As the Moon Climbs

If you haven't updated

2010-05-15T19:01:00.002-04:00

The blog took another left turn at Albuquerque and now it's located over at http://candleinsunshine.com/asthemoonclimbs/ for your reading pleasure. Please update your bookmarks!

Ease on down the road

2010-03-05T15:48:00.001-05:00

I've shifted this blog over to http://asthemoonclimbs.wordpress.com/ so I'll be updating there from now on. Please adjust your bookmarks or feeds or whatever accordingly.

Swords and Mirrors

2010-03-01T22:21:00.001-05:00

Artie was surprised to see someone up fishing before him. He waved, and the old man sitting on the edge of the dock returned the wave, rod held loosely in his tanned hands. The edges of the old man’s straw hat stuck up like a crown. Artie carefully applied sunscreen to his exposed skin; his wife hated it when he came back sunburned.

The smooth surface of the lake reflected the pale blue of the dawn sky so that Artie felt he was floating within an enormous china bowl. He let his mind drift along with the boat, enjoying the peace of the moment before he baited his hook and cast the line.

As the rising sun touched the edge of the water, a line of light stretched to the center of the lake near where Artie sat. It looked like the blade of a sword, the tip pointed straight at him.

“Go on,” the old man shouted. “It’s for you!”

“What is?” Artie asked, then noticed the sword rising out of the water. He saw his own puzzled expression in its mirrored finish.

“Oh,” he said. “So I’m king then. Jenny will be pleased.”

Someone's Got to Do It

2010-02-27T20:11:00.000-05:00

He watched the woman fall to her knees, hands clasped, her eyes filling up with tears.

“Please,” she said. “Today is my anniversary. My husband is—”

“It’s always something,” he interrupted. “Birthday, anniversary, pay day… sorry, lady, it’s all the same to me.”

“But can’t you—”

“No!” he exclaimed, kicking her wrecked car’s tire. “Why do you people argue? Or, or beg? I don’t have any authority! I’m just doing my job, you know?”

Now she was sobbing, doubled over with her arms wrapped around her chest.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t want to die.”

He tapped the end of his scythe on the ground impatiently. “This is not the Peace Corps, it is death. It’s compulsory. Mandatory. Required. If we went around asking for volunteers, we’d be all kinds of short staffed. Now come on, I haven’t got all day and you have to report to the nearest recruitment office for placement.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don’t go to heaven or…?”

“No,” he said. “You go to work. Welcome to the Reaper Corps.”

Apocalypse

2010-02-24T13:19:00.002-05:00

It’s those little animals again. Hrrk thought at Grrah, who stopped munching on figs to look. What are they doing?

Seems like they’re sifting through our excrement, Grrah thought back. How odd. I wonder where they came from?

And what is that tiny cube they keep pointing at things?

Grrah growled and flicked his tail. Perhaps we should ask them?

Hrrk snorted. Rrrg tried and they ran away. She said to leave them alone.

They watched the creatures in silence. A steady rain began to fall on the broad leaves of the trees that surrounded them, trickling down to the bare earth beneath.

I wonder if they know about the meteor, Grrah thought. Should we warn them?

How? They can’t even speak. They just make chittering noises.

True. Grrah tapped a claw on the ground. Maybe they have their own Ark, and they plan to leave before the meteor hits, too?

Hrrk ruffled his feathers. One can only hope. Let’s go.

They left the mystery behind to finish packing their space ship for the mass exodus.

In the Beginning Was the End

2010-02-22T21:21:00.000-05:00

In the beginning they had no eyes; they wove in darkness with black thread. Then He Who Is gave eyes to the spinner, and fibers of many colors, and so the world began. But it was chaotic and without form, so He Who Is gave eyes to the weaver, and she ordered the threads. She separated sky from earth, ocean from land, and every living thing was woven into the tapestry to please He Who Is with their beauty.

But the tapestry grew chaotic once again. Too many threads needed constant weaving and reweaving, and new threads were added. She who had once cut the threads still had no eyes, and was afraid to damage the great work her sisters had created. He Who Is saw the world overburdened with fecundity, and visited the three to ask why they had allowed this. The youngest sister turned her blind eyes to him and explained her fear.

He Who Is smiled. "You are blind so you will favor no thing over another," he said. "Do not neglect your duty." And so death came to the world, and so it comes for all.

Vice (revised)

2010-02-18T17:31:00.001-05:00

“Name?” asked the demon with the clipboard.

“Robert Louis White,” the man responded, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“All right, Mr. White, my name is Minos, and I’m here to review your records and see that you are properly placed.”

“In heaven,” White said.

“Perhaps,” the demon said politely.

Mr. White nodded. “Let’s get this mess sorted out, then, so I can get out of here.”

Minos cleared his throat and adjusted the pair of reading glasses that sat on the end of his pointed red nose. “ I see you’re guilty of lusting after your secretary?”

“What?” White yelped. “Well, maybe, but I never touched her!”

The demon made a note. “Gluttony then; you were 200 pounds overweight.”

“I had a glandular problem!”

Another note. “You never donated to charity and died a millionaire?”

“I wanted my children well looked after.”

“Had a pretty fierce temper though?” the demon asked.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” White said, loosening the collar of his shirt.

“Of course. And you never attended church, I see?”

“Faith is a private matter, I thought.”

The demon smiled, sharp incisors gleaming. “You were a banker? Made a lot of money from predatory lending?”

Mr. White wiped sweat off his forehead. “Not my fault if it turned out badly.”

The demon made a final mark on the clipboard. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“I can go, then?” White asked. “To heaven?”

“I’m afraid not.” Minos wrapped his tail around his leathery body eight times. “Eighth circle. The fraudulent. You really are an incorrigible liar.”

Truth, Dead

2010-02-17T21:40:00.001-05:00

The attic was full of piled-up boxes, bins of rolled up paper, old furniture and knickknacks collecting dust. Under a sheet in the corner, they found what they had come for.

“Big ugly lump of a thing, isn’t it?” Adam said.

“We don’t need it to model clothing,” Michael said.

“There’s no clothing big enough,” Adam replied. “Go on, make it work.”

Michael pulled his pen knife out of his pocket and studied the word on the statue’s forehead. מת. Dead. “Theoretically,” he said, “I only have to add the aleph and it should wake up.”

“Then theoretically do it already.”

Standing on tiptoes to reach, Michael carefully scratched the א after the other letters. Now, the word was אמת. Truth.

They stared at the statue. Adam scratched his nose. “Nothing’s happening,” he remarked.

“Maybe it’s waiting for instructions,” Michael mused. He tapped it on the chest. “Hey, wake up.”

Twin fires sprang to life in the statue’s empty eye sockets. Adam gasped.

“You did it, Michael,” he whispered. “You brought the golem to life.”

Vice

2010-02-15T13:16:00.002-05:00

“Name?” asked the demon with the clipboard.

“Rob White,” the man responded, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“All right, Mr. White, I see you’re guilty of lusting after your secretary?”

“What?” he yelped. “Well, maybe, but I never touched her!”

The demon made a note. “Gluttony then; you were 200 pounds overweight.”

“I had a glandular problem!”

Another note. “You never donated to charity and died a millionaire?”

“I wanted my children well looked after.”

“Had a pretty fierce temper though?” the demon asked.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child,” White said.

“Of course. And you never attended church, I see?”

“Faith is a private matter, I thought.”

The demon smiled, sharp incisors gleaming. “You were a banker? Made a lot of money from predatory lending?”

Mr. White wiped sweat off his forehead. “Not my fault if it turned out badly.”

The demon made a final mark on the clipboard. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“I can go, then?” White asked.

“Indeed. Eighth circle. You are a terrible liar.”

Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

2010-02-14T11:29:00.001-05:00

“Where do you want to eat?” Naomi asked. She sat on her mother’s couch as the older woman got ready. Her mom’s chihuahua, Princess, wandered from room to room as if searching for something.

“I don’t know,” her mother called from the bedroom. “Wherever you want.”

“What do you feel like eating?” Naomi pressed. “Chicken? Steak? Fish?”

“God damn it,” her mother said. “I can’t find my earrings.”

Princess brought a chew toy to Naomi and wagged her tail. Naomi threw the toy and the dog bounded off to fetch it.

“I can’t believe these fucking earrings are gone!” Her mother stalked out, almost tripping over Princess. “You stupid dog!” she screamed. “Do you fucking want me to kill you!”

“It was an accident,” Naomi said. “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking relax!”

Princess had made a dash for the couch and was now curled up on Naomi’s lap, licking the air.

“Just put on different earrings and let’s go,” Naomi said.

“No,” her mother replied. “You know what, I don’t need this shit. I’m not even hungry anymore.”

You Are What You Eat

2010-02-14T11:07:00.001-05:00

“Where are you going?” Naomi asked.

“I know a shortcut,” Bob replied, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other fiddled with the radio. Power metal filled the car and Naomi rolled her eyes.

“This is the wrong way,” she insisted. “We should have made a right back there.”

“This is the way I know,” he said. “Relax, it’s not that far.”

“The other way was faster.” She crossed her arms and watched the blue dot on the GPS take them away from the recommended route.

“It’s not like we’re lost.” He grinned at her. “Consider it an adventure.”

A wailing guitar solo stabbed Naomi like an ice pick to her ears. She turned off the GPS so the blue dot would stop taunting her.

“We should already be there,” she muttered. “Why couldn’t you wait for me to get directions?”

“Relax,” he said again. “You’re acting like your mom.”

The singer on the radio held a screaming high note for an impossibly long time. The song ended as they pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said.

Coquetry Will Cost You

2010-02-12T14:30:00.001-05:00

“So,” the man said, flashing Calliope a charming smile, “what’s a nice girl like you…” He trailed off as he noticed her belt with its dangerous-looking attachments and her large hover boots.

“Oh, you know,” she replied to his unfinished question. “Sometimes a girl needs to unwind.” She leaned forward, giving him an eyeful of cleavage above the half-open zipper of her flight suit. “Care to buy me a drink?”

Back on familiar ground, his smile broadened. “What’ll you have?”

“Something girly,” she said with a giggle. “Synthfruit, little umbrella…”

He motioned for the bartender. “Tequila sunrise for the lady, please.”

“That sounds absolutely decadent,” Calliope murmured. “Can I ask what you do for a living?”

He coughed. “Commodities broker, nothing exciting.”

“Really?” she said. “I thought you were indentured.”

“Why would you think—”

Before he could blink, he found himself fitted with a pair of restraining cuffs.

“Because I’m with the IRS,” she said, grinning. “Bartender, can I get that drink to go?”

Obituary (revised)

2010-02-11T17:21:00.002-05:00

Obituary

MIAMI, FL - Valerie Valdes, the author whose only novel, Job's Complaint, won both the Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize the year it was released, was remembered in a ceremonial ship burial today off the coast of Key Biscayne, Florida. She died of natural causes at her home in South Miami on Thursday night, according to a statement made by family members.

Born in California and raised in Miami, Ms. Valdes eventually moved to Maine with her young family to pursue what she later described in an interview as "the ideal life of a writer, or what I thought it should be, in a place with actual seasons and no distractions." It was there, at age 30, that she suffered a devastating automobile accident. Unused to driving on icy roads, she lost control of her car on a patch of black ice and crashed into a tree. She was discovered hours later, and while the paramedics were able to save her life, she was left in a persistent vegetative state at Mercy Hospital in Bangor.

Over the next thirty years, Ms. Valdes composed her novel and communicated it to doctors through a tedious battery of yes or no questions using increasingly sophisticated brain scanning techniques. The attendant in charge of taking dictation described it as "like using a Ouija board, where you fish around for the right letter and then write it down and move on to the next one." It was well received by critics and the public alike, despite some opposition to the use of her terrible condition as a marketing tool.

Within months of publication, medical advances made it possible for Ms. Valdes’ brain damage to be repaired and she was successfully returned to full consciousness. She spent a whirlwind year in the limelight, appearing on a number of talk shows, news programs and radio stations between stops on an international book tour. After her most famous lecture at Brown University, entitled "Write or Die," she returned to Miami and vanished from the public eye. Despite her reclusive nature and refusal to sell the rights to her novel or life story to film producers, Job’s Complaint entered the literary canon, where it remains firmly entrenched to this day.

She is survived by her husband, two children, five grandchildren and four cats.

Why Do We Even Bring Him

2010-02-11T14:00:00.000-05:00

“It’s over, Armordillo,” Blast Girl said, tapping at his shell. “You can come out now.”

“What?” came the muffled response.

Blast Girl sighed. “Why do we even bring him?” she asked Jade Fist.

He shrugged and threw a psychic punch at a thug on the ground who had started to stir. “Stupid ones waste time trying to hit him while we deal with the rest?”

“And we can hide behind him, I guess.” Blast Girl cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted at the leathery shell. “I SAID, YOU CAN COME OUT NOW.”

Slowly, the plated ball that was Armordillo opened up to expose the man inside, lying on his back with his legs sticking up.

“We won?” he asked, and Blast Girl nodded. Jade Fist continued to monitor the unconscious evildoers.

“Oh, great!” Armordillo rocked from side to side, kicking his legs. Blast Girl finally triggered a minor explosion underneath him that flipped him over, and he waved a pointed glove at her in thanks.

“I don’t care what Mom says,” Blast Girl muttered. “I’m not bringing him next time.”

Empty

2010-02-09T23:32:00.001-05:00

Everyone thought she was a writer, so on every festive occasion they bought her blank notebooks. Black ones with lined pages and rubber bands to hold them closed. Red ones with half blank, half lined pages so she could write and doodle. Leather ones that smelled like new shoes. Brightly colored ones with magnetic flaps. Notebooks with mythical creatures depicted on them in varying styles. She accepted them with smiles and enthusiasm, as her mother had taught her.

One day a shooting pain started in her lower belly and grew worse until finally she found her way to the hospital. By the time she left, she had a scar above her groin and was lighter by a few thousand dollars and one reproductive system. Her mother was devastated at the prospect of no grandchildren.

She arrived home to realize she hadn’t done the dishes before she left. Methodically, she washed them and stacked them on the drying rack. A bird wailed outside and she thought of all the notebooks piled up in her hall closet, empty. It began to rain.

The Great Exhibition

2010-02-09T12:47:00.002-05:00

I actually wrote this a year ago but since I'm trying to collect things I've scattered to the winds, here you go.

* * * * *

"Tom, I found the most amazing thing, you have to come see it!"

Robert's face was flushed with excitement as he grabbed Thomas by the arm and tugged. Thomas tugged back.

"Here now, Nobs, I'm busy," Thomas said. "They've got more bobbies lined up guarding that big diamond and people are narked about having to wait to see it."

"So?" Robert asked.

"So if there's any action, I want to watch," Thomas said.

Robert rolled his eyes. "Oh pssh you, come along. I'll even pay for you if you want."

That sparked Thomas' interest. "Where are we going?"

"To the best part of the fair," Robert said, grinning broadly.

Thomas followed Robert through the ambling crowd that browsed the many wonders on display at the Great Exhibition. The giant room was a broad central avenue flanked by two-story corridors, with a ceiling so tall that ten men could have stood on each others' shoulders and not reached the top. The enormous crystal dome that covered this section of Hyde Park mimicked the greenhouse after which it was patterned, making it warmer inside than outside. The cast iron bars holding everything up crisscrossed each other, forming a lattice of triangles and diamonds that cast geometrically precise shadows on the masses below.

As they walked, Robert completely ignored the amazing exhibits they passed. Half-naked marble statues, cannons, some kind of barometer with jars of leeches, even the man showing how to pick locks--Robert was intent on whatever he had discovered. Thomas tried to pause at the image telegraph but was pulled along with an impatient huff.

Robert stopped short and Thomas ran into his back, nearly bowling him over. Fortunately, Robert was saved from falling by colliding with a gentleman in front of him. The man's hat was knocked clean off and he turned around with walking cane already raised to strike.

"What's all this, then!" the man barked, his thick white mustache bristling. "Just what do you think you're doing!"

"Nothing, sir!" Robert exclaimed, raising his arms reflexively to guard his face. "Sorry, sir!"

"Bloody hooligans," the man muttered, retrieving his stiff black hat and brushing the sleeves of his tailcoat. He returned to the same spot where he had been standing before he was jostled. Thomas realized that they had just added themselves to the back of a long line of fellow fairgoers.

"This queue is almost as bad as the one for the diamond," Thomas said.

"It's worth the wait," Robert replied.

"It had better be," Thomas muttered darkly.

The queue moved more rapidly than Thomas had expected, given its length. As they got closer to the front, he realized that the men and women were being divided into separate lines by a prim butler type in a spotless black coat and white shirt. When the man saw Robert, he grinned. Robert returned the smile.

"Back again, young master?" the man asked.

Robert nodded. "Brought my friend!"

"The more, the merrier, eh?" the man replied with a twinkle in his eye. He directed them to step over to the line on the left.

In front of them was a row of modest black doors atop black wooden staircases, being attended by half a dozen men dressed in the same black coats and white shirts. As far as Thomas could tell, the doors led into small, individual rooms, but he couldn't see what was inside them. Men entered the rooms, stayed in them briefly, and then exited, whereupon the butler-types handed them a towel and something Thomas couldn't see. Then their shoes were shined and they left.

"Hey Nobs, what's in the rooms?" Thomas asked.

"You'll see," Robert replied.

"What does that mean?" Thomas pressed.

"It means you'll see!"

"What if I don't want to?"

"Don't be such an infant, Tom, it's nothing scary."

Thomas punched Robert in the arm. "I'm not the one what pissed himself over a spider in his hair last week."

"You said you wouldn't tell, you git!" Robert punched him back, harder.

"Bugger this exhibit," Thomas said. "I'm going back to the diamond."

"No, look, it's almost our turn!"

Thomas paused. The line behind them stretched well into the main exhibit hall. If he left, he'd either have to come back and wait again, or he'd never find out what was in the rooms.

"You still paying?" Thomas asked.

Robert eyeballed him for a moment, then shrugged. "It's just a bloody penny."

Thomas stepped back into the line and they waited together until an attendant approached them.

"One penny, sir," he told Robert, who handed him two.

"For my friend," he explained, and the attendant nodded. The man guided Robert over to a vacant room and primly held the door open for him, closing it firmly once Robert was inside.

"Ready, young master?" another attendant asked Thomas.

Thomas took a deep breath and nodded, following the man to the room. He ascended the staircase and stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a bang, making him jump. Above him, the room had no ceiling, allowing the natural daylight to illuminate the small space. Thomas stared at the central feature of the room, the like of which he had only heard of but never seen before.

Affixed to the wall was a white ceramic cistern, from which a metal pipe descended into the back of a large, white ceramic bowl elevated from the floor. Another, thicker pipe emerged from the bottom of the bowl and looped up toward the wall before curling back and into the floor. A wooden grip attached to a small length of chain hung from the cistern invitingly.

As if answering some primal call, Thomas' bladder began to protest. He clumsily unbuttoned his pants and relieved himself in the bowl. He stared at the liquid, which didn't move, and realized he was supposed to do something. He pulled the chain thinking maybe it would call the attendant, but instead a great rush of water flooded into the bowl, washing away his leavings through the hole in the bottom. He watched in fascination and reached over to pull the chain again, but the door opened behind him and he had to button himself quickly, flushing with embarrassment.

"All done, master?" the attendant asked.

Thomas nodded and exited the room. The attendant handed him a towel, with which he wiped his hands clean, and then gave him a comb so he could fix his hair. Meanwhile, his boots were shined efficiently, after which he was sent on his merry way.

Robert was waiting for him off to the side, a huge grin on his face. "Well?" he asked. "Wasn't it amazing?"

"Let's do it again," Thomas whispered.

"Here now, I'm not paying for you twice--"

"I'll pay," Thomas interrupted.

Robert stopped. "For me, too?" Thomas nodded.

"Well then," Robert said. "Should we go have some drinks first or just get back in the queue?"

Thomas was already walking to the back of the line. Robert jogged to catch up with him.

"Nobs," Thomas Crapper said with a beatific smile, "I think I know what I want to do with the rest of my life."

"Stand in queues?"

Thomas punched Robert in the arm as they stood together, waiting for another turn in the Monkey Closets.

Late Bloomer

2010-02-08T00:18:00.000-05:00

Soon Aiden had to be kept away from the other kids. Home schooled. It was easier. Bad enough that his little sister made fun of him for being so small.

The family moved a lot. Military brats, the kids were called. By Aiden’s tenth birthday he was introduced as their younger child. Once, this made him throw himself on the ground in a tantrum of kicking, crying, screaming. Through red, tear-filled eyes he saw that no one understood.

His voice dropped when he was thirty, to a husky drawl that girls half his age adored. He never brought them to meet his parents; being with them was illegal, and made his family uncomfortable. His sister had already married, moved away, had children of her own.

His father died when Aiden was sixty, his mother soon after. His sister followed when he was ninety. After her funeral he bought himself a boat and a fake passport, left his country behind, sailed almost aimlessly. At night he fell asleep on deck, the vast sky reflected by the fathomless sea like a promise of infinity.

Obituary

2010-02-05T22:57:00.002-05:00

MIAMI, FL - Valerie, the author whose only novel, Job's Complaint, won both the Pulitzer Prize and Nobel Prize the year it was released, was remembered in a ceremonial ship burial today off the coast of Key Biscayne, Florida. She died of natural causes at her home in South Miami on Thursday night.

Born in California and raised in Miami, she eventually moved to Maine to pursue what she described to friends as "a real writer's life in a place with no distractions." It was there that she suffered a devastating accident on icy roads that left her in a persistent vegetative state.

Over the next thirty years, she composed her novel and communicated it to doctors through a tedious battery of yes or no questions using increasingly sophisticated brain scanning techniques. It was well received by critics and the public alike, despite some opposition to the use of Valerie's terrible condition as a marketing tool.

Within months of publication, medical advances made it possible for Valerie's brain damage to be repaired and she was successfully returned to full consciousness. After a whirlwind year in the limelight, she returned to Miami and vanished from the public eye even as her novel entered the literary canon, where it remains firmly entrenched to this day.

She is survived by her husband, two children, five grandchildren and four cats.

Milestone

2010-02-05T22:55:00.001-05:00

The last post was my hundredth on this blog. That seems to warrant some kind of comment.

I'll go with Stewart O'Nan's paraphrase of Joseph Conrad's maxim "that there are only two difficult things about writing: starting and not stopping." Indeed.

Protocol

2010-02-05T17:12:00.002-05:00

My mother was in labor for five hours before she became convinced that natural childbirth was a mistake.

"Drugs!" she screamed. "I want drugs!"

