for exercise #4! I am pretty tired and didn't feel up to anything too terribly taxing (like creating any kind of original exercise), so I went for the Cacoethes Scribendi Random Prompts Generator. The neat thing about it (aside from randomly generating writing prompts, obfvioszly) is that it has its own built in timer! Because of this, you may want to just go there and see what it throws at you. on the other hand, you may want to use my prompt, but go there just to use the timer they provide. Or maybe you don't want to go there at all. See if I care. I wrote for fifteen minutes on the prompt I got, which was:
Contrary to popular belief...

2003-10-04T21:15:00.000-07:00

Here are my exercises 2 and 3. They will now make the NaNoBlog their home.

Exercise #2 for the 2nd of October: Write for ten minutes on the prompt that appears below.
The only thing she left behind was a lollipop...

The only thing She left behind was a lollipop. It was red and half-chewed, and that really annoyed him most of all. She was always leaving half-eaten candies around. She had a horrible sweet tooth, but it wouldn't be satisfied with just one taste, so she compensated by taking bites of fifty different confections. At first he thought it was cute, a little signature quirk. Who could begrudge a hot girl that? It got old pretty fast. I mean there was was a lot to be said for being hot, but there was more to be said for being faithful and sweet and fun to be around. First it was, "I want to go out on my own sometimes," and the it was, "You don't mind if Bobby spends the night?... You can sleep on the couch." And she even had him doing all the dishes. He wasn't sure how he'd let it go so far, but things were certainly going to be different now. You didn't see him begging for her to come back. I mean he'd practically thrown her out. Okay, so leaving had been her idea, actually, but it wasn't like he'd put up a fight. Much.

Okay, if he was going to be honest with himself, he'd been completely pathetic and a whiny loser. If he had seen himself like this six months ago, he probably would have kicked his own ass. He wasn't sure quite how it had happened. She just got under his skin. She was damned sexy, that's for sure. She was (time) 256 words.

Exercise #3 for the third of October: Write a poem based on or starting with the following line taken from the instant muse poetry generator (there are no requirements for length or style ... or quality).
In the streets of trickery the visions wait,

In the streets of trickery the visions wait,
They trip along with a lilting gait;
They hunt and they hide,
They brew and they bide-
-their time.

They slide through the shadows like eels in the deep,
They're above and below while you wake, while you sleep;
They're huge and they're gaunt,
They tempt and they taunt-
-their prey.

If you should spy them, these vision of night,
Pray do not answer before you take flight;
Go quiet, go quick,
Be speedy, be slick-
-and escape.

2003-10-03T16:06:00.000-07:00

Exercise #3 has landed! For this exercise, we're going to use a line from the instant muse poetry generator and base a poem around it. You can use it as your starting line or you can change it round and make it however you want, just so long as you use the line as a jumping off point. My poem is up on the exercises page just below the lollipop narrative if you want to see it. I'll move both of those onto this blog tomorrow. The reason I am keeping them separate at first is so that you have the chance to do the exercises without having your creative flow messed up by seeing my stuff first if you don't want to. But, if you wanna look, go for it. I certainly don't mind. If you wanna share what you come up with, I'll be more than happy to see it. And now, without further ado, the prompt line:

In the streets of trickery the visions wait,

2003-10-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

Exercise #2 was for yesterday, but I didn't post it in time. Um, sorry. Here it is now, though. You can see my response here until tomorrow. Then I'll copy it over onto the blog and a new exercise will take its place on the exercises page. Ready for the exercise? The last line of this entry will be a prompt. Use it as the first line of your exercise and go wherever your mind wanders. Write for ten minutes. Time it if possible (I'm putting the horrid kitchen timer that always makes me jump a mile to good use for this). And now for the prompt:

The only thing thing she left behind was a lollipop...

2003-10-03T11:42:00.000-07:00

I'm a little later than planned with the first couple of writing exercises, but I'm getting on track now. The first exercise was for October first, and it was to write a short short story of 25 words or less. I did it for Espresso Stories, but you can do it just for me if you prefer. It's such a short assignment you can post it to comments if you want to. Realistically, I don't expect everybody (or anybody) to do these exercises with me, but I think it'd be fun if other people wanted to join in. Here's my story in case you are interested. I'll be sure to post all of the writing I do for these exercises so that you know I'm really doing them and not just being a lying liar.