It was too late for an epidural and morphine was out of the question. She had to get by on mere painkillers, which to her pain were the equivalent of sawing through a redwood with a toothbrush.

She demanded that my father be summoned. He was on alert, so he was supposed to stay on the Air Force base, in case war broke out unexpectedly. A compromise was reached: his buddy Dave would have to sit in the hallway of the hospital next to a phone, waiting for a potential call to arms. In full uniform.

My father stroked my mother's hair and promised he would never do this to her again. Dave slouched further and further down in his chair, accepting the occasional cup of coffee from a sympathetic nurse. My mother screamed and cried and my father paced frantically. Dave nodded off.

Twenty-two hours later, just after ten in the morning, I was dragged into the world with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. Six pounds, seven ounces. My mother couldn't believe it.

"All that work for that little thing?" she said.

My father tore himself away from my side to give Dave the good news. The phone hadn't made a peep and their shift was over, but Dave was still there.

"It's a girl," my father said.

"Damn," Dave said. "Guess you can't name her after me, then?"

They laughed and strolled over to where the nurses were setting me up in the baby ward with about a dozen other fresh faces. I was the only girl.

"There she is," my father said.

"Little slip of a thing," Dave said. He patted my father on the back. "I'm going home. Tell her she owes me a beer when she gets old enough."

Dave, I figure I owe you about twenty-two of them. Hope you're still out there waiting for my call.

Technicality

2010-02-04T17:29:00.001-05:00

“I don’t know, this is pretty tenuous logic.” Euphorion raised an eyebrow at his father.

“To you, perhaps,” Aeschylus said. “What do you know of reproduction?”

“I know a cow never calved without a bull,” Euphorion replied. “But neither did a bull’s seed grow into anything without being inside a cow.”

“But think,” his father said. “Dough becomes bread in an oven, but we would not say the oven is any part of the bread?”

His son considered this. “That does not explain why some children favor their mother in appearance,” he replied. “Some part of her must be involved. Like the egg of a chicken, which only becomes another chicken if a rooster—”

“But will the audience believe it?” Aeschylus interrupted. “Will Apollo’s speech sway the crowd as it sways the jury in the play?”

Euphorion read the passage again. “I think the audience does not want Orestes to die,” he murmured. “Perhaps the only answer to unreasonable laws is an unreasonable technicality.”

Aeschylus laughed. “Spoken like a true playwright.”

From The Lamanai Codex, Chapter 10

2010-02-02T15:45:00.002-05:00

I was just informed of a little something called Fight Scene BlogFest, so I figured, why not toss something into the fray. You see what I did there. I... never mind. This is from my last NaNoWriMo novel, which is still very much in progress.

* * * * *

"What's the plan, Doc?" Eliza asked as they crouched behind the car.

"We, er, surprise them?" Dr. Lancaster said uncertainly.

"Works for me," Eliza said. "I'll take the big guy and the lady, you take the skinny dude."

"I can take someone other than the... skinny dude!" Dr. Lancaster protested.

"Fine, take the lady," Eliza said. "Whatever. Just stay out of my way."

Another scream issued from inside the house. Eliza did some kind of quick stretch and then vaulted the car and raced for the door. Dr. Lancaster followed, wishing she had some kind of weapon but knowing that such things could be used against her. Eliza disappeared into the house and, taking a deep breath, Dr. Lancaster went in after her.

Copeland's son was on the ground behind the door, his face in the process of being rearranged by the burly man while the woman looked on passively. The other man was nowhere to be seen. She took this in quickly and then reevaluated as the scene changed.

Eliza sent a sharp kick toward the back of the man's head, knocking him flat since he was already near the floor. The woman turned in surprise and lunged at Eliza, who had already backed away and proceeded to lash out with a rapid series of kicks and punches that the woman absorbed with remarkable fortitude. Meanwhile, the man on the ground was struggling to his feet and Copeland's son was crawling away using his good arm.

"Mierda," Dr. Lancaster cursed. Looking around, her eyes settled on a large clay pot near one of the sofas. She leapt over and grabbed it, turning around just in time for Eliza to kick the woman right into her. The woman smashed into the pot with her head and Dr. Lancaster was thrown back onto the couch, the woman half in her lap. Without thinking, she grabbed a smaller pot and brought it down on the woman's head as well. This one, however, was not clay: it was cast iron. The woman sank to the ground with a groan and didn't move.

"Nicely done, Doc!" Eliza exclaimed just before the man on the ground dove at her legs and knocked her down. He jumped on top of her with a savage grin and punched her straight in the face. Her head bounced against the terrazzo floor with a sickening crack. As he drew his fist back to hit Eliza again, Dr. Lancaster swung the cast iron pot at his head. He dodged but still received a glancing blow, and abandoned the apparently unconscious Eliza for the clearly vibrant Dr. Lancaster.

She swung at him again and he dodged again, rising to his feet. They were about the same height, but he easily weighed twice as much as she did. After a few more feeble swings dodged, he was able to grab the pot and yank it out of Dr. Lancaster's hand, throwing it behind him and rushing toward her like a linebacker aiming to sack the quarterback. She jumped aside and he crashed into the coffee table, splintering it like it was made of toothpicks. Unfazed, he turned and charged her again, and this time managed to grab her waist as she tried to dance beyond his grasp. He pulled her close in a bear hug and treated her to that same grin he had given Eliza as he slowly tightened his grip to squeeze the breath out of her.

Knowing that she had at least a minute before her air was gone, Dr. Lancaster did what had worked against such people before: she viciously headbutted him right in the teeth. Unfortunately, he seemed to be better equipped to deal with such a move than the last person she had tried it on, the only difference in his demeanor that he was now grinning while blood dripped from his nose and turned his teeth red.

"You two-timing me, baby?" a voice from behind the man said, and as he relaxed his grip on Dr. Lancaster and turned to look, a fist plowed into the side of his face. Teeth audibly cracked and he released Dr. Lancaster enough for her to slip out of his grasp and stagger backwards, gasping for air. The man completed his turn to see Eliza in a defensive stance, grinning at him and gesturing for him to come and get her. He was only too happy to oblige.

Dr. Lancaster left the two of them to their row and rushed to Copeland's son, who had almost reached the other room. "Are you all right?" she asked him. He shook his head, his face already swollen and changing colors. She grabbed him under his arms and hauled him the rest of the way into the room, closing the door after them and locking it. On the floor, she saw the gun that she had kicked away earlier and wondered why he had never gone back to pick it up. Idiot.

"Listen," she told him. "They want the book, and they want you dead and out of their way, just like your father. Give it to me and they'll come after me instead."

He tried to say something but his mouth was apparently in too much pain. Blood dribbled from between his lips and Dr. Lancaster wondered if it was all localized or if he was bleeding internally.

"Is the book in here?" Dr. Lancaster asked, and he shook his head. "The kitchen? The bathroom?" Shake, shake. Exasperated, she said, "I don't suppose you hid it in the recingado flower pot outside?" At this, he nodded, and she stared at him in horror.

"That book is a priceless five hundred year old artifact and you left it outside to the elements like a bit of compost?" she shrieked. He shook his head and looked as offended as anyone could with a face covered in bruises and contusions. Again, he seemed to be trying to speak, but gave up and just groaned, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The door burst open, revealing one out cold strongman and one winded and slightly bleeding teaching assistant, who turned her head and spat blood at the floor in a very unladylike fashion.

"Are you quite finished?" Dr. Lancaster asked, smirking.

"Me?" Eliza grinned. "I could go a bit longer, but I think I wore him out."

E is for Exorcism

2010-02-01T15:53:00.001-05:00

“I’m looking for a book on demonic possession.”

Betsy plastered on a smile. The customer wore a faded overcoat in the dead of summer. His gray hair was thinning at the top and stuck out all over.

“I think we have some in the religion section, second aisle from the back,” she replied in her friendliest voice.

“Do you think someone can be possessed and not know it?” he continued. “I need a book about that.”

“If we have it,” she said, “I think it would be in the religion section.” He cleared his throat with a gurgling cough and left her at the information desk.

Hours later, her shift almost over, she noticed he was still there. Almost as soon as her eyes fell on him, he seemed to shake off some kind of trance and started for the door, empty-handed.

She sort of felt bad for him. “Good luck!” she called after his retreating form.

He stopped and glanced back at her. She thought his eyes went black for a fraction of a second, whites and all. “Good luck,” he repeated. “That’s… interesting.” And then he left.

Plenipotentiary

2010-01-27T13:07:00.001-05:00

“Fuck you, asshole!” Sheila screamed.

“You already did, whore,” Jack retorted. “Sorry, I mean ‘slut.’ A whore charges. You give it away like free samples at Costco.”

“Cut, cut!” yelled Greg. “I need more venom from you, Jack, and Sheila, if you could tone it down a bit that would be great.”

The two actors stared at the director in disbelief.

“Fuck you, Greg,” Sheila growled. “Stay out of this.”

“It’s none of your business,” Jack added.

“Really?” Greg asked. “My two principals are fighting in the smallest green room known to man and it’s none of my business? None of my business?”

They both started to speak and Greg silenced them with a gesture.

“I don’t give a shit who fucked who,” Greg said quietly. “I give a shit about the play that is opening tonight, starring you two horny fucks. You are both stellar actors, so fucking act like professionals or we’ll see how much your understudies have been paying attention.”

He turned and stalked out of the room, silence like a thunderclap echoing behind him.

Frangible

2010-01-26T15:06:00.001-05:00

Shots rang out above the heads of two soldiers leaning against a makeshift barricade in the center of the road.

“Cease-fire’s over, I guess,” said Private Abrams.

“Not until we get orders,” said Private Michaels. “Call it in. See what the brass says.”

“So we sit here until we get shot?”

“Or until we get orders, yeah.”

Abrams tilted up his helmet to scratch his forehead. “Sounds stupid to me.”

“You don’t get paid to think.”

“You don’t get paid to be a dick.”

Michaels shrugged. Abrams radioed the base. They sat in silence, bullets striking the wooden slats and sandbags behind them.

Abrams finally spoke. “Isn’t there a self-defense clause? I mean, they already broke the cease-fire by firing at us.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Michaels said. “What’s a promise worth if you’ll break it, good reason or bad?”

“I’d say it’s worth my life, for one thing. Wasn’t my promise anyway.”

Michaels opened his mouth to reply, but the hand grenade tossed into their laps brought the argument to an abrupt end.

Lacuna

2010-01-21T21:49:00.001-05:00

Marie was always happiest in gaps. Empty spaces. As a child, she hid in the center of the clothing racks at department stores, or in the corner of the living room between sofa and loveseat. When it rained she tried to dart between drops to stay dry.

Her parents thought she needed a creative outlet and some discipline, so they enrolled her in violin lessons with an old man who was wiry and taut as a string, hair white as the horsehair he rosined.

His name was Mr. Rose and Marie was initially an apt pupil. She learned to read music readily, and could find the notes on the fretboard with ease. But she played her scales too slowly, waiting an eternity between each note. At last, in frustration, he brought out his metronome.

“Keep time with this,” he said, moving the weight to set it ticking, back and forth. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes unfocused. “Go on,” he urged.

She played every melody he set her perfectly, without hesitation. But what he couldn’t know was that she was really playing the spaces between.

Draconian

2010-01-16T14:34:00.000-05:00

Xanthes wiped the sweat from his forehead, leaning against the plow as Dicaeopolis swallowed water from his flagon.

“Do you think he’ll do it?” Xanthes asked.

Dicaeopolis squinted at him. “Best not to get hopes up,” he said finally. “Their land or our land, we’ll still plow and harvest it.”

“But if it’s ours, we can sell some of our crop, maybe buy another ox—”

“If it happens, we plan. Dreaming about Solon’s sweet words will not put bread on our table.”

Dicaeopolis goaded the ox forward and Xanthes guided the plow, the July sun lashing their backs like Helios’ whip on the steeds pulling his chariot. Stalks of wheat fell under the blade and were trampled beneath them, to be collected by the children trailing behind.

“It’s unfair,” Xanthes said later, using a piece of bread to shovel mashed beans into his mouth. “We do the work, they get the pleasure, by the luck of their birth.”

“Let no man count himself lucky until he is dead,” Dicaeopolis said quietly. “Eat. Sleep. We have work to do in the morning.”

Flagitious Times

2010-01-12T13:11:00.000-05:00

It was an uneasy moral ground that Marik inhabited. She had been taught that each person was born in his rightful place as ordained by the gods, and that no man should seek to exceed his caste lest the gods strike him down for doubting their wisdom. Worth was granted, not earned.

And then she had killed a man who had tried to kill her. She had done it instinctively, gracefully, with the man’s own sword. He had been an assassin by trade, and such people were not meant to die easily. When his fellows found her, she assumed they were the hand of Tosh coming to exact vengeance.

She remembered the questions, the sleep deprivation, the torture. She remembered the pale face of the guild master, Lady Clarissa, deep blue eyes searching her own black ones. Finally, she remembered the Lady’s words to her just before she began her training.

“These are flagitious times,” the Lady had said. “We must make ourselves worthy of them.”

Perhaps, Marik had thought, the gods granted worth to those bold enough to seek it?

Onus

2010-01-11T14:13:00.001-05:00

She had been lucky. In her homeland, Marik was a loman, a step up from casteless. Here, in the famed city of Gilnair, her merit was judged by her deeds rather than the misfortune of her birth.

She prayed to mighty Tosh to grant her strength and speed, then ran to the end of the roof and leaped, flying through the window of her mark’s home and landing in a tight roll that brought her to her feet. She had not so much as disturbed the curtains that waved in the light breeze.

Still, her arrival was not unnoticed. Two guards who flanked the window had just enough time to raise their curved swords before they fell, knives buried to the hilt in their necks. Two more guards rushed into the room and met the same fate. Downstairs, she heard people moving around and knew it was time to act.

Marik bowed deeply and formally to the man in the bed. “May Tosh make me worthy of your death,” she said in her own tongue. The man’s cry became a gurgle as her blade sliced his throat open.

She bowed again, and was gone.

Misunderstanding

2010-01-10T15:48:00.000-05:00

Mike was so excited about his first real dive that he sat on the boat in full gear for a half hour while the other divers finished preparing.

“You sure you’re ready, Mike?” Steve quipped. “The sink is still in the galley.”

Mike rolled his eyes.

“Stick with me,” Steve continued. “You probably won’t get lost, but better safe than sorry.”

The divers assembled and one by one fell backwards into the gently rolling waves. Mike obediently followed Steve around the reef for a while, admiring brightly colored fish darting about and anemones undulating in the current. Eventually, he drifted off to follow a school of parrotfish into open water.

He saw Steve in the distance, waving at him. He waved back. Steve waved again, swimming away, too far for Mike to see anything but his arm swinging back and forth.

Then he remembered that divers didn’t wave to say hello, but to signal danger. Mike turned to see a mass of delicate pink balloons floating a few yards away, their tentacles already reaching out to greet him.

Quotidian

2010-01-08T14:35:00.001-05:00

Calliope Cervantes slammed the man’s face against the ground, twice. His nose bled profusely, but she didn’t feel sorry for him; he HAD tried to slice her arm off with a nanofilament sword.

“A sword,” she muttered. “I mean, come on.”

She slipped restraining cuffs over his hands, activating the antigrav so that he was pulled up to hang in mid-air like some ancient religious icon. Normally she would have used a belt, but this was more uncomfortable.

She left him, grumbling about his rights, with the indenture agent at the nearest IRS office.

“Have fun terraforming Titan, you miserable twat,” she cooed, wiggling her fingers at him in a mocking wave.

“You don’t have to be a bitch, Cal,” a voice said behind her.

“That’s like saying you don’t have to be a robot, Mack,” she replied, turning to face him. “We can’t help what we are.”

“Doing this job every day has made you a hard woman.”

“I was already the hardest, that’s why they gave me the job.” She yawned. “Now who do I have to shoot to get some coffee?”

Following Orders

2010-01-05T18:54:00.001-05:00

“Smoking is prohibited in this area, sir.”

Lars glared at the security bot, its too-human face emotionless. Barricaded in a stairwell of the Corporation headquarters, they waited for the rebels to break through to their position.

“Shove it,” he said. “I’m in charge here. There’s rules, and then there’s rules.”

“That is a tautology.”

“Some rules can be broken.” He took a deep drag of the cigarette, savoring the fullness in his lungs.

“Rules exist for a reason.” The bot’s tone was almost questioning.

“Probably to stop the alarms from going off,” Lars said, gesturing at a blue light on the wall. “With all the other fires in the building, they’re deactivated, so—”

“But if one rule can be broken, then any can.”

Lars snorted in derision. “Some rules are more important than others.”

“Ah,” the robot said. “Hierarchy. But must there not be a conflict between rules for that to—”

“There’s going to be plenty conflict in a second,” Lars snapped. “Let me finish my damn cigarette. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Invasion

2010-01-04T23:06:00.001-05:00

It started with Agnes Carruthers, or rather with her cat, Pickles. He looked her calmly in the eyes and said, “They are coming,” then went back to washing his pink nether bits. She tried to warn her children, but they thought she was going senile and ignored her.

Then there was the sudden appearance of several hundred bicycles at the top of the Eiffel Tower. They were all lime green with battery-operated lights and squeeze horns. The monument was shut down for hours as the police removed the offending conveyances, to the dismay and confusion of tourists.

Other nuisances major and minor presented themselves, but no concerted effort was made to discover their source until the destruction of Tokyo by Godzilla. That the monster was supposed to be fictional did not escape the notice of the global community, who demanded answers.

Agnes had the answers, because Pickles had given them to her, but she kept them to herself. How could you explain to an entire planet that their only salvation was to stop dreaming?

"Moist, with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule"

2010-01-03T17:52:00.001-05:00

She stood in the doorway smiling at me, dark hair loose around her shoulders, her dress torn as I had—but no, she lay on the floor at my feet, warm skin growing cold, mouth open in an inchoate scream.

“Look what you’ve done, my love,” she murmured. “You’ve killed me.”

“I did not mean…” I whispered. “W-we were to marry. Why did you—”

“Reject you?” she said, moving toward me. “I told you, our love is not bound by this pathetic mortal coil. This was a test.”

“A test?” I repeated. “You acted as if you didn’t know me!”

“And you stood strong.” She caressed my arm, pacing around me. “You held me as Menelaus held Proteus, and now you see my true form.”

“But—”

“Hush.” She placed a finger on my lips, and a knife in my hands. “The test is not yet over. Now you must join me, that we might live in eternity together.”

As the last of my heart’s blood pooled on the floor, my mind was opened. I knew her for the dream witch that she was, and I knew myself to be a murderer. Then, mercifully, I knew nothing more.

Dolores

2009-12-22T12:44:00.000-05:00

She wondered if her mother had named her in a burst of prescience, or if her name had led her to this. Dolores. Pains. She felt them more keenly than other people did, so they paid her to do the feeling for them.

She put on a black dress, pulled a black shawl over her bony shoulders. A black veil obscured her face, but she often tore it during the ceremony. She bought veils wholesale from a man who made them with cheap cloth, like paper. In her youth, she would have ravaged her dress as well, even scratched her face and arms in despair, but she had to be more restrained now. Her skin was as thin as her veils, and equally hard to mend.

This was the funeral of Mr. Lee, who had owned the laundry around the corner. She had known him, but that made no difference. Every life was precious to her, every death a disaster. Already she felt the tears coming. She slipped on her walking shoes and hobbled down to the street, a wail building inside her like a wave, ready to wash over the mourners and leave them clean.

If you can't find it, fake it

2009-12-21T16:52:00.002-05:00

“If I did Titanic today, I’d do it very differently. There wouldn’t be a 750-foot-long set. There would be small set pieces integrated into a large CGI set. I wouldn’t have to wait seven days to get the perfect sunset for the kiss scene. We’d shoot it in front of a green screen, and we’d choose our sunset.” --James Cameron

"Reading those comments by James Cameron just makes me feel sad for movie making today." --afscot

Why is my buddy sad? Because he thinks it's weird to fabricate something that exists in the real world for the sake of convenience. Film makers are relying more and more on technology to substitute for the real when the real isn't readily available or would be more expensive to procure or create. Forget shooting on location in some remote jungle for weeks when you can set up a green screen and do the same work in a few days. Don't worry about building some elaborate contraption to make your actor appear to be missing limbs, or setting an actual stunt person on fire, or blowing up the Statue of Liberty in miniature; computers can handle everything. Depressing, isn't it?

Not really. Movies are fictional, after all, and they always have been. Anyone yearning for some mythical good old days seems to have forgotten that once upon a time, movies were filmed on sound stages with staged lighting and painted backgrounds that were swapped out as soon as the director said, "That's a wrap!" It wasn't until the 1960's that one could say most films were shot on location, and that didn't mean they were bereft of the various trappings of the studio stuff. Even Italian neorealism and cinéma vérité required specialized technology and careful setup, not to mention the eventual manipulation of the raw footage through editing. No movie can truly said to be "real," only a more or less realistic representation of reality as we know it. Why, then, cannot "as we know it" become "as we wish it to be"?

Still, is there something to be said for shooting "practical" instead of digital? Naturally; until recently, and arguably still today, technology had not sufficiently advanced to be able to trick the audiences' brains into accepting the animated as something that actually exists. However, movies like Avatar push the boundaries of the impossible back to make room for a few more possibilities. Does it matter whether the enormous eyes and blue fur of a character are digital or pasted on and sewn together? Does it matter whether the spaceship flying through an alien jungle is a miniature or a computer model? Both are equally unreal, and yet can be equally satisfying.

In time--perhaps now!--it may very well be easier and more cost effective to simply fabricate a sunset than to have a film crew standing by every day for a week to capture an hour or so of footage in the hopes that it yields the perfect shot. If anything, the film makers of the distant past would probably find it sad that anyone would wait on that sort of thing when they could just have an artist paint a backdrop and be done with it.

Largess

2009-12-14T14:14:00.001-05:00

The curator and her assistant stared at the painting, which was the size of a small bus. Finally, Hugh spoke.

“God, it’s ugly.”

“That’s modern art for you,” Amy said.

“How much is it worth?”

“Millions.”

“And he’s just giving it to the museum?”

Amy shrugged. “I’m sure there’s a tax write-off in it for him. Shh, he’s coming back.”

They smiled radiantly at their benefactor as he approached. Marcus Harvey could have passed for Santa’s evil twin, with wispy white hair and cheeks that were likely rosy from alcoholism rather than merriment. He fixed his beady eyes on them and sniffed.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he said gruffly.

“Magnificent,” Amy said.

“Sensational,” Hugh agreed.

“Such a bold panoply of colors.”

“And the brush strokes… divine!”

“I’ve never seen such a vivid representation of existential ennui.”

Harvey nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

“Your generosity is unparalleled,” Amy gushed.

Harvey stared at it, shaking his head sadly. “Had to get rid of it. Wife said it was too ugly to bear.”

How to Be Deep When Your Life Is Pretty Okay

2009-12-10T18:47:00.001-05:00

It is not easy to write about
granola bars and ripe bananas,
the ineffable angst of losing
an expensive cell phone, addiction
to organic lip gloss and hand cream.
There is little gravitas in sushi
despite an allergy to avocado,
and cats simply expect to be fed.

Even so there is time for thought
while driving on highways perpetually
being constructed and reconstructed,
as lane closures coax people closer together,
an ibis delicately picks its way between
giant piles of dirt, an excavator
rumbles as it passes, dig, dig, dig
and see what is unearthed.

Fatuous

2009-12-08T14:04:00.001-05:00

“Dave,” Sheena had said, “I can’t stay married to a child for the rest of my life. If you want to act fucking simple, do it by yourself.” And then she had left him.

He missed her, but he had Rhonda now. She appreciated him. Understood him.

“Bug, ten o’clock!” Rhonda shouted. Dave leveled his shotgun at the huge, spindly-legged creature and squeezed the trigger, grinning at the explosion of carapace chunks and fluids. The action was repeated as more of the monsters surrounded them, until there was only a soggy pile of leftovers.

“Gross,” Rhonda said, wiping goo off her shirt. “Any chance of a shower?”

“Nah,” Dave replied. “No running water anymore.” He grinned. “Nothing sexier than a sweet little lady covered in bug juice.”

Rhonda punched him in the arm. “Come on, lover boy. One more day of hard driving and we’ll be at Edwards. Maybe the Air Force still has showers.”

They finished siphoning gas into the Prius and drove off: a simple man, a simple woman, and a car full of weapons and ammunition and hope.

Bonhomie

2009-12-07T16:27:00.001-05:00

He’d asked for someone easy-going. Pleasant. Good-looking, any ethnicity. Oh, and with at least a master’s degree in physics, preferably a PhD, specializing in optics. Neil gave the agency his credit card information, trying to be hopeful after what had happened with the last girl.

And then she had arrived. She wore a short dress, black hair pulled back, coffee-colored skin making her white smile look brighter.

“Hi, I’m Rachel,” she said. “How can I help you today?”

“Well,” he mumbled, “I could maybe take you down to the lab?”

“Sounds fun! Let’s go.”

They descended a staircase hidden behind a bookshelf, into a huge underground cavern filled with electronics. At the center was a giant laser attached to a computer. Rachel’s eyes lit up and she ran over to inspect it.

“This is amazing!” she exclaimed.

“Want to help me work on it?” Neil asked shyly.

“You bet I do! Let me get changed.”

Sometimes it pays to be an evil scientist, Neil thought, watching Rachel’s shapely backside bounce toward the bathroom.

Roborant

2009-12-04T15:09:00.001-05:00

I wondered how old he was when I killed him. A century? Two? Ten? He looked to be almost fifty until I wiped off layers of makeup, revealing the face of a man in his early thirties at most. No matter. The bowl was mine, now.

It was about five inches in diameter, an inch or two deep, and apparently made of platinum. Stories would have you think that only the pure and saintly can possess it; luckily for me, that claim seemed to be exaggerated.

But how I was supposed to use it? Fill it with water and drink, presumably, but how much water? How often? Did it have to be a special kind of water, or some other liquid? I had spent so much time figuring out the logistics of eternal life that I hadn’t considered whether there might be technical specifics as well. Only one way to find out.

I entered the man’s kitchen and held the bowl under the faucet, letting it fill with tap water. I raised it to my lips and drank. I felt the same, but maybe it took time to work.

And now, of course, I had all the time in the world.

Myrmidon

2009-12-03T15:46:00.002-05:00

There was still something of the ant in us, in the blackness of our armor, the way we formed neat lines as we summoned our rage for battle. Entering the fray, our spears were as stingers piercing our enemies, our swords as sharp jaws cutting through flesh and bone. We left bright trails for our brothers to follow as we danced death through the lines of the Trojans, who fled back to the relative safety of their tall walls.

The war ended, and those who were not crushed beneath its heel found the nostos they sought, turning ant once again to furrow fields in straight rows and build earthen walls to shelter their families. Except me. I craved only battle, and my lust was insatiable. Tireless. The gods granted me a gift, which I now give to you.

It is a sword, yes, but it can be a rifle, or machete, or pistol--whatever instrument of death you desire. There will always be someone willing to pay for your services, be they armies or petty criminals. Me? I have grown tired. But I sense something of the ant in you...

NaNoWriMo post-game analysis

2009-12-01T15:34:00.000-05:00

I'd say this year was my best November noveling effort to date. I had a reasonably good outline going into it, subdivided to facilitate daily goals, and I made the word count every day with breaks on Fridays to rest and extra writing on the weekends. I'm definitely more of a tortoise than a hare when it comes to writing, and this year taught me that consistency is a wonderful thing.

Alas, the story is not all told, and so I look forward to actually finishing this novel instead of abandoning it like all my previous efforts. This one feels much more coherent plot-wise, although certainly not perfect, so I am not as eager to lay it aside and move on to the next project. It is still a first draft, of course, so extensive revision is in the cards for me as well.

I am proud to note that I raised over $200 for the Office of Letters and Light, the fine folks who run the horse and pony show that is NaNo, which will help fund writing programs for kids and adults. This world definitely needs more literacy and written communication skills, and I am happy to encourage that in whatever way I can.

Now, onward and upward, as they say. A writer is someone who writes, and so I shall.

Somewhat random pep talk

2009-11-18T17:02:00.003-05:00

I just sent this out to the participants in National Novel Writing Month who are members of the Miami region, and who are thus fated to receive such emails from me twice a week. May it motivate you as it is supposed to motivate them.

* * * * *

A friend told me a story the other day about her time on the high school track team. She and her teammates would run for miles every day, each keeping her own pace. Some people were able to move ahead of the group, some kept a steady pace throughout, and others would fall behind. Sound familiar?

Well, one day she was running next to one girl in particular, the two of them trekking side by side through the neighborhoods around the school. My friend got very tired and wanted to stop for a rest, but she looked at that girl next to her and told herself, "If she can do it, so can I." To her surprise, she found reserves of energy she hadn't known were there. When they reached their destination, my friend told the girl, "Thank you for motivating me to finish the run. I was so tired I almost dropped out, but you kept me going." The girl laughed and said, "I was about to tell you the same thing!"

That is the beauty of NaNoWriMo. We are all running separately, but we are on the same path headed for the same destination. Look at the word counts of your fellow Miami Wrimos and let them motivate you. Pick a NaNo buddy and try to keep pace with him or her. If you're falling behind and feeling discouraged, know that you're not alone and that we all feel the same way sometimes. At those times, we look to that person next to us and think, "If she can do it, so can I." And who knows: someone may be looking at you for that encouragement!

Mid-NaNo Update

2009-11-16T18:09:00.003-05:00

When you are trying to write 50,000 words of a novel in a month, you generally do not want to use them up on blog posts, no matter how vital the information you want to convey regarding your current eating habits and bowel movements. Twitter becomes the ideal method of dispersing that kind of information, as it requires brevity of its users and thus also encourages levity by virtue of the transitive rhyming property.

But I digress. I wanted to update everyone on my progress with this month's novel, tentatively titled The Lamanai Codex. First, I think it is a splendid name destined to capture the DaVinci Code crowd and become an international bestseller. Second, I am keeping pace with my outline, having just surpassed the 30,000-word mark with a little under half of the novel remaining to be written, meaning that I am likely to actually finish the damn thing this month.

Third, as I am one of the two Municipal Liaisons for my region, I have the honor of facilitating the novel writing experiences of some hundred-odd people, most of whom prefer to toil in obscurity and probably delete my emails without reading them. Some of them, however, are toiling right out in the open and I am usually right behind them yelling "Sprint!" in a soothing yet menacing voice. Often I have bread in my mouth because most of the write-ins (as our get-togethers are called) are held at Panera Bread, which has the finest chicken salad sandwich in all the land. The secret is grapes of the red seedless variety.

This year I've been writing in the third person instead of the first person, and it has been an interesting experience to say the least. I apparently lack the ability to smoothly integrate descriptive information into the action of the story and have resorted to conveying nearly everything through dialog. I sometimes feel like I am writing an unformatted screenplay instead of a novel sometimes, but I keep telling myself that I'll fix it in December.

And so, once more into the breach, dear friends, and no I will not look up the actual quote in order to get it just right, I have more writing to do. See you all in December.

Octoberfest: preparing for NaNoWriMo

2009-10-22T15:49:00.003-04:00

Even though it's replicated in a few places, I'm sticking this guide here for the sake of not having to go looking for it again. It's sort of a compendium of stuff I've found elsewhere and distilled through my own feeble brain. Hope it's helpful!

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Like most writers, when I decide that I'm going to write a story, I usually have one of five reasons:

1) I have an interesting character whose story I want to tell.
2) I have an interesting theme or idea that I want to convey.
3) I have an interesting setting that I want to describe.
4) I have an interesting plot that I want to explore.
5) I have an interesting scene that needs a home.

Saving the last one for discussion later, the other four reasons have to do with four basic elements of literature: character, theme (or idea, or premise), setting and plot. Every story has all of these elements, be it short short fiction or a multi-volume novel, but the best stories are able to interweave them into a cohesive whole without letting one or the other dominate. Unfortunately, it's rare to have all four of these things magically appear in my head all at once, so while I generally start with one, I have to work to create the other three.

But how to approach that work? What's the most efficient and effective way to assemble these elements into the proverbial well-oiled machine that is a good story? Different methods are successful for different people, but here's my take on the subject, step by step. I'm assuming that you're writing a fairly straightforward story with a relatively happy ending; if not, you'll need to make some modifications to some of the points I discuss. Hopefully, however, this will be useful no matter what kind of tale you plan to tell.

* * * * *

Character and premise are the foundations for any story. Most of the time, the argument goes that character yields premise, but it's sort of a "chicken or the egg" question: you can start with a character and then craft a premise, or you can start with a premise and then craft a character. Either way, there are important questions to answer about both your character and premise.

Your protagonist, or main character, is the motivator of your story. Why? Because he is the one making the decisions that lead to the events in the story. If the character isn't developed, then the actions don't seem motivated, and the characters become puppets going through the motions at the whims of their master. It's tough to relate to a character that has no control whatsoever over what's going on around him or seems to make inconsistent decisions. It's even tougher to relate to a character that has no depth, no past, no defined personality and quirks. The more you develop your main character, the more the reader will sympathize with him and become concerned for the outcome of his story.

So what do you need to know about the character? If you know nothing else, you need to know:

* What he WANTS
* What he NEEDS
* What his MAJOR FLAW is

Those three things will create the premise for you. Unfortunately, those three things are not always immediately apparent, so it's usually easier to do some other work first. Let's try to answer some basic questions about the character, stuff that won't necessarily be included in the story but can be helpful for creating a realistic, compelling character. Try these questions on the protagonist first, then move on to the antagonist, then to secondary characters and so on.

1) What is the character's name?

I'm terrible about picking names. I always want them to be significant, but not cheesy; cool, but not so cool that they sound unrealistic; unique, but not ridiculous. Baby name websites can be a good place to start, because they'll often give you information about what names are currently popular and what weird names celebrities are using for their kids and so on. They also let you search by various criteria such as country of origin or meaning. Or you can try my new favorite method: random name generator. I don't stick with exactly what is produced here, but it is an excellent jumping off point.

Sometimes it's best to pick the name of one of your friends or family or coworkers just so you have something to call the character until you answer more questions. You can always go back and change it later, no charge.

2) When was your character born?

Every year, Beloit College puts together a list they call the Mindset List, which includes a number of factoids regarding the students who enter college that year. For example, this year's introduction states, "Most of them will be about 18 years old, born in 1990 when headlines sounded oddly familiar to those of today: Rising fuel costs were causing airlines to cut staff and flight schedules; Big Three car companies were facing declining sales and profits; and a president named Bush was increasing the number of troops in the Middle East in the hopes of securing peace."

When your character was born can affect his outlook on the world, his knowledge of history and culture, his tastes in clothing and food, and many other important aspects of his personality. The good news is, you get to decide when he was born so you can pick a time frame that's convenient to you.

You might also want to consider the astrological significance of your chosen birthday. This can help you focus on specific character traits if you don't have a clear idea of what you want your character to be like. Scan the horoscopes and see if you'd rather your character be an Aries or a Libra, a Pig or a Dragon. Not only is this a useful tool, but if you get rich and famous and people become obsessed with your character, this kind of thing will become important and significant to them and you don't want to get caught with your pants down, figuratively speaking.

If you're writing fantasy or sci-fi of some kind, this is still important but you'll be operating within a historical framework of your own invention.

3) Where was the character born?

See above regarding outlook, tastes, etc. You can always make your character a rebel in his hometown, but be sure you know what he was rebelling against in the first place.

It's probably best to have the character come from a place you are familiar with. I am reminded of an episode of CSI: Miami, in which the main character visits a house in Coral Gables. To anyone who lives in or near Coral Gables, there was no doubt that this house and its neighborhood were most definitely NOT in Coral Gables. If people in your audience can tell that you don't know what you're talking about, you've lost them. However, if you're willing to expend the time and energy to properly familiarize yourself with a specific location, go nuts.

Also, you can make your character from a specific place, but set it up so that the character moved at such a young age that he doesn't remember anything about said location. It's cheap, but it works if you absolutely must have him come from a place you haven't visited. I don't see why you'd do that, but to each his own.

4) Where does the character live now?

See above. This may or may not be where the story takes place; if it is, see above harder.

5) What is your character's race/ethnicity/heritage?

This may or may not relate to both #3 and #4, but see both for details. Don't pick a heritage unless you are familiar with it, because again, you'll just end up looking like an idiot to people in the know.

Each culture has a different set of norms and moral imperatives, so keep those in mind when you decide what ethnicity to choose. In addition, race can be a volatile issue depending on the setting of your story; don't set a story in the Deep South and make the character Hispanic unless you intend for sparks to fly.

Again, if you're making up your own world, you set the rules for how cultures interact. Just be sure you don't whitewash everyone and make culture insignificant; it would be lovely if such a society existed, but the likelihood is low.

6) What does your character look like?

Write at least the basics: height, weight, eye color, hair color and skin color. Consider race when making your choices, as certain traits are more common to certain ethnicities/races. Try to avoid really strange options if you're going for a realistic character, even if you're writing fantasy or science fiction. Exceptions are characters that are deliberately trying to be strange or rebellious, i.e. a teenager who dyes her hair purple and gets yellow contacts that make her eyes look like a cat's. Keep in mind, however, that the "normal" people in the story will not be overly accepting of an abnormal appearance, whatever your definition of normalcy might be.

The height and weight of a character will affect how he acts and moves. How muscular or athletic is your character? Don't create an overweight middle-aged character and then have him sprint after bad guys unless you intend for him to die of a heart attack during the chase. Likewise, don't create a tall swimmer-type and then have him collapse in exhaustion after minimal exertion.

Decide whether your character is attractive or not so much. Most main characters are above average in the looks department, but whether that is true for your character is up to you. This can also affect the character's personality; good-looking people usually have more self-confidence and are less introverted than not-so-good-looking people. Another popular trend is for a character to be good-looking but not know it; this is bordering on trite at this point but is still an option if you so choose.

Does your character have any tattoos or piercings? Again, this affects how other characters will react, and it can be a telling factor with regards to your character's personality.

7) What does your character do for a living?

The broader question here is one of lifestyle. Does your character make a lot of money or not so much? Does he like his job? Does he have a dream job that he idly lusts after or is actively pursuing?

A character's job can say a lot about him, or it can stand in contrast to his personality. Imagine an accountant who secretly wants to paint nude models, or a janitor who can do advanced mathematical proofs in his head. Or, perhaps consider an engineer obsessed with making everything perfectly straight, or an actress who immerses herself in her roles to the point of losing contact with herself. Whichever you decide, make sure it's realistic given your character's age, location and physique.

8) What is your character's major strength?

This could either be a virtue that your character possesses--wisdom, courage, prudence, mercy, honesty, etc.--or it could be a source of strength for the character, such as love for his children or a sense of justice and fairness. This is the thing that keeps the character from giving up when the odds are stacked against him and failure appears to be imminent (or it has already happened). Usually, this is something that the antagonist lacks, causing him to underestimate the protagonist's will to succeed.

Be very careful with this question; a trap that many burgeoning writers fall into is that they load their protagonist down with strengths and go light on the weaknesses. This kind of character is called a "Mary Sue" or "Gary Stu" and is typically an idealized version of the author, created to allow the author a fictional realm in which to be awesome and revered. All of us have fantasized about something like this at one time or another, but it doesn't make for good reading to everyone else. Try to pick one central strength, or a few complementary ones, and leave it at that.

9) What is your character's major weakness?

See above. This could either be a vice--lust, cowardice, greed, indifference, etc.--or it can be something that weakens the character like an emotional Kryptonite, perhaps a phobia that paralyzes him or the sound of his father's voice that makes him feel like a helpless little kid again.

This is the thing that makes the character fail, the thing that he must overcome in order to succeed. Typically, the events of the story will cause this flaw to be exposed, acknowledged, then squashed like a bug. Unless you're writing a tragedy, the character must change between the beginning and the end, and this is where the bulk of the change is focused.

For example, a proud person might not want other people to help him reach his goal (what he WANTS). By the end of the second half of your story, this character would understand that he is flawed and can't do everything himself, and that he needs his friends/family/whoever to help him reach that goal. He overcomes his pride and succeeds. Roll credits.

Remember those three things I mentioned in the beginning? The ones you MUST know about your character? This is one of them. Give this considerable thought before you commit, because it will be used to create your plot, if not your premise and theme as well.

10) What does your character want?

This is a pretty heavy question. People visit psychiatrists for years trying to figure this one out for themselves, and now you have to do it for your protagonist. The answer to this question will determine at least the first half of your plot, during which your character will spend his time trying to get what he wants. Think of it has his driving goal, the motivation for the story. It can be an object--Dude, where's my car?--or it can be a person, or it can be some outcome of events--revenge, workplace success, learning to use the Force, etc. Whatever it is, you must be able to clearly identify it in, say, five words or less. Yes, five is an arbitrary number, but the point is to keep it short and sweet.

Will your character get what he wants? That's for you to decide. As the Rolling Stones say:

"You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you might find
You get what you need"

Which leads us to the next question...

11) What does your character need?

This is even more important than what your character wants. Think of a toddler screaming at his parents in the middle of a grocery store: what he WANTS is candy, but what he NEEDS is a good spanking. It's like that with your character as well. He may know what he wants, but rarely does he realize what he needs until the second half of your story, if he ever realizes it at all. Your job is to figure out what he needs and see that he gets it. Maybe he wants to learn to use the Force, but he NEEDS to gain the maturity and discipline to use it properly. Maybe he wants to get the girl, but he NEEDS to learn to respect women instead of treating them like objects. Maybe he wants to win the big game, but he NEEDS to discover that winning isn't everything.

There are near-infinite possibilities, but as with determining the character's want, you must be able to define the character's need very succinctly and specifically. The two can be complementary, in that your character can achieve both in the end, or the need can surpass the want. Whatever you decide will influence both the premise and the plot, so don't go changing one unless you're prepared to topple a whole house of cards in the process.

There are many other questions you can answer about your character--Does he like coffee or tea? How often does he brush his teeth? Is he allergic to anything?--but these will give you the solid foundation you need to start thinking about the next step in crafting the novel: Premise.

* * * * *

Once you have a firm handle on the basics of your protagonist (his want, his need, and his flaw) then you can move on to the next most vital character: the antagonist. This is the person who will, quite simply, oppose your character.

Unless you're writing a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the antagonist needs to be as realistic as the protagonist, meaning you have to know a lot about her as well. As with the protagonist, the antagonist will have a want, a need and a flaw. The good news is, once you've answered these questions about your hero, it's as simple as flipping the coin.

Whatever the protagonist wants, the antagonist probably doesn't; in fact, she probably wants the opposite thing, so you've already got that part taken care of. However, it may instead be that she merely wants something that would, by its nature, conflict with the protagonist's want. Either way, by already having the protagonist's want established, you're most of the way to determining the same thing for your antagonist. If you're making the antagonist an all-out villain, what she wants will probably be motivated by some vice or flaw like greed, envy, insanity, revenge, power, etc.

Assuming you are writing a fairly straightforward story, what the antagonist needs is, well, to lose. Alternately, you might say that the antagonist needs to realize that her want is wrong and that the protagonist's want is preferable. Or you can give the antagonist a completely different need based on her flaw. Which leads me to...

The antagonist's flaw will not necessarily relate to the protagonist's flaw, but her flaw will be the thing that eventually leads to her downfall. Whether this flaw is directly manipulated by the protagonist, or whether it impedes the antagonist in some other way, this is what will make the difference between winning and losing. Typically, the antagonist will be able to clearly see the protagonist's flaw, but not her own, and because of that she will never change. If you want your antagonist to be redeemed at the end, you'll need to make her aware of her flaw and give her a means to correct it, just like you did with your protagonist. Sometimes, you may even want their flaws to be the same; few things are quite as motivational as having your protagonist realize he has a lot in common with his nemesis, and could have ended up in a similar position had events transpired differently.

As a side note, I've noticed something about villains: It is likely that the antagonist will never truly comprehend the protagonist's source of strength. Because of that, she will underestimate him and he will beat her. This is something useful to consider when creating your antagonist, because it may give you an open door into her back story. For example, a protagonist who finds strength in his friends would lead to an antagonist who cannot understand why the protagonist would rely on other people for anything. This kind of antagonist probably didn't have many friends growing up; why not? Answer that question and you're on your way.

When creating your antagonist, use the same questions and template you used for your protagonist. Always keep in mind the basics discussed above, and make sure that they are supported by the rest of the details that you add to make your character more realistic. Few things kill the joy of victory so much as having a fully realized hero but a one-dimensional villain; after all, if the bad guy is made of cardboard, how hard is it to beat him? And how good does it really feel when you do?

* * * * *

Now that you have a protagonist and an antagonist, you're finished with character stuff, right? If only.

Think of all the people you've met in your life: friends, family, classmates, colleagues, coworkers, and so on. Pretty long list, huh? And in their own ways, they've all impacted your life somehow, making you who you are and helping bring you to the place you are today. Thankfully, you'll never have to put that many people in your story, or even worry about defining them in order to create your characters. However, you will need to do some brain work to come up with the supporting cast for your story.

There are three basic categories of secondary characters: those who 1) help the protagonist, 2) help the antagonist, or 3) help the reader. Don't go crazy coming up with every minor character in the story at this point; just define the ones who will be most important to the character. You can work on the "extras" when you discover that you require them.

Characters who help the protagonist can be just about anyone. Usually they will be friends or family who stand by your hero in his hour of need. They can also be the professor who provides a necessary clue to help solve a mystery, or the good Samaritan who gives him a ride when his car breaks down; basically, anyone who assists your character, in whatever way, to achieve his goal goes into this category.

Conversely, characters who help the antagonist (or harm the protagonist) can also be just about anyone. They will usually be friends or minions of the villain, or simply enemies of the hero, and they are determined to get in the hero's way and stop him from achieving his goal. Perhaps the protagonist is being chased by the police for a crime committed by the antagonist; those police officers, even if they are good people, are helping the antagonist and hindering the hero.

What about this helping the reader thing? Characters in this category won't necessarily help or hinder the hero, but they will usually help the reader understand what is going on in the story somehow. They may explain vital plot points, or describe aspects of the setting, or they may exist mainly to provide the reader with a sense that the world of the novel is a realistic one populated with real people. Few characters will tend to fall into this category, as most of the people who would deserve any attention in your world should do something to further the plot, and would thus be either #1 or #2. But, say, a girl who stumbles on a spaceship sometime prior to the events of the story, thereby letting the reader know that aliens are abroad, doesn't really help anyone but the reader. Think of this as the infodump character or the dramatic irony character. Use this type sparingly or you risk getting didactic or excessively expository.

It's fine if you want to hold off on this part of your preparations until you have a better idea of what you need based on your plot. You don't want to create a really great minor character and then find yourself with absolutely no reason to include him in the story. But if you already know that your main character won't get along by himself, or that your antagonist needs some goons to do her dirty work, now is the time to develop those characters so that they can be as realistic as your hero and villain.

And realistic they must be. Try to give them a want, need and flaw just as you did for your main characters. Even if their goal aligns with or opposes the protagonist's, they should have a logical reason for that goal. The cops may be after the hero because the antagonist left evidence that leads them to do so. The short-sighted goon may be working for the antagonist because he is being paid really well. The mysterious ninja is helping the hero because she wants revenge for her family, which was killed by the antagonist. Remember that these characters, just like the protagonist and antagonist, had lives before they entered the story.

Additionally, beware of creating secondary characters for the sole purpose of filling some plot requirement; I call them Plot Puppets. The most common occurrence of a plot puppet is the romantic interest. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having romance in a story (especially in a romance novel, duh), but having a character exist simply so that the protagonist has someone to love is cheap and unsatisfying. To paraphrase Kant, people are ends in themselves rather than means to an end, and they should be treated as such in a novel just as in real life.

* * * * *

The premise of a story is, basically, its theme. What is it about? Where does it start and where does it end? What is the cause and what is the effect? What is the moral of the story? The premise answers all of these questions succinctly but accurately.

One of the best introductions to the concept of the premise was written by Lajos Egri in his book The Art of Dramatic Writing. His work was written primarily in relation to plays, but is applicable to just about any narrative writing.

The most notable things about his approach are his emphasis on premise as arising from character, and his notion of the explicit cause and effect nature of premises.

Some of his examples of premises include:

Bitterness leads to false gaiety.
Foolish generosity leads to poverty.
Honesty defeats duplicity.
Heedlessness destroys friendship.
Ill-temper leads to isolation.
Materialism conquers mysticism.
Prudishness leads to frustration.
Bragging leads to humiliation.
Confusion leads to frustration.
Craftiness digs its own grave.
Dishonesty leads to exposure.
Dissipation leads to self-destruction.
Egotism leads to loss of friends.
Extravagance leads to destitution.
Fickleness leads to loss of self-esteem.

Now that you have your protagonist in place, you can create your premise. Think back to the character's strength and flaw, his want and his need. If this is a positive story, the premise should describe how the strength leads to the achievement of the goal. For example, "Faith in friends leads to triumph over evil." With that statement, you've set up that the protagonist will succeed in his quest to defeat some evil by relying on his friends.

You can also think back to your antagonist's goal; whatever it is, the protagonist should probably keep her from achieving it, right? So your premise could also be a statement describing how the hero's strength leads to the villain's failure. For example, "A mother's love overcomes a kidnapper's greed."

Try to use your character's strength and need to create the premise for your story. It should be very brief, no more than a short sentence, and should have both a cause and an outcome. Keep it simple but precise; you can embellish with more details later, when we start to worry about plot.

Some premises may sound like proverbs or platitudes. If you're having trouble forming your premise, try finding a saying that at least comes close to what you think the moral of your story should be. Then rework it so that there is a clear cause and effect relationship within the statement. Bam! Instant premise.

Here are some good places to start your search:

http://www.manythings.org/proverbs/
http://creativeproverbs.com/
http://aesop.pangyre.org/morals.html

Remember: slow but steady wins the race!

* * * * *

Once you know who your characters are and what your theme is, next you have to figure out where it all happens. Every story takes place somewhere and somewhen, and that setting can have a strong effect on not just the atmosphere, but also the action of the narrative and the characters themselves. A story's setting can even become a character in its own right, reflecting or contrasting the emotional states of the other characters.

There are two main aspects to setting that you should consider, not just for your novel as a whole, but for the individual scenes that will compose your novel: time and location.

Time refers to when a story or scene occurs. On a macroscopic level, you need to decide the era: medieval? Roaring 20's? Far future? Year of the Thumping Rabbit? This applies whether you are writing within the so-called Real World or one of your own creation; the past affects the present and the future, so you have to be cognizant of your narrative's place on the historical continuum. On a microscopic level, you need to decide things like season and time of day. Does your story start in the dead of winter or the blazing heat of summer? In the middle of the night or at sunrise? Certain times have symbolic significance, which you can either use to your advantage or manipulate to balk the conventional interpretations.

Location refers to where a story or scene occurs. On a macroscopic level, this entails things like country, state, and/or city. You should already know where your characters are from, but where are they now? Are they natives or transplants or visitors, and how comfortable are they there? What are the most notable qualities of the place as a whole, and how do they support or undermine the characters and events? On a microscopic level, you would determine where individual scenes or events take place, as well as specific details like where the character lives, works and spends his free time.

Another facet of setting that is basically a combination of time and location is circumstance. This is a description of what is going on in the world at large and in the character's life specifically. Is the country at war? Is the economy tanking? Did the protagonist just lose his job? Are his parents getting divorced? What's the weather like? Think of this as the kind of thing that would be on the front page of a newspaper (macroscopic) or on the character's last blog post (microscopic).

At this point, you're probably asking yourself just how much detail you need to have in order to be adequately prepared for actually writing the novel. The short answer is: however much you need to feel comfortable. Some people need to write another book's worth of notes about the setting, even if most of that information will never make it into the final product. Other people prefer to play fast and loose and make up details as they are needed. Personally, I take a "fog of war" or "points of light" approach; I make notes about the information that I think will be relevant to the story, with more detail given to the times and places that are important to the character and where the actual events will occur and less to the world as a whole. So I would be fairly descriptive with regards to the characters' homes, neighborhoods, workplaces, and places where things happen; I would give some thought to hometowns, famous area landmarks, bars and restaurants, and other generic locations that might be mentioned but wouldn't actually be visited; and I would basically ignore the rest of the world unless it had some specific bearing on the story or characters.

But what if you're creating an entire world for your story? I defer to the delightful Patricia C. Wrede, who has created a vast and extremely helpful series of questions to guide you in your world-building process. Even if you're not actually making up a new world, these questions can be very helpful in defining your setting clearly and completely.

* * * * *

Characters? Check. Premise? Check. Setting? Check. At long last we come to the one, the only, the plot of your story. It is likely that some kind of plot has been percolating in the back (or front) of your mind as you developed everything else, so you're probably not starting from scratch here. Even if you are, that's okay, because you've got your characters and premise to guide you.

The plot is, simply put, what happens in the book. Not what happens before, not what happens after, and strictly speaking, not what happens behind the scenes. Do you still need to know all these things? Absolutely, but not in as much detail because you're not going to write that stuff, you're going to write the actual action or narrative. I am assuming for the sake of this exercise that you'll be writing a fairly linear novel as opposed to some kind of post-modern fiction that is more lyric than narrative. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but those works play by their own rules so it's kind of pointless for me to sit here and try to establish guidelines for them.

There are a few suggested methods for laying out your plot, but I think the most useful one overall is the Snowflake method. The only thing that I find odd about it is that you don't develop your characters until step 3, but otherwise it's a solid approach. To paraphrase, first you should write a one-sentence summary of your plot. Then, expand that to a paragraph. Then, expand each sentence to its own paragraph. I'm sure you see where this is going.

For the purposes of NaNoWriMo, I recommend having at least a sentence of plot description per writing day, so 30 sentences total at a minimum. Each sentence would correspond to a roughly 2000-word chapter, and you would write one of those each day of November. The benefit of this is that you will know exactly what events need to occur in that chapter and how long it has to be. If you want to go really crazy, write at least a sentence for each scene in a given chapter, which will likely yield a paragraph per day. This sounds excessive, but think of all the time it will save you when you're actually writing your novel.

But, you say, what if I have no idea what my plot is beyond a few basic details? Go back to your premise. That, combined with your characters' needs and flaws, should give you at least a beginning and an ending. Your protagonist should start in a place of stagnation, with a need that he may not even know he has to fulfill. Then, something occurs to disrupt that stagnation: the inciting incident, which may involve the antagonist in some way. This incident provides a goal for the protagonist, who then works to achieve that goal in some way and is opposed by the antagonist.

That opposition will create conflict, which is the gasoline that makes your novel-car go (or sets it on fire, whatever). At least 50% of the scenes in your novel must contain some kind of conflict, otherwise there is no sense of obstacles being overcome and no tension to make the reader want to find out what happens. Ever sit down to watch a movie or read a book and find your attention wandering in certain slow parts? I can almost guarantee that lack of conflict is the problem. But the good news is, you can use this to your advantage when outlining by defining the conflict in each scene. State which characters are involved in the scene and what they each want, and make sure that those wants are in conflict somehow. Character A wants ice cream BUT Character B wants cake. Character A wants to be left alone BUT Character B wants to talk. Character A wants to attack the town BUT Character B wants to use diplomacy. You get the idea.

At the end, your protagonist should get what he needs, though not necessarily what he wanted to begin with (i.e. his goal). Likewise for the antagonist. The second half of your premise should be fulfilled. Beyond that, it's all about detail and execution.

Which brings us to the horrifying and painful part: the middle. The Sisyphean hill littered with the breathless, prone bodies of the pitiable writers who couldn't keep pushing the rock. What the hell do you do between the beginning and the end? If you're using the Snowflake method, and if you go by what one of my more useful professors taught, you need to come up with two or three major screw-ups, in which the best laid plans of the protagonist not only fail, but make things worse. One way to approach this is to have the first mess occur because the protagonist is approaching the situation with his initially flawed mindset; then have the second mess occur because the protagonist does an about-face and tries to come at it from the opposite direction; then have the protagonist truly overcome his flaw, thus allowing him to solve the problem appropriately. So, say, you'd have the proud protagonist think he can do anything and fail because he wasn't aware of his own limitations; then he'd lose all self-confidence and fail again because he was too timid; then finally he accepts his own flaws but also recognizes his strengths and is able to achieve his need using his newly developed sense of perspective.

Why does this work well? First, because it creates a character arc, which is vital to any novel. Second, because it forces the plot to be motivated by the character, rather than forcing the character to conform to the plot; this avoids the problem of having a novel in which things seem to just happen to the protagonist, which tends to be unsatisfying and, at worst, unbelievable.

If you're writing a tragedy, you'll go about things pretty much the same way, except your character won't overcome his flaw and as a result will ensure his failure to achieve his want AND need. Dramatic irony may or may not be involved, but that's pretty much the gist of what makes something tragic; at any point, if the character had grown and changed, the unhappy outcome could have been avoided. But he didn't, so it wasn't, and the reader is left to mourn for unrealized potential.

If at any point you get stuck on your outline, it helps to ask: what's the worst thing that could happen? Brainstorm a bunch of responses to that question, and you're likely to hit on something that will move the action forward. Think of the novel as a series of decisions that the protagonist makes, which lead to consequences, which lead to further decisions and further consequences. Don't forget that your antagonist is working behind the scenes or out in plain view to oppose the protagonist, which creates conflict that further propels the action forward. The harder you make things for the protagonist, the more satisfying it will be when he finally gets what he needs.

Mirror Out of Order

2009-10-14T16:58:00.000-04:00

The sign read, “Mirror Under Repair. Please Do Not Use.”

Carla stared at it in confusion. The mirror appeared to be perfectly fine: nothing was broken or chipped or discolored… With a shrug, she dismissed the sign as a prank and dropped her purse on the counter. She rifled around in it until she found the eyeliner she was looking for, then leaned toward her reflected image and pulled at her eyelid.

Later, all the janitor found was her purse and the pencil. He shook his head sadly and placed them on his cart with the rest of the items he had found—makeup, a Barbie doll, medications, but mostly handbags of various sizes. While he mopped the floors and scrubbed the toilets, he wondered when they would get a repairman in to take care of the mirror. The management was always dragging their feet about cost overruns, but it didn’t seem right about all those girls. Somebody ought to do something.

Him, well… he very carefully avoided looking at his reflection.

Adventures of a Jedi Librarian

2009-10-08T14:43:00.001-04:00

Victaella Trannyth surveyed the library sourly. She wondered how she had gotten stuck on this backwater planet where the books were written out by hand onto strips of mashed tree fibers. The amount of space required to store the stacks of “paper” was inconceivable. Still, it was not her place to judge the ridiculously inefficient practices of the locals.

“Jedi Trannyth!” A figure wrapped in the white linen that passed for clothing here huffed and puffed his way up to the librarian’s desk.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Someone has taken the only copy of Hobarth’s ‘Treatise on the Evolution of Silicate Sentience’ without signing the log!”

Victaella’s eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

The distraught man led her to the shelf that had held the “book” and which now sat empty. The log beneath it showed the name of the last person to check out and return the item weeks earlier, then nothing.

“Don’t worry,” Victaella said, smiling as she fondled the lightsaber tucked into her robes. “I’ll get it back. And someone will be sorry.”

The Aztec Priest's Wife

2009-10-06T21:04:00.001-04:00

“Darling, could you please pass the knife?”

“Of course, dear.” Millie handed the obsidian dagger to her husband Juan, who raised it over his head as he continued the incantation. She had always found it a bit theatrical but perhaps Xipe Totec liked theatrics.

The sacrifice stared up at her in terror. In the old days, the sacrifices often presented themselves willingly, even running to the top of the pyramid to meet Our Lord the Flayed One. Now, it was all she and her husband could do to carry the struggling victims up to the altar.

With a practiced thrust, Juan opened the boy’s chest, then reached in and removed the still-beating heart. Millie held out the ceremonial bowl and her husband placed the bleeding organ in it.

“Shall I get your sleeves, dear?” Millie asked.

“Oh, yes, thank you.”

She tied his sleeves back so they wouldn’t get in the way while he flayed the boy. When he finished, she folded the skin neatly and stored it in a large Tupperware.

All in all, another successful Tlacaxipehualiztli.

Happy Death Day to You

2009-10-06T20:13:00.001-04:00

“Emma, what’s wrong?” Jason touched her arm and she jumped.

“It’s almost my birthday,” she muttered. “You know how it is.”

Jason shook his head. “Actually, no. I don’t know when I was born.”

Emma stared at him. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

“So you have no idea when you’re going to die?”

“Not a clue.”

Emma idly nibbled a cuticle, considering this. “God, I can’t decide whether that’s better or worse than knowing it could happen any year on the same day.”

“Well,” he said, “look at it this way: once your birthday is over, you know you have at least a year to live. I could only have a week, or a day, or a few hours.”

“But isn’t it liberating, too?” she asked. “I mean, you could either spend every day locked up in your house out of fear, or do whatever you want all the time because you never know so there’s no point fretting.”

Smiling slightly, Jason shrugged. “I’m not locked in my house now, am I?”

Emma smiled back and hooked an arm around his neck, kissing him. “No, I guess you’re not.”

Thief of Time (with spoilers and apologies to Pratchett)

2009-10-06T18:57:00.002-04:00

Night 0

Sitting in his office, Commander Sam Vimes got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. Given that he was commander of the Watch in Ankh-Morpork, this might have been considered normal; however, as far as he was concerned there was only one person who should be watching the Watchmen, and that was him. He certainly wasn't watching himself, so something must be wrong.

The feeling disappeared just before there was a polite knock at the door. It was the kind of knock that asked to be ignored, soft enough that it might not be heard but loud enough that it could later be honestly insisted that the knocker had tried. Only one of the Watch members knocked like that.

"What is it, Fred?" Vimes called out wearily.

The door opened a crack and Sergeant Colon eased his head into the room. He was red in the face and sweating profusely, which tended to happen whenever he came up the stairs at more than a brisk saunter.

"Trouble at the museum, sir," Colon panted. "Mobs running a muck, maybe two or three of them." He hesitated, his mouth half open as if to say something else.

"And?" Vimes asked.

"We-e-ell," Colon continued. "Some of the lookers-on thought they saw dead bodies, only they didn't quite stay dead."

"What, you mean zombi--er, differently living persons like Constable Shoe?"

"Not so much that, sir, as the bodies up and vanished. Poof, like a wizard did it."

Vimes sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was supposed to meet his wife Sybil for some kind of fancy dinner, which no doubt involved him dressing in fancy clothes and making fancy talk with fancy people. He was fairly certain that his absence would incite all sorts of comments from the lords and ladies in attendance.

"I'll look into this personally, Fred," Vimes said, a beatific smile slowly spreading across his face.

Tick

"What is it now?" snapped Mr White. A hot sensation kept occurring in his face. He wasn't sure what humans called it, but for now he called it Hot Sensation in the Face Due to Things Not Going According to Plan. He had not been corporeal long enough to give it a shorter name.

"The keepers of law and order have arrived," Miss Tangerine said. "They are requesting that everyone go outside with their upper extremities raised."

"If we did that, how could we ensure that the plan succeeded?" Mr White replied.

"But they are law and order," Miss Tangerine said timidly. She was currently experiencing a sensation she called Apprehension Due to Conveying Information That Will Displease Mr White.

"Perhaps we could send each entity out individually," Mr Green suggested. "That will allow us enough time to see that the plan is completed."

"This idea has merit," Mr White acknowledged. Mr Green's face grew red with Pleasant Sensation from Being Considered Useful.

"How shall we decide who to send outside?" Miss Taupe asked.

"We shall vote, of course," Mr White said. "Whoever wins the vote must go outside."

The other Auditors nodded in agreement. This seemed to be a logical solution.

"Who shall we send out first?" asked Mr Indigo Violet. The assembled crowd of Auditors turned to face him in unison, and their mouths turned up at the corners. He was not certain what that meant, but it gave him a strange sensation in his stomach. He decided, upon reflection, that the sensation did not please him.

And then, of course, he didn't have time for further reflection, because he was busy flying through the window and plummeting to the ground below.

Tick

* * * * *

Night 1

"What is that?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

"Affirmative."

"It is called 'chocolate.' You put it in your oral cavity, right on your taste organ--yes, just like that..."

With a slight gasp, Mr Pink sank to the ground, shuddering uncontrollably. A few seconds later, he vanished.

"One down..."

Tick

"Logic dictates that Mr Puce should be the one to submit to the agents of law," Miss Tangerine said.

"We do not agree," Mr Puce replied.

"We believe that Mr Beige is the more appropriate candidate," Mr Yellow said.

"But there is no logical reason--"

"Enough!" Mr White interrupted. The discussion had been going on for too long, and he was feeling a sensation in his chest akin to combustion. The other Auditors grew quiet and waited for him to speak. This pleased him.

"We will vote now," he said. "Miss Taupe will collect the votes. Tell her who you vote for and she will..." He turned his gaze to Miss Taupe. She stared at him blankly.

"She will remember them all," he finished. "And then she will announce the winner, and the winner will go outside."

"But what if she can't remember all the votes?" a voice from the back of the room asked. Mr White stared in that direction and slowly the crowd parted to reveal the newly arrived Mr Cyan.

"She will," Mr White replied firmly. His eyes never left Mr Cyan. "Miss Taupe, begin the collection."

Immediately, the Auditors obediently formed a neat queue and, one by one, gave their votes to Miss Taupe. When the line was finished, she mentally reviewed the names she had been given. Fortunately, there was some consensus, so it wasn't too difficult.

"Mr White?" she asked, looking around for the de facto leader. "Mr White?" she said, more loudly in case his fleshy sense organ was malfunctioning.

Mr White emerged from a dark corner in the back of the room, his hands covered in some red substance that Miss Taupe could not identify.

"We have concluded the voting process," Miss Taupe said timidly. The substance entered her scent organ and caused a feeling of apprehension in her.

"And who will be sent outside?" Mr White asked.

"Mr Black," she replied. Her scent organ was overwhelming her other organs, especially the one in her midsection.

"Positive response," Mr White said. "Mr Black, you will go outside."

Mr Black backed away from the assembled Auditors. "Fear! Apprehension! We feel negatively about this outcome."

"Do you refuse?" Mr White asked. Mr Black nodded vigorously.

"We understand," Mr White said, smiling. He was getting better at smiling.

Tick

"What do you suppose they're doin' in there, eh Sarge?" Corporal Nobby Nobbs asked. "Seems awful quiet for a hostage sitcheeayshun."

"Oh, sure as like they're figrin out their options," Sergeant Colon replied. "Maybe cuttin' off some fingers or toes what to use as colly-atteral."

Nobby pulled a cigarette out from behind his ear and jammed it between his lips. "I'd of thought you get less money for a hostage what's missin' bits."

Colon frowned. "Naw, you don't know nothin' bout echo gnomics, Nobby. When there's less a somethin', it's worth more."

"You'd know better than me, Sarge," Nobby said.

"Oh, well, when you're as sperienced as me you learns a few things," Colon said, nodding sagaciously. "But it's possible they're maybe thinkin' to release one or two hostages, get on our good side so's we go easier on 'em."

There was a sudden crash overhead as a body flew out one of the previously unbroken windows. It landed with a wet thud a few feet away from the two officers. Colon and Nobby stared at the corpse in horror.

"They supposed to be releasin' em like that, Sarge?"

"Not so far's I know."

Just as suddenly as the body had appeared, it vanished, leaving only a puddle of blood as an indication that it had ever been there.

"Nobby," Colon said grimly, "Go get the commander. He'll want to see this."

Tick

* * * * *

Night 2

"They're lining up to vote again."

"How long are we going to pretend we're like them?"

"As long as it takes."

"How can you be so calm at a time like this?"

"I'm used to pretending."

"Well, I'm not."

"Stop being petulant, do you want one of them to--"

Mr Brown rounded the corner and stared blankly at the assembled figures.

"Why are you standing alone here in a place with no light? We find this to be unusual given the recent behaviors exhibited--"

Almost silently and with inhuman speed, the first figure lashed out at Mr Brown, who didn't even have time to blink before his head hit the ground. His body followed soon after, then both vanished. The second figure watched in disbelief.

"Did you always have that sword?"

"It's not mine. I borrowed it. Now be quiet and get in line."

Tick

"The winner of the vote is Mr Khaki!" announced Miss Taupe. There was polite applause, and then general confusion as the Auditors attempted to figure out why they were slapping their hands together.

"Which is Mr Khaki?" Mr Green asked. Miss Taupe shrugged. The Auditors eyed each other suspiciously.

"Are you Mr Khaki?"

"No, we are Mr Orange. You?"

"We are Mr Yellow. What about him over there?"

"That is Miss Tangerine."

"Oh."

"This is not satisfactory," Miss Taupe muttered. "We must find Mr Khaki and present him to the agents of law and order."

"Is there a problem?" Mr White asked, startling Miss Taupe.

"No-o," Miss Taupe said. Her stomach attempted to retreat to a more secure part of her ribcage.

"Only there seems to be a problem," Mr White said.

"We cannot determine which is Mr Khaki," Miss Taupe admitted.

"We understand," said Mr White soothingly. Suddenly, he grabbed a passing Auditor by the neck.

"Are you Mr Khaki?" he asked.

"No... we are... Mr Cerulean..."

Mr White shook his head. "That does not even sound like a real color. We believe you are speaking words that are contrary to the truth."

Mr Cerulean could only gurgle.

"We will make an example of you," Mr White grinned. He dropped Mr Cerulean and viciously kicked him in the head. And kicked him. And kicked him. Soon enough Mr Cerulean vanished, leaving only streaks of red splattered across the floor and on Mr White's shoes.

Miss Taupe made a mewling sound in the back of her throat as Mr White turned to face her.

"We will have to take another vote, Miss Taupe," he said. "See that it is successful this time."

Tick

Ronnie Soak whistled tunelessly as he stepped into his freezer. He looked around at the assorted milks and cheeses with satisfaction, his eyes finally resting on a massive sword leaning against the far wall. He frowned.

"Shouldn't have gotten involved," he muttered. "Humans? Who needs 'em! And those stuffy no-names... they can get stuffed! Serves 'em all right, stuck in stasis for eternity, and me not even invited to ride with the horsemen..."

He picked up his sword and swung it experimentally, then put it down with a sigh.

"I fought the Law, and the Law won," he grumbled. "Well, at least I got the yak milk in before it was too late."

Tick

* * * * *

Night 3

"Where are you going?" Mr White asked.

"To the end of the line," Mr Turquoise replied. "It is time for another vote, is it not?"

Mr White smiled. "We would like to have a talk first."

"With us?"

Mr White nodded. "Only us."

"Apprehension!" Mr Turquoise yelped. "We have seen what happens to others in private talks!"

"Others were different," cooed Mr White.

"But--"

Mr White grabbed Mr Turquoise and headbutted him. Mr Turquoise staggered back and dropped to the ground.

And suddenly, something round and brown rolled across the floor between them. Mr White stopped in mid-stride and bent over to pick it up.

"What is this?" he asked softly. Mr Turquoise groaned in response, his eyes crossed.

Mr White lifted the gooey ball to his eye, examining it carefully. It smelled strangely positive. His facial cavity began to produce some kind of fluid of its own volition. This made him suspicious.

"Mr Orange!" he shouted. With a hesitant shuffling of feet, Mr Orange walked over.

"Take this," Mr White said, offering the deteriorating blob to the other Auditor. Mr Orange obediently took it. "Now, put it in your speaking hole."

Mr Orange blinked in confusion. With a growl, Mr White took the squishy bit back. He reached over and opened Mr Orange's mouth, shoving the sticky sphere inside.

Once Mr Orange had disappeared, Mr White glared in the direction from which the item had appeared. Mr Turquoise still sat in the same spot, eyes glazed.

"Don't move," Mr White ordered. "We will deal with you presently."

Tick

"--and then there was a crash, and this body fell right in front of us--"

"And where is the body now?" Vimes asked.

"Gone," Nobby replied.

"Did you move it?"

Colon shook his head. "It just up and disappeared."

"Dead bodies don't just--"

A crash echoed down the street behind them, on the opposite side of the building.

"Captain?" Vimes called.

"Right on it, sir," Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson said, saluting crisply. He turned and bolted off in the direction of the noise.

"Bloody maniacs," Vimes muttered. "They could at least use the same window instead of breaking a new one every time."

Tick

* * * * *

Night 4

Captain Carrot examined the bloodstain on the ground. There were no signs of anyone coming to collect the body or move it elsewhere, and yet there was no body. He was puzzled.

"Hello down there!" a voice called. Carrot looked up. A young man waved frantically at him.

"You have the right to remain silent!" Carrot yelled cheerfully. He was a strong believer in rights. They tended to make criminals nervous.

"I'd rather not, thanks," the man replied. "Do you mind if I jump down?"

Carrot shook his head. "You need any help with that?"

"If you could keep me from falling to my death, it would be most appreciated," the man said. He gingerly stepped through the broken window and began to scale the wall.

"Are you a hostage or a hostage keeper?" Carrot asked.

"No hostages up there," the man cheerfully replied. "Just a bunch of corporeal representations of scientific processes."

"Anthropomorphic personifications, you mean?"

"Oh no, they're nastier than that. Trying to bring about the Apocralypse, you know." The man finished his descent and plodded over to the Watchman.

Carrot shrugged. "I'm afraid you'll have to tell that to the judge, Mr...?"

"Ludd. Lobsang Ludd. Good luck finding a judge once the world's ended."

"Every man must have his day in court, Mr Ludd. Right this way, please."

Tick

Mr White was troubled. Yet another vote winner had failed to appear for his just punishment. This would not do.

He glanced around the room, his eyes falling on Mr Indigo Violet.

"Why should he have two names, anyway?" Mr White murmured. "Someone else could have been Mr Violet, but no... well, we shall remedy that."

He slipped nearby statue of the great god Om slipped into his hand, testing the weight.

"Positive sensation," he smiled. He mentally calculated the distance, appropriate velocity, force, trajectory, and...

Afterward, he was pleasantly surprised to note that the golden statue had actually been made of iron.

Tick

Mr Blue wiggled his toes. He was getting rather good at it. He had just begun to practice moving the little one independently from the rest when he heard a whispered conversation behind him.

"--have to find a way to get them alone, and now that Lobsang is gone--"

"As the koan says, 'It won't get better if you pick at it.'"

"What kind of koan says that?"

"The Way of Mrs Cosmopolite."

"What, the dressmaker?"

"It has worked for me all these years."

Mr Blue was perplexed. This did not sound like an appropriate conversation. He stood up to go find Mr White, knocking over an ancient clay jug. Less than a second later, he was getting a very close look at his toes, as his upper half had been abruptly disconnected from his lower half.

"That was close."

"As the koan says, 'There's a lot goes on that we don't know about, in my opinion.'"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Buggered if I know."

Tick

* * * * *

Night 5

This had happened before, of course. It always did. Everything would be fine, at first, and then eventually the mob knocked politely on the door with pitchforks and torches and asked if it wouldn't be too much trouble to stop performing abominable experiments in their backyard. And then things tended to end up on fire.

Well, it was that time. Igor could feel it in his bones, some of which had been passed down from previous Igors and thus had accumulated a certain depth of experience. Things had gotten out of control, and the Watch might be outside now, but the pitchforks would be around any second.

He left a note, of course. It was only fitting; one never wanted to burn bridges, no pun intended, although an Igor's previous employer was rarely able to give references one the mob had come calling. Still, Master Clockson had been one of the better masters, and Igor was almost sorry to go.

At least he wouldn't have to pretend to be one of these creepy fellows any longer. They were really starting to give him the willies.

Tick

After two successive votes failing to yield their intended victims, the Auditors were beginning to feel things. Strong things.

"You... organic organ!" Mr White shouted. "Flames! Flames! On the side of my face!"

Miss Tangerine cringed. "Apprehension! Fear!"

"Who is to blame for this?"

"Uh, him!" Miss Tangerine yelped, pointing at a random figure.

Mr White stalked over to Mr Magenta and gripped him by the throat. Mr Magenta clawed at the hands that slowly crushed his windpipe.

"We hope," Mr White whispered, "That you were not overly accustomed to being corporeal."

Mr Magenta, aptly enough, turned a deep shade of reddish purple until finally he vanished from between Mr White's trembling hands.

Behind him, Miss Taupe announced, "The winner of the vote is Mr Grey!"

Almost in unison, the assembled Auditors turned to Mr Grey, who also, aptly enough, turned an ashen white. He backed away with his hands held up defensively, which unfortunately placed him directly in the path of the waiting Mr Yellow.

By the time the mob was finished with him, everyone was as crimson-splattered as Mr White. And of course, Mr Grey was gone.

Tick

* * * * *

Night 6

"Is everyone here?" War asked.

"Yes," Famine replied, stuffing half of a salad cream sandwich in his mouth.

"Hurr," Pestilence wheezed, coughing up a green glob of phlegm.

"INDEED."

"This won't take long, will it? My wife wants me back before supper," War said nervously.

"IT WILL BE BUT THE WORK OF A MOMENT."

"Where's your sword, Death?" asked Famine, only it came out more like "Urz ur or ef?"

Death turned his eyeless gaze toward Famine. "I LENT IT TO SOMEONE. I EXPECT IT WILL BE RETURNED SOON."

"Well, I suppose we'd best get going then," War said.

"WE ARE WAITING FOR ONE MORE."

"One more what? We're the Four Horsemen of the Apocralypse, aren't we?" asked Famine. Just as the words left his mouth, another figure arrived wielding a giant sword that was shrouded in cold vapor.

"RIGHT ON TIME, AS USUAL, KAOS."

"It's Chaos now," Ronnie Soak grinned. "Got to keep up with the times, you know. Butterfly effect, fractals, all that stuff."

"Hey, who invited him?" Famine said.

"Oh, come off it," War said. "Lets let bygones be bygones, eh?"

"NO BETTER TIME TO BURY DIFFERENCES THAN THE END OF TIME."

"Must we do this?" Pestilence whined.

"UNLESS THEY ARE STOPPED, IT IS THE ONLY THING WE CAN DO."

Tick

Mr White was taking out his frustration on the unfortunate Mr Beige when Miss Taupe approached him.

"It is almost time," Miss Taupe said.

"Excellent," said Mr White. He stopped punching Mr Beige in the ear just before the expired Auditor vanished.

"So soon?" asked Jeremy Clockson. He had been getting steadily more nervous as the night had progressed, and he hadn't seen Myria in ages. He wanted her to be there when the clock started.

"We have you to thank, clockmaker," Mr White said. "Your invention will make everything simple. Clean. Uniform and unchanging. Uncluttered by the organic margin of error that always complicates the stability of the universe."

"But... but it's just a clock!" Jeremy stuttered. "A glass clock! It just tells time!"

"No," Mr Green said, shaking his head. "It does much more than that."

Mr White leaned toward Jeremy and patted him condescendingly on the head. "It does not tell time, it traps time."

"What, all of it?" Jeremy gasped. "But... but..."

"No time for buts," Miss Tangerine said. "No time for anything else, really."

"I wouldn't be so sure," a voice chimed in from the back of the room. The few remaining Auditors parted to show Susan Sto Helit standing with Lu Tze and Myria LeJean, wielding a sword that seemed to cut the individual molecules in the air as she brandished it menacingly.

"Myria!" Jeremy yelped. She smiled at him briefly, then turned her attention back to Mr White.

"This should not be done," Myria said. "We... I... like it here. I like organs. I like chocolate. I will not allow this."

"And how will you stop us?" Mr White sneered.

"Well, now that we've dispensed with the charade, I imagine it will be something like this," Susan said. And with that, she swung at Miss Taupe, slicing her open from neck to navel. Miss Taupe barely had time to gasp before disappearing in a spray of blood.

"You would imagine that, wouldn't you?" Mr White said. "The only problem is... you're too late."

Ti

Innsmouth

2009-10-06T18:36:00.002-04:00

The Beginning

I can scarcely begin to recount the tale of the incredible and terrifying ordeal that has led up to the situation in which I presently find myself. After emerging from the nightmare that was Newham, each breath I draw is as a precious gift, or perhaps a ponderous burden; only time will tell which is the more accurate assessment. Time, and the resolution of the unfathomable horror that I am presently witnessing.

But where to begin? I suppose with the grim conclusion of my previous entanglement. Once I escaped from Newham, I fled through the wild bosom of nature in a daze, hardly sure of which direction I went or what I would encounter. Each fragile leaf and delicate twig was as a monster to me, so crazed was I from what I had previously seen. While I have never been of a womanly nature, in retrospect I cannot but think that I was hysterical in the truest sense of the word, half-mad and incapable of the slightest shred of rational thought.

But after a time, my faculties began to return to me. The shadow of Newham retreated and I could scarce believe that I had witnessed such horrors. It is ever the prerogative of mankind to rationalize away that which confounds the sensibilities, to peer into the crooks and crevices of memory and find reasonable explanations for unreasonable events. And so it was that I gradually became convinced that I had mistaken simple mass hysteria for the esoteric and the supernatural, that the mayhem and murders were the product of deranged minds rather than--no, I could not bring myself to think of what else it might have been.

As if in response to my epiphany--oh, that it had been one, and not my own wishful thinking!--I found a set of railroad tracks leading north through the tall grass that surrounded me, and rays of hope pierced my cloudy contemplations. Civilization could not be far! I had only to follow these tracks and I would soon be among my kinsmen, fully awakened from the impossible dream that I had fled only hours--days? weeks?--earlier. It did not occur to me to wonder why the railroad was clearly not in use, overgrown and rusted as it was. This was a sign that the end of my troubles was near.

My newfound optimism gave me the energy to push myself at a faster pace than I had previously traveled, and so it was that just before sunset I found myself at the outskirts of a quaint fishing village. At least, I thought it was quaint at the time. The buildings huddled together as if for warmth, and most were dilapidated, the old wood warping and cracking with time and the stone chimneys crumbled into the roofs of the homes next to them. By contrast, looking down into the center of the town, the homes and shops were in good repair and freshly painted, as if a revival were occurring that had yet to reach the outskirts. Increasingly heartened by the prospect of a hot meal and a clean bed, I raced down the rolling, winding streets toward the square that seemed most likely to contain the objects of my desire.

I eventually crossed a rickety metal bridge over a broad river to find myself in the previously noted square, which was actually more of a semicircle with the river as the straight edge. Before me were a number of cheerful shops and, to the far right just on the water, a tall white building with a sign proclaiming it to be the Innsmouth Arms Bed and Breakfast. This, then, must be the town of Innsmouth; for some reason, this incited in me a quiet sense of dread, which I dismissed as a remnant of my previous turbulent emotions. With the first genuine smile I had been able to muster since Newham, I entered the inn.

The lobby was paneled in wood and decorated with an assortment of medieval weapons mounted on plaques, as well as a full suit of armor; I assumed they were replicas rather than antiques, but could not be certain. A small front desk sat before one wall, while the other held a table with a teapot and a plate of cookies. It took a strength of will I had not known I possessed to ring the bell at the desk rather than rapaciously devouring the sweets, and to then patiently await the arrival of the inn's night clerk. He turned out to be a friendly fellow of advancing age, and I immediately took a liking to him.

He explained that he had only recently moved to the town, like so many others who now lived there. Tales were told of the previous inhabitants, how there had been a series of secretive raids and arrests that had left Innsmouth virtually uninhabited, and how there had once been a number of crumbling, worm-eaten homes along the waterfront that had been burnt and demolished by the government. Only now was the town beginning to recover as new people moved in and repaired the worn buildings or constructed new ones, and soon it was hoped that this could become a popular tourist destination, and a lucrative fishing location once the docks and fisheries were reconstructed.

I had no money with which to secure a room, but the good man kindly offered to let me stay the night pro bono, and said he would speak to the local bus driver in the morning about allowing me to delay payment until we reached a town with a more sizable bank from which I could withdraw the required amount. He took my intense gratitude in stride, and laughingly indicated that no one else was using the rooms at present, so it was hardly an imposition. No doubt noticing my overwhelming fatigue, he contrived to guide me to a clean but sparsely decorated room on the third floor, whereupon I thanked him profusely and, almost immediately after his departure, found myself deep in the restorative waters of sleep.

Little did I know what awaited me, and the villagers, in the dark recesses of the coming night.

* * * * *

The First

I awoke to the sound of shattering glass and shouting outside the hotel. For a moment I feared that I was back in Newham, and terror overwhelmed me so that I could not move. Gradually, I became aware of my surroundings, and the memory of recent events returned to me. But what could be happening outside?

Peering through the window, I saw an assemblage of people in the square below me. Some carried lanterns, some torches, and some... some appeared to be brandishing weapons. I could not hear what was being said, but the sound of raised voices carried well enough. What was happening? What were they doing? And why did this feel so familiar?

A sudden knock at the door startled me out of my contemplation. It was the night clerk.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Warrick, but the other folks sent me to fetch you. We're having a spot of trouble and we want everyone in one place for now," he said.

"What trouble?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"We-ell," he said, hesitating. "Best you come outside and see for yourself."

I accompanied him down the stairs and out into the street, where the crowd was alternating between hushed whispers and fervent shouts. On the ground, at the center of the gathering, were two bodies.

I cannot say now what convinced me that the creatures I saw before me were dead. There is something about a man who is alive--call it a life force, or an aura, or a soul if you will--that is missing from one who is no longer among the living. As I drew closer, I saw that one of the bodies was a young girl, modestly dressed in a blouse and long skirt. Her skin was pale in the flickering light from the lanterns and torches, and as my eyes surveyed her still form, I saw that she had bled to death from some wound covered by her clothing. As for the other...

My heart froze in my chest as my gaze fell on the inhuman entity that lay before me. The form was vaguely humanoid, and yet that appearance seemed to be fading even as I watched. Skin as white as bone glistened faintly, as if covered in some liquid, but the texture was not so much like skin as it was like the flesh of a shark. What had seemed like the head was an almost translucent mass from which tentacles only slightly thicker than fishing lines extended, draping themselves over the still form. The creature had no face, and my stomach turned to think that once it had passed as human. But the most horrifying part, which even now threatens to drive me into unconsciousness as I think on it, were the hands. The fingers had shrunk into mere vestigial stubs, and where the palms should be, instead there were gaping maws filled with row after row of sharp, pointed teeth.

I must have swooned, because I found myself leaning heavily against a man I had not met before. He stared at me with open hostility that shook me to the core before shouting at the mob surrounding the bodies.

"This is ridiculous!" he yelled. "We found Ardor with the bodies, he says there was no one else with him, so the only explanation is that he did this!"

"Then why would I call for help?" the man who must have been Ardor replied. "Why wouldn't I have just run away and left them there for someone else to find?"

"It was obviously part of your devious plan!" someone else shouted. "You were trying to deflect suspicion off you by reporting it yourself!"

Once again, the crowd erupted into incoherent arguments. Weapons were brandished threateningly here and there, while whispered conferences were held in some corners. I watched in horror and amazement at how quickly a town of perfectly reasonable people could turn against each other. But then, I thought bitterly, this was not my first experience with such a situation.

The attention of the masses slowly turned to someone approaching from the north, someone screaming inchoately as she approached. One of the other villagers met her and tried to calm her down, but she kept screaming until finally he slapped her across the mouth. The front of the woman's dress was covered in blood, but judging by the reaction of the man who held her, it wasn't her own. She seemed to whisper something to the man, who looked back at the crowd, his eyes widening.

"Nerissa is dead," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "She says she was gutted like a fish."

Every pair of eyes turned to look at Ardor. He tried to back away but he was surrounded.

"I wasn't even there!" he shrieked. "I was on the other side of town!"

"How do you know where Nerissa died, Ardor?" someone asked.

"I don't... she just came from... you can't possibly believe..." But his cries fell on deaf ears.

"She was killed in her workshop," the man said. "Apparently she was building some kind of machine that looked like a human."

The arguments began anew, the volume and pitch increasing rapidly until a hunched figure stepped into the center of the circle.

"Look, y'all," a soft voice interjected. It was the town's priest, who ran a hand through his thinning hair. "We can't just go around practicing vigilante justice. Captain," he said, looking at a tall, imposing man, "Why don't you take Ardor down to the station and lock him up until we can get a hold of the folks down at County and see about getting him a fair trial?"

There were some sour looks and murmurs of agreement. The police captain escorted the trembling Ardor in what I presumed was the direction of the jail. I do not know what happened to him, as I never saw him again. Perhaps he was one of the lucky ones.

I hope that I may live to find out.

* * * * *

The Second

The mob, satisfied that justice of a sort had been done, began to disperse. I was preparing to return to the hotel when one of the townspeople approached me, grinning jovially.

"Haven't seen you around heah, mister," he said, holding out a hand for me to shake. His palms were dry and hot, as if he were feverish. "I'm part of the town watch. It's a bit like being a policeman only we don't do the serious policing, we just keeps an eye out for things as might be a problem. Hope you don't mind if I ask yer a few questions?"

I shrugged noncommittally. After my recent ordeal, and the sight of that horrifying creature lying dead before me, I was not feeling particularly talkative. But I imagined that refusing to indulge the man would be a cause for suspicion, and I had already seen how the people of this town dealt with the suspicious. The watchman said he lived across the river on Fall Street, near the old Baptist church, and so we began the walk down Federal Street toward the church green.

The worn street was dimly lit by gas lamps positioned sporadically on either side of the road, but the light barely pierced the darkness that had fallen like a shroud over the town. The shops and homes on this side of the river were shabbier and more worn than the ones on the other side, with wooden porches collapsing in on themselves and holes visible in the wood shingled roofs that no doubt attracted animals looking for safe nesting areas. I mused that this must be what the new townspeople had encountered upon moving to the area, and wondered how they could have seen something beneath this drab exterior that could have been worth recovering and rebuilding. A sudden chill passed over me, but I could not put a name to it, and so I concentrated on watching the figure of the man before me as we made our way toward his home.

Along the road in front of me, I saw the spires of two churches looming over the surrounding buildings, blacker than the sky behind them. I wondered that neither was topped with the large iron cross that typically marked it as a house of worship--perhaps they were unused? A third building, slightly shorter than the others, seemed to be in much better repair, so I asked the watchman what building that was.

"That's the ol' Mason meeting hall," he remarked. "Doesn't get used much anymore, since the troubles with the government." The closer we were, the more I marveled at the dilapidated pillars, like those of a Greek temple. But it certainly didn't look unused; in fact, it looked as freshly painted as the homes and shops on the other side of the river. More curiously, I thought I could see a faint light from within, obscured by thick curtains over the tall windows that faced the green circle on which it and the other churches sat. I mentioned this to him, and he looked toward it as if seeing it for the first time.

"Seems as you're right," he muttered in surprise. "Don't that beat all. I should maybe see about that..."

We began to walk toward the hall, when the harsh crack of gunshots echoed over the river. I froze like a startled animal. The man hesitated between continuing forward and racing toward the sound, when another set of gunshots rang out almost immediately to our north. With a shout, I ran south toward the river, only marginally conscious that I was in the middle of a broad street and should probably find some form of shelter. The sound of the watchman's labored breathing dogged me as we both fled for our lives, unsure of what came behind us if anything.

As we approached the river, the glow of a lantern caught my eye just to the right of the bridge. My companion must have seen it as well, for although I kept moving straight ahead, he veered toward the source of the light. Hesitating, I turned back to follow him, as the thought of being alone outweighed my fear of what we might encounter.

A young man crouched beside a large mound that I slowly realized was a body. A wave of nausea passed over me and I fought, and failed, to contain the remains of the cookies I had eaten at the hotel so many hours before. The watchman was aghast, but appeared to be taking the discovery more calmly. His voice shook as he asked what had happened.

"I jus' found him heah like this," the man said. He sounded as stunned as we were. "I can't... I mean, look at 'im... look!"

Haltingly, the watchman and I drew closer, and the young man leaned in with his lantern. My mouth widened in horror and I was forced to clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming. The dead body was completely covered in blood, its clothes and skin and hair soaked with it as if it had gone swimming in a lake of the vile substance. It was entirely impossible that so much blood should be contained in one body; it could not possibly have been entirely the victim's.

"To find this, after what happened to iamtheaznman..." the young man mumbled.

"What happened to iamtheaznman?" the watchman interjected sharply.

"We found him a few minutes after the other bodies got wrapped up in the square," said the man. "He hadn't come when he was called and some people went to find him. He was..." He took a deep breath as the blood ran out of his face. "All his insides were outside, and his arms and legs had been torn clean off. All in pieces he was. I was in the hotel when they found 'im." He put a hand over his eyes as if to cover his memory of the sight. "They'd just... stuffed him in a bag. Weren't even a big bag. And poor minigunwielder was there with the body, crying these greasy gasoline tears."

"What?" the watchman cried. "What do you mean, gasoline?"

"He weren't even human," the young man whispered. "Some kind of mechanical thing, like the one that poor dead girl was working on. He looked human enough, but he was all broken when we found him. Sounded like a car when the engine's gone bad. And then all out of nowheres they says he went crazy." He fell silent, so the watchman pressed him further.

"He... well, he grabbed a hammer and started wailing on hisself with the claw end, tearing out gears and pistons and other bits--that's how they figured he was one of them row-buts. The whole time he was gibbering in some weird language all full o' numbers and words that din't make a lick o' sense. He pulled out his own tinny metal heart and he stuck in right in his own mouth and chomped down, but I guess it broke the jaw cause then he couldn't talk anymore. And finally in the end, after he'd torn himself apart just as bad as iamtheaznman, he put that claw right through his own eyes and collapsed in the corner. But that weren't all." He looked down again at the body before us, his voice cold. "Apparently someone as cared heard about the machine and decided to go after poor Lignisse. The police're still trying to noodle that one out. Maybe those shots mean they found who'us responsible."

"But the shots came from two different places," I murmured. "Were there two criminals loose?" We sat in silent contemplation for a moment. Finally, the watchman spoke.

"I don't know what's going on here," he said, "but I'll be damned if I'm going to wait around to find out. I'm going back to my place to lock the doors and keep an eye out for trouble." He appraised me coolly. "I was keen on having a talk with you, mister, but now I'd just as soon leave yuh to yer own devices, if it's all the same to yuh."

As angry and bewildered and afraid as I was, I could not muster up an objection. And so the two men left me there on the banks of the river, unsure of what to do. Would that I had fled the town then instead of staying with the hope of lasting until dawn.

* * * * *

The Third

Bewildered and abandoned to my own devices, I stumbled across the river and found myself once again in the town square. Two men stood in the eaves of one of the shops, but were so engrossed in their discussion that they did see or hear me approach. Once I was close enough to listen in on their conversation, I realized that one of them carried a pistol and the other a rifle. They held their weapons casually, as if they were as used to firing them as they were to shaving or lighting a match. Such nonchalance was unfamiliar to me, and I felt the black wing of fear once again fluttering in my stomach. I hid myself in the shadows as they spoke.

"I'm for thinkin' we should go after jdarksun next," one said. "After that incident with the fella up by the ol' Marsh place, he's lookin' right suspicious."

"I was more worried about that Professor fellah... Moriarty, weren't it?" the other one said. "Strange type to be wanderin' around here, snoopin' after who knows what."

"We-ell," the first said, as if rolling the word on his tongue, "might be best that we split up again and take them both. Quick and clean, like before."

The second man nodded. "Shame about that girl, though. And the other two fellahs. At least you got the one critter stuffed."

"Collateral damage," the man said darkly. "We got to stop these things before..." He took a deep breath. "Weren't right, what happened to my ma and your sister. We hafta make sure it don't happen again."

With a wordless nod, the other man turned and walked toward the ocean. The first stood silently for a moment, then walked down the road almost immediately in front of me and vanished across the bridge.

My heart raced. These two men had spoken of cold-blooded murder as if they were ordering a meal. I could not fathom what unspeakable horror could so corrupt the minds and hearts of seemingly rational individuals and warp them into practicing such vigilante justice. They must have been the originators of the shots that the watchman and I had heard earlier; this thought chilled me to the bone. It is one thing to wonder at the mysterious villains who could kill their brethren without remorse, and it was something altogether more terrifying to see the faces of the men, to hear their calm, reasoned discourse, and to imagine that all men carried inside them something that was capable of such callousness and brutality.

In a daze, I wandered to the south side of the street and stared vacantly into the windows of a drug store. It was closed, clearly, and yet there was a flickering light inside that was similar to a spluttering candle and yet different in some way I could not place. Leaning against the door, I realized that it was open, and I stepped inside to investigate the source of that mystery.

I found it between a row of shelves: the body of a robed figure, contorted as if it had died of an apoplectic fit. Looking closer, I noted deep burn marks on every visible portion of his skin, and his eyes had been all but melted in his skull. Hardly knowing what I was doing, I reached toward the corpse and was rewarded with a shock of electricity that stung but did not harm me. Who could have done such a thing? Horrified, I backed away and nearly knocked over a mirror that rested atop one Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn of the shelves. I caught it just in time, and surveyed my own haggard expression with surprise and dismay. I also noted the reflection of another body crumpled in a corner. Turning to inspect it, I saw a wickedly curved dagger discarded on the floor nearby, covered in blood. It did not take a great deal of deduction to determine that the person had been eviscerated. I held up my hands to block the sight, realizing that I still held the mirror.

Behind my reflection in the glass, a dark, smoke-like figure appeared. I immediately looked behind me, but I was alone in the store. My brows furrowed in confusion. Gazing into the glass again, I saw the figure coalesce into a twisted shape that writhed and oozed like a mound of worm-filled earth in humanoid form. I longed to scream but my breath had frozen in my throat. I could not run or even move away. I could only watch the figure creep ever closer and raise a squirming arm toward my defenseless back.

Finally, I broke free of the paralysis that had overtaken me. With a shout, I threw the mirror at the storefront glass and leapt forward. As the mirror shattered, I felt an explosion behind me and was instantly pelted with grime. I glanced over my shoulder to see that the creature had been blown apart and was now merely a sodden pile of dirt. Had I overcome it? The earth did not move, and my racing heart began to slow as my breath came to me in longer, steadier inhalations.

That was when he stumbled towards me. One of the townspeople--I remembered seeing him in the crowd earlier. His skin had a greenish hue, and he held out an arm to me as if in supplication.

"Help..." he coughed. Blood trickled down his mouth and onto his shirt. I stepped away in horror and he fell to the ground, doubled over in pain. As I watched, an insect, like a large grasshopper, crawled out of his mouth. As a crack in a dam soon releases a flood, that first insect was followed by others, wriggling from his nose, dragging themselves from his ears, escaping from his every orifice and then swarming over him so that I hoped against hope that he was already dead. His body convulsed, and soon the locusts--for at last, I recognized them for what they were--were bursting from beneath his very skin and returning to feast on it.

I did not wait to see whether they would give me their attention once they finished their feast. I ran toward the hotel and threw open the door, closing it behind me and hoping against hope that I was not destined for death this night. How could I have escaped Newham only to find myself embroiled in another nightmare? Was this evil to follow me until the end of my days?

If only I had known then what I know now, I would have realized that these fears were as nothing compared to what was to come.

* * * * *

The Fourth

As I sought to contain my terror, I realized that it was becoming easier to do so, as if it were some animal that I was slowly beginning to tame. I gazed at the interior of the hotel, which had seemed so comforting when I first arrived, only to feel repulsed by the abundance of weapons that now surrounded me. And yet, a part of me was interested, even attracted. The glint of steel was almost hypnotic, and I found myself reaching out to grasp one of the elegant sabers that hung enticingly on the wall before me.

"Been through a lot, that blade has." The voice of the night clerk pierced my reverie as cleanly as a knife thrust. I lowered my hand quickly, ashamed, and yet unaccountably angry that I had been interrupted.

"I wasn't here for the troubles that came before," the man continued, watching me from beneath hooded eyes. "But my son was. One night another traveler, much like yourself, passed through this town, and that night..." His eyes hardened like coal into diamonds. "That night my son went mad. I found him in the grocery store, hiding among empty boxes in the stock room, and I took him home. One moment he would be moaning to himself, crying, and the next he would tear at his own flesh with his bare hands, screaming in a language I didn't understand. I cared for him as best I could, but one day I left him to pick up some food, and when I came back, he was dead. Swallowed his own tongue."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"I came here for answers," he said. "The government wouldn't give them to me. My son couldn't. And so here I am. And what I have found here..." To my surprise, he shuddered.

"There is a war," he said softly. "And we all must choose a side. Each of us living in this village has the power to save or damn. Even," he said, looking up at me, "you."

"And which side are you on?" I whispered.

He looked away then, at the suit of armor that stood stiffly at attention against the far wall. The passion that had filled him a moment before seemed to vanish like a flame in a hard wind. He looked older, then, and a bud of sympathy bloomed in my heart. "All I wanted was revenge," he murmured. "But how do you avenge yourself against a shadow, a nightmare lurking in the corners of the night? I had only just begun to find what I came here for, and now..." Again he turned his gaze on me, but his eyes were empty and cold. "Now you are here, and all these things are happening so quickly that I have no time even to think!" He took a step toward me, and I retreated. His body seemed to be growing, taking up more space in the small room.

"You are the lynchpin," he hissed, and his eyes had narrowed into slits. "The keystone. The anchor. All of this began when you arrived. The pieces are in place, and I have not even learned the rules of the game!" I backed away again as he pressed forward. "You are here too soon, and you have deprived me of my vengeance!"

He leapt at me, his fingers curved into claws that searched for my throat. I fought him off as best I could, but he was possessed by a madness I could not fathom. His teeth were sharp as a badger's, not human at all, and they tore into my hand as I pushed him away with it. That cold, detached part of me that had surfaced earlier arose in me once again; I reached back over my head to grasp the sword that I had admired upon entering. Blinded as he was with rage or insanity, he did not even have time to react as I drove the blade downward and into his skull.

His blood spurted onto my face and chest and the floor behind the clerk. He spasmed once and fell, his weight tugging the sword from my nerveless grasp.

I do not know how long I stood motionless over the corpse. I had never killed a man before, not even in Newham. The blood pounded in my ears like the sound of waves in a conch shell. And then, outside, I heard a lone rifle blast ring out--from where, I could not say. It wrenched me out of my stupor, and I stumbled toward the window, peeling back the curtain to see what there was to see.

No gun-wielding vigilante presented himself. Instead, a man crept cautiously along the other side of the square, looking around as if he were hearing things that I could not. I think he saw me, then, because he began to run toward the hotel. As soon as he left the shelter of the fish dealer's shop, the rain began.

Only it wasn't water that fell from the sky, it was fire.

Tongues of flame shot to the ground, but appallingly, they were not aimless. They flew like arrows toward the man that had left what must have been safety under the awning of the shop, and I watched as the bright flashes struck him, consumed him as if he were made of tinder. His flesh blackened and melted, his eyes shrank and sizzled into marbles, and soon even his bones cracked from the heat of the flames that battered relentlessly at what had once been a man. By the time the fires abated, only a pile of white ash was left.

Then, I realized that I had not been watching the conflagration alone. Near the south side of the square, a figure emerged from the darkness. It looked like a perfectly normal man, dressed in some kind of work apron apparently made of thick leather and wearing a set of goggles on the crown of his head. But as he was more clearly illuminated I saw that in his left hand he carried a human head, its eyes rolled back and its mouth agape. I must have moved or made some noise, because the man looked directly at me and shouted at someone behind him, then began to walk towards the hotel.

I did not stay to find out who he was or what his intentions were. Pulling the sword free from its fleshy scabbard, still coated, as I was, in the blood of the night clerk, I ran through the halls until I came to the back door, pushed it open, and fled into the night.

* * * * *

The Fifth

Without even knowing who--or what--pursued me, I raced northward as quickly as I could, and soon found myself facing the banks of the river that cut through the center of Innsmouth. I did not know how far west the river might travel, but I was not certain that it would be any safer to make for the bridge and try my fortune on the other side. Paralyzed with indecision, I was confronted by the sound of footsteps behind me.

I was surprised to see, not the ominous man with the bodiless head, but a figure concealed within a robe so dark blue as to be black. I could not see his face, if indeed it was a man who stood before me. I gripped my sword tightly, but did not raise it for fear that I would precipitously antagonize one who might mean me no harm. For I know not how long, we faced each other in silence, I regarding him warily and he, for all that I could tell, regarding me impassively. At last, he broke the silence with a voice like a man with consumption.

"Why do you fear us?" he wheezed. The question caught me off guard.

"I don't... I don't even know who you are..." I sputtered. He laughed, a wet, gurgling laugh like water in a plugged drain.

"Always so quick to fear what you do not understand," he said. "From our first unjustly punished impulse in Eden, we have ever been plagued by the need to know, and the fear of not knowing. We drew dragons and monsters on the unexplored areas of maps, then bit by bit we conquered those lands, charted them, named them, and so they no longer frighten us, and we no longer populate them with dangerous myths. We climb to the summits of mountains to define the places where they separate from the darkness. We dig deep into the lands below the earth to uncover the hidden gold and gems beneath, and bring them into the light where they can be cut and shaped to our whims. But still we fear, for still there are things that we do not know, places that we have not explored, creatures that we have not caught and pinned and cataloged for our own pathetic sense of security. If mankind knew what slumbered beneath the fathomless depths of the ocean, they would see that the monsters on the maps were not a nameless fear, but a warning." He looked up at me then, and I saw the flicker of something shine beneath the cowl of his robe. "A warning... or a summons for those who were not afraid of the darkness."

As from the bottom of a well, I heard myself ask, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Your coming was not an accident," he said. "You have been led here by forces beyond your comprehension, so that we who have waited patiently for your coming might reclaim that which was stolen from us."

"Stolen... what... who are you?" I whispered.

"We are the children of the Deep Ones," he answered. Then he cocked his head to the side as if puzzled. "But do you know who you are?"

Of course I did! I was Mathieu Warrick, and I was here because I had survived Newham, and at that moment I resolved that I would survive this, too, whatever the cost. And yet...

"What do you want from me?" I demanded. My tone must have surprised him, because he laughed again. And then he said something in a language I did not understand, but that seemed to creep over my skin like an army of worms.

"Seed of the seed, blood of the blood, dream in the eye of the mother who sleeps in Y'ha-nthlei. The lost one shall return, and the father shall honor his coming with death."

His words chilled me to the marrow of my bones. It was as if he had spoken a riddle whose answer I could not begin to fathom, and which held no promise of hope in its unraveling.

He took a step toward me, and I backed away, toward the river. A glance behind me warned that I would plunge into the rushing waters if I moved much further, and so I raised the sword in front of me.

"Don't come any closer," I warned. Again, he laughed, and took another step. I brandished the weapon menacingly, but he continued to laugh and move closer. Finally, with a hoarse shout, I leapt away and began to run parallel to the river, toward the bridge. I heard his steps behind me, and just as I reached the town square, I felt a moist touch at the nape of my neck.

Then, without warning, there was a loud thud and the touch vanished. I ran a few steps more and glanced back to see that I was no longer being pursued. The robed figure was curled up on the ground, and standing over him was a man I recognized from the crowd that had gathered when the first two bodies were found what seemed like eons ago. In his hand, he held a large cudgel, with which he proceeded to methodically beat the man--if it was a man--who had chased me. Soon, other townspeople stepped out of the shadows, watching the violence in satisfaction. One of them approached me and held out a handkerchief, which I gratefully accepted.

"You all right, mister?" the young man asked. I shuddered, then nodded.

"It's been a long night," he continued. "And it's not over yet. But I feel like we're winning, ya know?"

"Is it a game?" I murmured, remembering what the night clerk had told me. "Who are the players? What sides are we on?"

"Well," he said, "I believe I'm on your side, mister, if you're on mine."

The man with the cudgel finished his grim work and approached me. "You're lucky we found you when we did. It's been a grim night, I don't mind telling you, a very grim night. The dead are piling up like Judgment Day's upon us."

"More dead?" I said, and he nodded.

"We found one fellah near an old church on Main Street, all covered in boils and looking like he'd scratched hisself to death. Then the police found another o' them machine things and shot him up good, and another one just up and blew like a busted steam engine. And then there was the buddy of that fellah," he said, gesturing at the corpse he had so calmly battered to death. "Police shot him up, too."

"See?" the young man interjected. "I told yuh we were winning!"

I wished I could share his enthusiasm, but the words of the dead figure echoed through my mind, and I felt no peace. The lost one shall return... What could it mean?

And whose side was I on?

* * * * *

The Sixth

Were these the innocent residents of the town? Were these the gentle lambs bred for sacrifice? Were these the meek who had been promised the earth? It could not be so.

We strode en masse from door to door, a collective angel of death, and each time we were not answered, we forced our way in and meted out bloody justice. The first to fall was Thetheroo, struck down by club and axe, bones shattering as he held his arms over his head to protect himself. Then Dac Vin, cringing in the corner of his home; his blood sprayed against his whitewashed walls as his throat was cut by a long butcher's knife. Others followed, one after another, men and women paralyzed by fear judged guilty of far greater crimes and immediately sentenced and executed.

But there were others who met the mob as it made its deadly way north along Federal Street. They came with their own weapons, blade and bludgeon clutched in white-knuckled fists, ready, even eager to participate in the grim work. Their faces were emotionless, as if they were mere puppets going through motions while their master pulled their strings. I could not bring myself to speak out, but I feared these people more than the miserable creatures whose lives we were stealing one by one.

We finally reached the church green, and an argument began as to which building should be examined first. Some members of the group wished to explore the old Mason hall, others preferred to start with one of the two churches, and still others did not think that anyone would be in the buildings and that they should move on to other homes.

The argument ended when the sound of chanting was heard coming from the Mason hall. Slowly, carefully, we moved toward the towering oak doors. Then, without warning, a man dressed in black opened the door and slipped out, coming face to face with torches and lanterns and above all, weapons aimed directly at him.

The man who had saved me earlier was the first to speak. "What all is going on in there, eh, Oatway?"

Oatway hesitated. "Don't you know, Typhus?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," he snapped. His tone surprised me; he had been quite calm until now.

"The cultists are massing," Oatway replied. "They are sacrificing one of the townspeople to bolster their waning power." He swallowed loudly. "It is a futile effort. Their demon lords are only concerned with their own selfish ends."

"You seem to know quite a lot about them," Typhus733 said. "Why might that be?" Everyone watched Oatway expectantly. I wondered which "them" he meant.

To my surprise, Oatway smiled. "So it is you, then," he said softly. "To think that I have finally found you, and it will avail me naught." A murmur went up within the mob as the two men faced each other.

"This is ridiculous," another man said, stepping forward. He raised his pistol and leveled it at Oatway's head, pulling the trigger without hesitation. The shot was true, and Oatway's skull exploded outward, staining the doors of the Mason hall with his brains and blood.

A darkness fell then, thicker than the night in which we already stood, obscuring the moon and stars and even the lanterns and torches of the crowd. A cry went up; people stumbled about blindly, falling over each other, and some shrieked in pain. I fell to my hands and knees and crawled in what I thought was the direction of the churches on the other side of the green. I could feel the motions of others around me, but I was mercifully untouched.

I finally came to an opening and fell into it gratefully, hoping that I could lie in wait until the mysterious blackness had lifted. Then I felt someone stumble in front of me, grunting with some kind of effort that I could not see. He seemed sure of his footing somehow, and I wondered where he might be going. With a courage I had not known I possessed, I followed the sound of his steps down a flight of rough stone stairs. By the time I reached the bottom, either the darkness had been lifted, or I had gone so deep that it had not penetrated the layers of I knew not what above me.

I came to be in the vasty bowels of a cave, no doubt somewhere beneath one of the churches. My way was lit by thick red candles dripping wax like blood onto the wrought iron pedestals that supported them. Ahead, I could hear a single voice rhythmically chanting, though in what language I could not be coaxed to say. I would have fled back to the surface had I not known in vivid detail what already awaited me there, and so I pressed forward into the darkness, and the guttural sounds grew louder until I at last arrived at a horrifying sight.

Before me was a gathering of townsfolk, or so I thought; a cursory examination showed that they were in fact wax figures apparently molded to resemble residents of the town. A raised dais before me supported a crude stone cauldron, behind which stood a figure that I recognized as Typhus. In one hand, he held a curved knife that glinted in the flickering light, and in the other--no, I could not believe it, though the very fact stood before me as plainly as a shadow in daylight. When I saw the lifeless body of Oatway on the ground, my nightmarish fears were confirmed.

In his other hand, Typhus held the raw, bloody heart of the dead man.

"The time has come, worshippers of the Demiurge!" he bellowed. "I have studied the Book of Eibon, the last teachings of Zon Mezzamalech, and at last we shall gain the wisdom of the gods who died before the Earth was born! Tonight, we shall summon forth Ubbo-Sathla and recover the stone tablets that will show us the way to the stars!"

I recoiled in horror, pressing myself against the wall of the cave until my arms were scraped raw by the bare rock. Powerless to intercede, I watched as he threw the gory organ into the cauldron, then drew a gray crystal from beneath his robes.

The horrific chanting began anew as Typhus held the crystal aloft. It glowed with a sickly pale light that engulfed the cauldron and, no doubt, its disgusting contents, until with a hideous shriek, he thrust the crystal into the stone vessel and all was mercifully silent.

But the reprieve was not to last. From the unseen depths of the earth arose a sound as of the very foundations of the world groaning with effort. The mad demon-worshiper gazed down into the depths of the cauldron and cackled with delight.

"He comes!" he shrieked. "Behold, the Unbegotten One, Ubbo-Sathla!"

A shapeless mass flowed over the lip of the cauldron, viscous as glue and yet apparently possessed of some unfathomable intelligence. It poured onto the stone floor and spread like a swarm of ants toward the wax figures; upon reaching them, it oozed up and engulfed them completely. I retreated further, fearing that the wave would come for me next.

But that was not to be. Upon consuming the figures, a sound between a gurgle and a groan issued from the cauldron. Typhus733 watched in delight as a giant limb, like a crude tentacle or a pseudopod, rose and groped about blindly. It finally found the man and coiled around him as he shrieked in apparent ecstasy, his eyes rolling back into his head. From his open mouth, an endless host of tiny creatures emerged, and as I watched his skin became dry and dessicated as an empty corn husk. The viscous mass that poured over the wax figures now retreated, covering Typhus like a cocoon. With inexorable slowness, the pseudopod dragged the corpse down into the cauldron and disappeared.

I stood silently for I know not how long, my breathing shallow, my mind hardly able to grasp the horror that I had just witnessed. And yet a part of me was satisfied, even grimly pleased. The rest of me, after recovering from the initial shock, finally found the strength to propel me back toward the stairs from whence I had come, hoping against hope that I would not be returning to a lightless surface thick with the dead.

* * * * *

The Seventh

Men, it has been well said, think in herds; so too do they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one. As I emerged from the strange underground cavern into which I had crawled, I saw several bodies lying in the church green, where they had been shot or trampled or beaten or stabbed to death, no doubt in the oppressive darkness that had fallen upon the death of Oatway. My rational mind would have scoffed at such ideas before, but now they seemed natural, even reasonable. And where I might once have felt sorrow, remorse, even pain at the sight of the dead, instead I coolly appraised the scene and noted that the survivors appeared to be making their way down to the waterfront. Shifting my grip on the sword in my hand to hold it more comfortably, I set out to meet them.

The crowd stood at the base of a tongue of sand that curved around the shore like a protective arm, forming a breakwater against the rough seas of the Atlantic Ocean. Making its slow way out toward the open water was a small boat, its oars manned by a dark figure lit from the front by a small oil lantern. I was too far away to see his face, but I could hear one of the policemen calling out to him.

"Egos!" he said. "We know you killed Gorilla Salad! Come on back or you'll be sorry!"

Egos shouted back, "I never killed nuhbahdy! Yuh're all gone out yar minds! Ah'll row clean tuh Arkham and send back the real puhlice!"

This struck me as the most reasonable thought that anyone had had all night, and yet the townspeople began to scream and throw rocks toward him. None, however, dared to venture out on the bar of sand. None except the policeman.

"I'm giving you to the count o' three!" he said. Egos ignored him, rowing as hard as he could manage, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that he was not going to hit the rocks.

"One..."

From somewhere to the north, I heard a sudden scream cut off almost as quickly as it occurred.

"Two..."

To the south, there was an explosion from what looked like an old warehouse.

"Three!"

Egos wasn't looking at the policeman when he finished counting, and so he was caught in the back of the head by the shot from the man's rifle. As he fell, he must have kicked his lantern over, because soon bright orange flames licked at the bottom of the boat, spreading up the leg of Egos' dead body until he and the boat were engulfed in flames. Everyone watched as the boat slowly keeled over and sank into the black waters before us. But I... I was looking back at the town.

It seemed so peaceful from here. And yet, at the top of a hill along the river, I saw a robed figure raise a lantern. Watching. Waiting.

For me.

* * * * *

The Eighth

The crowd stood silently staring out over the cold waters of the ocean, and the blackness of the open sea stared back. It was nearly impossible to determine where the water ended and the sky began. Sometime during the long, bloody trek from home to home, a storm had rolled in and dense clouds blotted out the moon and stars. I thought of beginnings and endings. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him. The policeman who had shot Egos made his way back to the mainland and stomped the sand off his boots.

"Well," he said conversationally, "I guess that's the last o' them. Maybe now we can head home and get some rest before--"

"Are you so sure of that, officer?" a voice interjected. A dozen eyes turned to see a sloppily dressed man with strange goggles and wild hair sticking out in all directions. He smelled vaguely of sawdust, and was clutching something in his right hand.

"Easy there, Ianator," the policeman said. "You got summat to say?"

Ianator twitched nervously and surveyed the crowd, his eyes finally resting on me. "We don't know who that stranger is, for one," he said. "And we don't know if anyone else here is one of those demon-creatures in disguise. I..." He seemed to choke on his own words. "I killed one of them, but there could be more. There could be more..."

"So what do you suggest?" The officer's tone was low and even, but I sensed the menace crouched behind his words.

"There is only one way to be sure," Ianator whispered. "They killed my friends, my family... there is only one way to be sure." He opened his coat, exposing a row of dynamite strapped to his waist. The object in his hand, then, must have been the detonator. The gathered crowd began to back toward the dark waters that lapped eagerly at the shore. Tears rolled down Ianator's face as he raised the trigger.

A shot rang out, and Ianator collapsed to the ground. Behind him stood the other policeman, who lowered his smoking pistol to his side.

"That," he said, "was just about enough of that."

A cheer went up, and people rushed forward to embrace him and clap him on the back. I was not possessed of their sudden joviality; a cold tremor passed through me, and I found myself searching for the robed figure that I had seen standing next to the river. Not sighting him, I slipped quietly into the shadow of the homes that lined the waterfront and began to make my way back toward the church green. This fight, I knew, was not over.

No street passed straight from my present location to my destination, and so I walked west toward Federal Street. To my left, an old refinery loomed over the river and what used to be the town square; some awareness in me stirred, and I knew that it had belonged to Obed Marsh, the patriarch of the town and... something more. Something I could not yet name.

As I approached the old town square, one of the townsfolk stepped out of the shadows. Something about the angle of his head troubled me, but I held my tongue.

"You will come with usss," he hissed. As he spoke, I realized that his mouth was not moving, it was merely hanging open.

The man lunged at me, and I raised my sword in defense. He must have been as surprised as I was, because he ran straight into it almost to the hilt. And yet, as he collapsed, I could have sworn he looked almost at peace. That was when I saw the creature that was attached to his neck, and which now spasmed, because it too had been skewered by the blade. It looked like a starfish, only elongated, with the top arm stretching from the nape of the man's neck into his hair, and the other arms apparently clinging to the man's arms and legs. As I watched, the demon shrank and shriveled until only a skeleton remained, and then even that crumbled into chalky dust and blew away in an intangible wind.

I did not stop to investigate further, but renewed my climb towards the main street of the town. I passed more bodies as I walked; one, I was sorry to note, was the watchman who had almost taken me in before. He had been cut open from chin to navel, his organs splayed out over the filthy ground. But I had no time for grief.

I had an appointment to keep, but with who or what, I would not know until I arrived. And after that... the fates would decide.

* * * * *

The Ninth

The church green was deserted, the corpses that had littered the ground before growing colder as the night progressed. As devoid of life as the scene appeared, the doors to the Mason hall were wide open, as if inviting me inside. I mounted the steps one by one, apprehension and eagerness battling within me for supremacy. Would this be the end of my search? Would I finally come to know my purpose in finding my way to this town? What would that purpose be?

Inside, the hall bore some resemblance to a church, with rows of benches lining both sides of an aisle that led up to a raised platform at the front of the room. A black marble slab as big as a coffin dominated the platform, but there was enough room behind it for a man to stand. And so one stood, watching me approach with a faint smile on his face, which was covered with blood.

Unfortunately, another man also shared the room with us, but he was no longer with us in this world. He lay atop the altar, his intestines draped over the side like an altar cloth. I did not doubt that it was his blood that painted the mouth of the other man.

"The prodigal son," the man said. "Promised to the children of the Deep Ones since the destruction of the town drove some into the waters, and the rest into hiding. Until now."

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"My name is Varcayn," he said. I waited for some further explanation, but when none was forthcoming, I asked, "What do you want from me?"

"Either your life, or your death," he answered enigmatically, still smiling. "The choice is yours."

I watched him silently, still not sure what he meant. Even so, some part of me yearned to join him, compelled as if by the very blood that ran through my veins. I fought the impulse, reminding myself of the other figure that occupied the room with us. Was this even a man who stood before me, speaking to me, asking me to make a choice that I could not understand?

"My life is my own," I replied. "How could I give it to a monster such as you?" Rage suddenly infused my voice. "How many of these people have you killed tonight? First Newham, now this? Will I ever be pursued by madness and death?"

"Is that your choice, then?" he asked. "Know that I offer you the immortality that is your birthright, and that by denying me, you deny yourself and your brethren that right."

"I know nothing about what you are offering me!" I cried. "But I know that you are a fiend and a murderer, and I will not ally myself with such a creature!"

"Am I so much worse than the innocent people of this town?" he said. I could not answer. I had seen so many things tonight, and in Newham, that I would not have imagined possible: neighbor killing neighbor, brother against brother... it was beyond endurance. And yet I had endured, and so had those people, despite their horrific deeds against each other in the name of security. Would that be enough? Could we face each other in the morning after this long, hellish night and still claim to be human beings?

"Yes," I said. "You are the reason for all this. If not for you, all these people would be alive and living in peace."

"I only sowed the seeds of fear and watched them ripen into beautiful, violent fruit," he replied. "They did this to themselves. They were weak, and they have been culled."

"I will never," I spat, "be as inhuman and heartless as you and your kind."

"Then," he laughed, "you will die."

As I watched, his skin stretched until it tore apart like poorly stitched clothing. Underneath, he was black as pitch, so dark that all light seemed to be absorbed into his body. His face ripped apart at the lips, and his head was made of the same stuff as the rest of him. Instead of eyes, he had a single black hole, and his mouth was a larger hole underneath it, fleshy and toothless. Rising from his back were two sooty wings that he shook free of their fleshy confines and spread out like those of some nightmarish bat. And, like a bat, he raised his head to the sky and loosed a high-pitched, terrifying shriek that shattered the glass in the windows overhead.

My legs shook, and I longed to run in fear, but I stood my ground. I had come this far, and I would face my fate, whatever it might be. The figure leapt onto the black marble slab and dove at me, vicious claws outstretched to rend me limb from limb.

A shot rang out, and the demon was knocked backward onto the floor. I threw myself to the side, between two of the benches. More shots followed, and I watched as the demon flinched and twitched and howled in pain. Finally, it lay still, and the corpse began to dissolve into the floor as if it were being washed down a storm drain.

I arose from the ground and gazed at the police officer who had saved me. He grinned crookedly at me, the hands that held the rifle shaking slightly.

"That sure was somethin'," he said. "Good thing I found you when I did." I nodded, unable to find my voice.

"We thought everything was all tied up in a bow, neat-like," he continued. "But then Natik up and jumped on Infidel 'n Law'nater, and we ended up shooting both of them. So we knew something was up. We saw you'd gone, so we spread out to find you, and here you are."

"Yes, here I am," I murmured. "And now what?"

That was when the earthquake began. The policeman and I stumbled out of the building as the ground shook violently. I thought I saw a bright light coming from the place where I had followed the demonologist before, and so I fled in that direction.

Suddenly, a man appeared before me--or, at least, I thought he was a man. His clothes were pure white, and he smiled at me the same way the demon had, but instead of horror, I felt some measure of peace. His eyes began to glow with some inner, fiery light.

"Know," he said, "that this night is not over."

He raised his head and bellowed towards the heavens, "I have returned to render judgment against those who have sinned. I am the right hand of the heavens and none who have turned their back to us shall escape this day."

Could this mean that we would be saved? I wanted to place my trust in this figure, but knowing what I knew, I could not feel so optimistic. If this was not over, then they would still be coming for me.

But now, I felt more ready to meet them.

* * * * *

The Final

I watched in awe as Oatway began to walk down Federal Street toward the town square. It was difficult to look at him for too long, so glaringly white were his vestments. Tendrils of light drifted off him like curls of smoke, leaving wispy trails in his wake. He paid no attention to the buildings around him but moved forward without hesitation, as if he were a homing pigeon returning to his perch. Or perhaps more aptly, a hawk closing in on his prey.

I followed him down the street and across the bridge, the river swirling madly below us. In the center of the town square, one lonely figure stood, hidden by dark robes.

"The game is over, Toxic Toys," Oatway said. "I have returned to cleanse the town of your kind forever."

The man glared at me desperately, his eyes lit by Oatway's illuminated form. "You can still be one of us!" he shouted. "We can be immortal! Will you throw that away in favor of the pathetic illusion of humanity that you've created for yourself?"

"Silence, sinner!" Oatway roared. "You have been judged, and you have been found wanting. The justice of the divine does not slink about in shadows to strike at the backs of its foes. Behold, the power of the Light!"

Oatway stretched out his arms as if to embrace Toxic, and from his back six luminous wings spread, so dazzlingly white that I had to shield my eyes with my arm. He opened his mouth and a deafeningly loud, clear note sounded, aimed directly at the cringing cultist before him. I could not tell if the figure called Toxic screamed, but as I watched, he raised his face to heaven and froze, as still as a statue. Then, with unbearable slowness, he collapsed in on himself, and I saw that he had been converted into a pillar of salt.

A cry arose from the hotel, and a man emerged. He seemed to be struggling with something, but he was alone. His expression alternated between fear and rage.

"Fear not, KingMole," Oatway said softly. "The Light has not turned his face from you. You are forgiven for killing Pavek, for you knew not what you did. You shall be cleansed of the demon that possesses you." Gently, he laid his hand on KingMole's forehead, and the man's face immediately fell slack. He slid to the ground and lay quietly, his chest rising and falling as if he had slipped into a deep, restful sleep.

Then, another townsperson stepped out of the grocery store. With an inhuman cry, he rushed at Oatway, curved knife in hand. Before he had gone a few feet, he fell to his knees, clutching at his throat, and crumbled to dust.

"My poor Cheez," Oatway said. "It was too late for you. Would that you had fought harder, I might have been able to save you as well."

We stood in silence as the clouds cleared overhead, and the stars once again peered down from the night sky. Oatway's brightness began to dim, and he folded his brilliant wings somehow so that they were no longer visible.

"My work here is done," he said, turning to look at me. "I will return to my eternal rest, content that this town has at last been relieved of its demonic burden. Except..." His eyes bore into mine, and I trembled with a fear I could not name.

"Except what?" I asked.

"The final choice is still yours," he said. "You are the last of the line of Obed Marsh. He and his kin live beneath the black waters of the ocean, consorting with evil creatures that have preyed on man since before the moon was set in the night sky to drive away the darkness. As long as you live, you will be their link to the surface world."

"What do you mean," I whispered, half wishing that I could remain in ignorance.

"They will seek to perpetuate their lineage through you, and your children, and your children's children until the end of time," he replied gravely. "Only you have the power to end his reign of terror on this town forever."

Without another word, he grew darker and more insubstantial until he vanished completely. I could hardly breathe; my chest was heavy with the meaning of what he had told me. At last, I understood the strange compulsion that had brought me to this town, and that had led me to this, my ultimate choice.

And so ends my tale, as I lay on the bed back in my room in the hotel, for I had kept the key with me all this time without realizing it. The roar of the sea is echoing in my ears so that I can hardly think. It calls me, even now, as I hurry to finish writing this. It is almost time, I know, for my decision to come to fruition. I must admit that, after all that I had seen, I still hesitated to follow what I knew was the better course, but how could I become one of the unspeakable creatures that had plagued me all through this long night? No, that had plagued me all my life, though I had vainly sought to deny it? It was unthinkable.

Even now my hand grows weak, and I am hardly able to clutch the pen. This is a fitting place to end, I think. So many blades on the walls, all eager to be blooded. But I used the one that had served me so well all this time; it had killed demons before, and so it was only proper that it should kill one now. But know that I am not a demon. I did not die as one of them. I made my choice, and as my blood flows onto the sheets and stains them with my life, know that my blood is red and pure and I will not succumb to the darkness even as I breathe my last brea

Folie à Plusieurs (some NSFW language)

2009-10-06T16:13:00.004-04:00

Prologue

The cold wind whipped my long black hair against my face as I stood on the deck of the airship. At this altitude, I shouldn't have gone outside without a heavy jacket, much less in a strapless cocktail gown. But the thick smell of cigars and liquored breath in the gaming room had been too much for me, and I knew if I'd gone all the way back to my room then Adrian would have summoned me again anyway. My spike-heeled sandals hadn't been designed with long walks in mind. Then again, they hadn't been designed for the cold, either.

"Moira, darling, what are you doing out here?" I turned to see Lady Whitley sauntering towards me, wrapped in elegant furs whose patterns subtly changed as she spoke. "You'll catch your death, my dear!"

"I only needed some air," I replied, trying not to stammer. "And you?"

"Out for my evening constitutional, of course," she said. "I do a lap around the deck and then stop at the spa for an algae bath. Keeps the skin young, you know." She tittered in a practiced way, and I wondered again how old she really was under all her nanoflesh and platinum-blond hair.

"I'll be back inside in a moment," I assured her. "Don't let me keep you."

"As you like it." She turned away and continued her slow walk around the perimeter of the airship cabin.

I gazed down at the city beneath us, the lush green spires of the Upper Floor rising above the clouds, which conveniently hid the less attractive portions of New Avernus. It was so beautiful from here, so peaceful. Hard to imagine that somewhere far, far below was the Bottom. If I were to fall, I wondered how long would it take me to--

Suddenly, everything went black.

"Hey, what the fuck!" I fumbled blindly for the remote but it was gone.

"That's it, Trish, get your shit together and get out."

"Come on, Sark," I whined. "Just five more minutes. You know I'm good for it."

"Right," he muttered. "There's a reason I make you pay up front, kiddo. Now come on, I've got other customers waiting out here."

Groaning, I reached up and twisted the connectors, then slid them out of my optical sockets. Uncoupling always left me with an empty feeling, like I'd just thrown up a huge meal. I held up the cables and felt Sark lift them out of my hands, then replace them with the dish that held my eyes.

Gently, carefully, I reconnected my eyes and popped them in. Blinking away the excess preservative liquid, I looked at Sark, who stood over me with his beefy arms crossed over his chest. Now that I had my eyes back, I felt a little bolder.

"That was a shitty memory, Sark. You could have at least put me back a few minutes when she was in the cabin instead of outside freezing her ass off."

"You get what you pay for," he replied. "I'm not gonna sit around cuing up the good parts for a chigger like you. Move it or lose it."

I moved it. The back door opened onto an alley littered with garbage that hadn't been collected or burned. I tried to cling to the memory of the icy clean upper air as the thick yellow fog of the Bottom slid into my lungs. It was tough. Fuck me, was it ever tough.

Chigger. Dream-chaser. Memory junkie. Yeah, I was addicted, so fucking what. The Bottom was a hellhole, and anyone who didn't want to get out of it was crazier than me. I wasn't smart enough to work my way to the Middle Floor, and I wasn't pretty enough to sleep my way to the Upper Floor, so other people's memories were the only way I was ever going to see a damn thing outside this oily fog.

"There, that one," a voice said from the end of the alley. "Get her."

Two men started walking toward me, one taller and one about my height. They were both wearing sunglasses, the kind with nose clips that were supposed to purify the air. Their clothes looked normal enough, but for some reason that made me even more nervous.

"I don't have any credits," I said, but they had to know that; I had just come out of a memory den, and nobody with an extra credit to their name would be caught dead coming out of there.

"Please lie face down on the ground and put your hands behind your head," the taller man said.

It took me a second to process the command. "I... I'm under arrest?" I sputtered. "What for?"

"The charges will be explained to you once we get to the precinct," the shorter man said. "Please do as instructed."

I started to kneel when suddenly, it hit me. The Invisible Man. The serial killer who'd knocked off Ricky the Robot right in his own basement. The guy who'd managed to kill a bunch of Uppers without getting caught, even though a bunch of us scum-suckers had been deactivated for the crime.

They thought I was him. Or they knew I wasn't, but I was going to be their next fall guy.

I jumped at the back door to Sark's place and banged on it. "Sark, let me in!" I shouted. "Please!" There was no handle, so I couldn't open it myself. If he heard me, he didn't say anything.

The Mind Police ran straight at me, so I took off toward the garbage piled at the end of the alley and tried to climb it. I might as well have tried to fly. By the time they pulled the neural inhibitor off my back, I was helpless as a baby bird.

"It will be noted on the report that you attempted to evade arrest," the taller man said dispassionately. Clamping a restraint around my waist, they cuffed my hands and activated the antigrav. I floated awkwardly between them as they guided me down the alley and onto the sidewalk, then into a waiting unmarked car.

I'd wanted to get out of the Bottom, sure, but not like this. Not like this.

* * * * *

Day 1

The day after Trish Wake was executed for murder, rest her soul, word on the street was that the Mind Police had found two more stiffs up on the Middle Floor. I never went up there, but my cousin, sometimes she did, and she'd give me the scoop when she got back down to the Bottom.

"It was crazy," she told me, leaning on the counter in my holovid store. "I heard it was like hours later. The same day even. Like the guy was taunting the cops or something. Like, oh, you thought you had me, but look at me, I'm still out there."

"Crazy," I said, shaking my head.

"I know," she replied. "Like I don't even know if I want to go back up there. I am so scared. I'll, like, have to charge extra or something."

"Hazard pay," I suggested.

"Yeah, hazard pay, that is some crazy shit." She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "I heard it was a spook gone bad. Like one of the Brain Busters went renegade or something and that's why they can't get him."

"He knows all their tricks."

She nodded vigorously. "I totally swear, it is probably true."

We chatted a bit more while I watched the store out of the corner of my eye. Business had been shitty since the murders had started. Usually the memory junkies wandered in when they didn't have enough money for a fix; holovids were cheaper because they were just visuals, even if they were really good visuals. And of course, you didn't have to take your eyes out to use them; that was some creepy shit if you ask me. Then there were the lonely guys grabbing the porn, the kids with their space alien crap, and whatever other random people needed a distraction. But now they were all too scared to go outside, much less down the street to their friendly neighborhood holovid store. Sucked a cold tit if you ask me.

The door swung open with a jingle and two squirrely looking dudes stepped inside. Scratch that, one of them was a lady. Not much of a looker, that one.

"Mcfarland?" the man said, staring at me through his dark sunglasses. "Berry Mcfarland?"

I nodded. "Whatcha need?"

"Please place your hands behind your head and do not make any sudden movements," the woman said.

My jaw dropped open. "You gotta be kidding me."

"Not at all," the man said, moving closer. "Please comply or we will note that you resisted arrest before we subdue you by force."

"Oh Berry!" my cousin said. "Oh Berry!" Her head wobbled back and forth between me and the cops.

"This ain't serious," I muttered. "I didn't do nothing." I didn't say anything else while they cuffed me and walked me out the door, my damn cousin screeching like a scratched holodisc. What was there to say? I was well and truly fucked, and my dad always said, he said don't give them any rope to hang you with my boy. So I didn't.

Not that it mattered, in the end. But at least I had my dignity. A man's gotta have his dignity, or what has he got?

* * * * *

Day 2

The corpse was propped up on a chair, facing a holovid of a naked woman dancing. It would have looked like he'd just nodded off if it weren't for his eyes, which had been torn out and stomped to jelly.

"Who is it?" one officer asked.

The other officer consulted his datastream. "Hilton Anderson, worked in chemical production. Took us longer to dig up his file since we couldn't do a retinal scan."

"Obviously." They stood in silence, both pointedly ignoring the holovid. Unfortunately, the painfully bright yellow walls did little to help the officers focus. Then one cocked his ear to the side as a message came in.

"A neighbor said he saw someone from the Upper Floor here last night, thought he recognized the guy from holovids."

"This kind?" The other officer inclined his head toward the dancer.

"Apparently. Stage name Jack Real, registered as Mohammad Mckenzie."

"You think he's our man?"

He shrugged. "Probably not, but we can't exactly ask this guy." He patted the corpse on the head.

"I heard he got one of us, too, last night. Busy fellow."

"We'll find him, and I'll personally shit in his eye sockets."

"I'll hold him down for you."

Again, they fell silent for a few minutes. Finally, one spoke.

"Let's go pay Citizen Real a visit. And for fuck's sake, turn that vid off."

* * * * *

Day 3

Nobody understood. I could feel the smog inside me, yellow and dirty and poisonous, like a snake coiling and uncoiling in my lungs, my stomach, my bowels. Tainting me. Killing me slowly. Up on the top, the air was clean. Pure. There were plants, real ones, and you could see the actual sky instead of just holovids. It wasn't fair.

Every morning the artificial lights that mimicked the sun streaked through my ratty curtains. They lit up in the east and eventually went dark in the west. Some people didn't even know they weren't the real sun. But I had seen them, up on the thirtieth floor, white and hot and false. False as the illusion of security that the Mind Police projected.

The first kill was the hardest, because I was still afraid. When I strangled Miss Grace, I covered her eyes so the police wouldn't be able to reconstruct my image from her last memories. I lived in fear for weeks, waiting, wondering when they would come for me. They never did. It got easier after that.

But now, they were coming for me. I could hear them at the door. Someone must have seen me. I'd gotten bold, and careless. Was it the Upper Floor athlete? The Bottom-dwelling hermaphrodite hooker? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

The drugs were kicking in. I'd be gone soon, well before they found me under the floorboards. But it didn't matter. I could see that now. I could see so many things that I couldn't before. Everyone else was a rat running through the maze of buildings on the bottom, but I was more. I was free.

I was free.

* * * * *

Day 4

"It's nothing personal, you know." He leveled the neural inhibitor gun at me as I backed away.

"That makes me feel much better," I said.

We stood facing each other on the small terrace of my living quarters. To my left was a wall of cyanobacteria-covered lichen, to my right a moisture condensor, and behind me was a sheer drop of about two hundred stories. I didn't bother raising my hands over my head; I was unarmed, and we both knew it.

"They might not execute you," he said conversationally. "I hear they already caught two more of them, besides the one you nabbed. The Inspector might be lenient if he can persuade the press that you're innocent, no matter what the paranoid public says."

"The Inspector wouldn't do that for anyone, much less me," I muttered. "Don't be simple. We've both arrested enough innocents to know the routine. And don't forget, we lost another one of our own tonight. It's hard to spin that no matter how eloquent you are."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." He reached down to his belt and pulled out his cuffs.

I faked a lunge toward him but dropped to the side and he fired the inhibitor harmlessly over my head. A quick sweeping kick knocked him off his feet and he hit his head hard against the doorframe. While he reeled, I turned the inhibitor toward his chest and pushed the trigger. He twitched briefly, then collapsed.

My blood pounded in my head and chest. I was a dead man now. No, I told myself, I was dead the second he told me he was here to arrest me. I had to run. Run and hide. I had plenty of credits, but they could track me if I used them, and they had probably frozen my assets by now. I'd have to get to the Bottom and pawn whatever I could, maybe even try to get out of the city.

I ransacked my closets and filled my pockets with jewelry, watches, cufflinks, whatever I could lay my hands on. I put on a few layers of my nicest shirts and pants over my ratty uniform; I'd be hot as hell, but the clothes were probably worth something, too. I wondered if I should pack anything, then decided it would look more suspicious.

Taking one last look around at my home, I swore under my breath that I would catch the bastards who had done this to me. Even if it took me the rest of my life.

I opened the front door and promptly collapsed, a neural inhibitor dart protruding from my stomach. Of course, I thought as I fell. They wouldn't have sent him alone.

So much for revenge. All I could do now was hope someone else caught the bastards for me.

* * * * *

Day 5

"Y'all hear about the Brainsucker what got arrested yesterday? Boy, what a mess." Perry took a long pull on his pipe and exhaled a fragrant blue cloud of smoke.

"Man, I tell you what," Sal replied. "Them guys be all makin' with the mind mojo all scarin' people silly back to front and they can't even find they own backsides with both hands and a map."

"Used to be they knew what you was thinkin' afore you did, you dreamt of doin' something foul and you'd better wake up and apologize or--" He slid his finger across his neck.

Sal nodded and they sat in silence, sitting on the front stoop of the building in which they both lived. They watched fellow Bottom-dwellers walk along the grimy sidewalk, most sharing the same deliberate step that one fell into after a mile or two. Few people could afford the minibikes that zipped along the streets, and fewer still could afford the synthfuel that powered them. The subways that rumbled along underneath the ground only went so far, and tended to be dirty, poorly lit and oppressively overcrowded. The trams that serviced the Middle Floor were much nicer but, of course, much more expensive.

A figure suddenly began moving against the crowd, which parted for him here and there more out of surprise than politeness. His frantic screams reached the two men on the stairs.

"What is that, do you think?" Perry asked.

Sal shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted. "Looks like young Pope making a damn fool of himself." He looked harder and sat back in his chair. "I'll be... he's got two Busters on his ass!"

Two nondescript people had also begun moving against the current of pedestrians, but the masses parted much more quickly for them. Some even jumped off the sidewalk, eliciting a flurry of tinny honks from the oncoming traffic. People in the buildings flanking the street began opening their windows and looking down to see what all the commotion was about.

"Help!" the young man screamed. "Please, help! I didn't do anything! Please!"

The onlookers above laughed and hooted and heckled him as he ran. Some threw empty Instafood containers down at him, more often hitting the surrounding people who were now more actively trying to get away from the hysterical man.

It was over as quickly as it began. The Mind Police officers got a clear shot and one of them hit him with a neural inhibitor. He dropped like a sack of rice. The crowd began to regroup as the officers hefted their quarry into a waiting transport, and before long there was no sign that anything had happened aside from the excess of garbage littering the street.

"Poor kid," Perry said.

"A shame," Sal said.

Perry passed the pipe to Sal, who took a deep drag and calmly blew a series of smoke rings into the greasy yellow air.

"A shame," he repeated. "But better him than me."

"Amen to that," Perry said. "Amen to that."

* * * * *

Day 6

He'd grown up on the Bottom. Most officers who had the option moved to a different level, but he hadn't. He preferred the familiar surroundings: the endlessly tall buildings, the bustling streets, the tangy air, the multi-colored glow of the holosigns that flickered and danced over each store and eating hole. His dad had worked at a tiny store that sold Instafood and medichems and other random stuff, and he remembered sitting on the floor behind the counter, watching his dad hand over pipeweed and moodalts from the locked cabinet in the back. When his dad was gutted like a rabbit for the key to that cabinet, the killer hadn't even seen the little boy crouched in the corner, wide-eyed, frozen. The bastard was caught thanks to that; the police had been able to pull the image right from his head and apprehend him within a few days. That made this serial killer business all the more frustrating, but progress had been made, he reminded himself.

He took care of the Bottom because it was his job, but also because it was his home. His place. He didn't own it but he felt as if it belonged to him in a way that made him responsible for it, protective of it. When things happened on the Bottom, it made him angry because it was as if someone had gone into his home and wrecked his kitchen, or raped his wife, or drugged up his daughter. Or killed his father. He wouldn't let that happen. When it did, the criminal would be punished.

The skylights were dimming as night fell above the clouds. He wondered how many of his fellow Bottom-dwellers had ever seen a real sunset. It was beautiful, all pink and gold and deep blue, but he preferred the show down at ground level, the way you prefer your grandmother's cooking to anyone else's. He stepped absently around a holovid in the middle of the sidewalk, wondering if it would be worth his time to tell the owner to move it. No, his wife would have dinner waiting. She hated when he was late.

Something stung him on his neck. Confused, he reached a hand up and pulled away a tiny needle. Could someone have dropped it...?

"Shh," a voice whispered in his ear.

He turned to see who it was, but it felt as if he was moving with infinite slowness, so that when he was finally looking over his shoulder, all he saw was the stream of people walking past him. They were moving slowly, too, until it seemed as if they frozen, suspended in mid-stride. The lights at the edges of his vision darkened as he took a small, gasping breath.

"Good night, sweet prince," the voice said, and the darkness claimed him.

* * * * *

Day 7

"Are you the Mind Police officer?" A small man stood in front of the bar, wearing a neat pseudolinen suit with a narrow-brimmed hat.

"Who wants to know?"

"I do."

Alfredo looked the man up and down, then settled his gaze just beyond the man's left shoulder, a bored expression on his face. "And who are you, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

"Merely a fellow human with a proposition for you."

"Not interested," Alfredo replied. He went back to watching the Aeroball game on the holovid projector. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man slide into the seat next to him and hail the bartender.

"Two Capeks please," the man said, his voice husky.

Alfredo thought he sounded like he was trying to talk tough. A smile curled up the corner of his lips. Sure enough, the man offered him the extra glass, and he accepted as nonchalantly as possible. He knew this game, and he reveled in it.

"Perhaps you will be so kind as to listen to my offer before turning it down."

"I can't stop you from talking, can I?" Alfredo asked.

"I suppose not."

"Then talk."

The man took a sip of his drink. "If you are indeed the Mind Police officer, my client is willing to provide you with substantial payment in return for a small favor."

"A small favor, of course." Alfredo smirked. "Care to elaborate?"

"He desires congress with a minor and would like you to ensure that he is not... interrupted."

Alfredo nearly choked on his drink. "He... he wants to bang a kid and he wants me to play lookout?"

"That is a less delicate way of putting it, but yes."

"The place he's going doesn't have security?"

"My client would prefer to bring his own," the man replied. "For the sake of discretion."

Now was the fun part. "How much does he think this is going to set him back?"

"Five hundred credits."

Alfredo struggled to maintain his composure. That was a lot of money. He'd been ready to haggle and play but there was no arguing with that. The thought of even trying made his throat close up.

"I suppose that will suffice," he finally said. "I get paid up front or no fun for the boss. Where and when will I meet him?"

The man smiled. His pale, round face almost glowed in the dim light of the bar. "I'll call him immediately. If you will excuse me for a moment?"

Alfredo waved dismissively and returned his attention to the Aeroball game. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Five hundred credits. Damn.

He heard the entry door open and close, but failed to notice the soft click of the lock engaging. The bartender looked up at the newcomer after a moment and nodded politely. Then, suddenly, he fell to the floor screaming with a knife in his eye.

Alfredo whirled around just in time to see the small man stab him in the stomach. He tried to throw a punch, but the pain sapped it of force and he only struck a glancing blow against the man's shoulder. The man's companion was large and plainly dressed, and Alfredo noted that he had one blue eye and one brown eye. He told himself to remember so that when the Mind Police found him, they'd know exactly who to look for.

He threw himself toward the door only to find it locked. The large man grabbed him roughly and held him still while the small man smiled.

"Naughty, naughty," he said. "Congress with minors is wrong, you know."

"Please," Alfredo gasped. "I'm not Mind Police."

"Of course not," the man said soothingly.

"No, really!" Alfredo insisted.

"I would be surprised if such a trembling coward of a man could ever be a police officer."

Furious, Alfredo spit in his face and the man wiped it off, chuckling.

"For that," he said, "I'll cut out your tongue before I cut out your eyes, so it will be the last thing you see before you die."

Unfortunately, as Alfredo found out, the small man was true to his word.

* * * * *

Day 8

"Little Stevie Hooper, sitting on the pooper, momma gonna send him off to be a Super Trooper!"

"Stop it!" Stevie yelled at the twin girls who were following him. He wasn't sure which one had made up that stupid rhyme, but it was really annoying. They grinned at him, both missing their front teeth.

"I know you are, but what am I?" Maggie said.

"That doesn't even make sense!" Stevie replied.

"I know you are, but what am I?" Jenny repeated.

Stevie groaned in disgust and continued walking home, ignoring the chanting that pursued him. The permalamps glowed overhead with a faint yellow light that made the fog look thicker than it was. The occasional minibike whizzed past, but the street here was narrow, more like an alley, so it didn't get a lot of traffic. Most of the people who lived there stayed behind their closed plastisteel doors and left each other alone. Nice and quiet, just how he liked it. Except for the twins.

"Shouldn't you guys be getting home?" he asked.

"Mom says it's important to play outside," Jenny said.

"She says it builds character," Maggie added.

They scratched their pale noses in unison and laughed.

"Yeah, well, your mom probably doesn't want you running around with that serial killer on the loose," he said.

"I'm not scared," Maggie said.

"Me neither," Jenny agreed.

"Oh, really?" Stevie asked. "And what if I told you that I was the serial killer?" He took a step toward them.

They stepped back, then laughed again, but nervously. "You're not the killer," Jenny said. "You're too skinny."

"You smell like feet," Maggie added.

"Dead feet," Stevie said menacingly, taking another step toward them.

"You don't even have a knife," Maggie said, backing away further.

"And you don't eat eyes like the killer does," Jenny said, following suit.

"You're so sure, hmm? That's too bad. I was going to invite you to my house for fresh eyeballs... starting with yours!" Stevie shouted. The girls shrieked and ran back to the building where they lived, down the street. He grinned and kept walking.

And then fell to the ground, a neural inhibitor lodged in his back.

"You think he's really a serial killer?" one of the Mind Police officers asked.

"You heard him confess," the other answered. "That's good enough for the jury."

"Super."

* * * * *

Day 9

"We seem to have found ourselves a couple of Intellect Invaders, haven't we?"

"So it seems."

The two men gazed down at their prisoners, bound by their own restraints and hovering helplessly just above the floor of their own vehicle. The back of the squad car was surprisingly roomy, built as it was without seats. After all, why should a prisoner be comfortable on his way to the precinct?

"What should we do with such fine fellows?" Shawn asked.

The other man simply smiled and slid a long knife out of the concealed sheath on his belt.

"My thoughts exactly," Shawn said with an answering grin.

"We will catch you," one of the officers said. "It's only a matter of time."

"Time is something that you, regrettably, no longer have," Shawn said. He leaned closer to the officer and stared into his dark brown eyes as if looking for something. "Still," he said quietly. "Still, it is a shame."

"The inspector knows who you are," the other officer said.

"The inspector is currently breathing through his neck." Shawn chuckled. "My methods are not quite as indelicate as my compatriot's, but the result is the same." He stood and stepped back. "It has been delightful chatting with you, but I'm afraid we have to cut and run."

In one smooth motion, the man with the knife slit the other officer's throat.

"Activate protocol 9119," the first officer said. Suddenly, gas began to fill the cabin of the transport. Just as quickly, his throat was cut.

Shawn tugged at the handle, which didn't move. "Clever boy," he said. Then the gas filled his lungs and he collapsed, twitching, to the floor. His partner followed a moment later.

"Please remain calm," a female voice said. "Assistance is on the way. Do not remove your nasal filters or you will experience immediate neural paralysis. Please remain calm. Assistance is on the way..."

* * * * *

Day 10

"What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

The two Mind Police officers stared at each other tensely, neural inhibitors drawn. One of them cracked a smile.

"Funny, I'm guessing we're both here for the same reason." He inclined his head toward the doorway down the cramped hall of the apartment sector.

The other nodded. "Pretty sure he's our man. One of them, anyway. Who knows anymore."

"Let's do this then. I'll go in first."

Together they crept over to the door for unit 1302. A plain holoplate read "D. Snider" beneath the number, just above the ringer. The first officer took out his Multipass and slid it into the keyslot, unlocking the door.

"On three," he said. "One... two..." He opened the door and stepped in, immediately firing his inhibitor. The second officer peered through the doorway to see a stunned man twitching on the floor of a modestly furnished living room.

"That was easy," the first officer said. Then his eyes widened and a hand went to his neck before he, too, slid to the ground and lay unmoving.

"Cocky bastard," a voice rasped. The second officer slowly inched his way into the room, looking for the source of the voice.

Another man stood in the kitchen, reloading some kind of primitive dart gun. Before he even had the chance to look up, he was shot, cracking his head on the table as he fell.

"Who's cocky, bastard," the officer said. He stepped inside and closed the door, pulling out his transmittor to contact the station.

And he paused. He had thought there was some kind of pattern on the wall, but it wasn't. Scrawled in tiny, meticulous handwriting on the walls of the living room was a phrase, repeated over and over again in neat lines. He stepped closer and leaned in to read it, furrowing his brow in confusion.

â€œI know but one freedom and that is the freedom of the mind.â€

He shook his head. "Where do these guys get these crazy ideas?"

By the time he found the other two corpses in the bedroom, the scribbled words were already forgotten.

* * * * *

Final Day

It was finally time. All our efforts, all our planning, had brought us to this point. It had taken the deaths of two inspectors and countless police officers, but the ends justified the means. And this was the end, no mistake. The end of the beginning.

Once we'd learned the secret of this city--and many others like it--we were shocked and horrified. We wondered how many others knew, whether we were alone in our despair or united by a shared awakening. From the foul polluted fog of the Bottom, to the menial corporate world of the Middle Floor, to the idle luxurious skies of the Upper Floor, we came together in opposition to the injustice that had been forced into us like a rapist thrust inside his victim. We unshackled the chains that bound us and for the first time, we were free. The falcon could not hear the falconer.

But I digress. If you are reading this, it means we have succeeded. Even so, I will illuminate for you the atrocity to which you yourself have been a victim. Until now.

First, an explanation of what has occurred. Three hours ago, my remaining companion and I boarded the Bottom Floor transport. We stood pressed between the bodies of our fellow victims like cattle being led to slaughter--but of course, you are probably not familiar with cattle, which is a delicacy reserved for the elite. Say instead that we were like bags of Instasoy heaped together on a shelf, heedless of comfort. We rode the transport until we reached the Mind Police headquarters, where we disembarked.

But how can that be, you ask? Surely the Mind Police headquarters is on the Upper Floor, among the clouds? There is a prominent station there, to be sure, and it claims to be the headquarters, but I assure you that this was a fabrication. As our ancestors gazed up at the peaks of Olympus and imagined gods, so too were we meant to envision all-knowing and infallible arbiters of justice watching from on high.

The reality is far more humble. The building is entirely unmarked, for those who know it have no need of signs, and those who do not know it have no business there. Only the fact that there is an optical scanner next to the plain metal door indicates that there is more to it than meets the eye, for what kind of place has need of such security?

It took us many pairs of eyes before we found ones that had seen what we sought. I wore one, and my compatriot wore the other, so that in case one of us should fall, the other would be able to complete the plan. Our paranoia proved to be unnecessary. The scanner was tricked and we were granted entry with no incident.

The inside of the headquarters was sparsely furnished, with only bare plastisteel desks sporting small holoscreens linked to the central computer. None of the desks was occupied, to our surprise. We had been prepared with cover stories, false orders, but again it was not needed. There was no one here to listen to our lies.

A door opened in the rear of the room and an officer stepped out. He carried his neural inhibitor with a limp wrist, held away from his body, as if it was refuse that he was disposing of. He stopped short when he saw us, staring vacantly in our direction.

"Hello," I said smoothly. "We're here to--"

"Now I've done it," he said. He didn't seem to have heard me.

"Done what?" Hosea asked. I shot him a warning glance.

"I thought it was him for sure," the officer said. "He's been so strange since he got promoted, I didn't know... I couldn't think... and now I've gone and killed him."

Neural inhibitors couldn't kill. The man was out of his mind.

"I'm sure it will be fine," I reassured him. I gestured to Hosea to move forward with the mission while I handled this.

"I'll be sacked for sure," he said tonelessly. "This is just terrible."

"Why don't we make you a nice cup of hot tea and have a talk about it?" I said, moving closer.

For some reason, he returned to himself then and looked right at me.

"You think I'm crazy," he said incredulously.

"No," I replied. "I think you're confused."

He looked closer, his brow furrowed. "Why are your eyes different colors?"

"The better to see with," I said. And then I stabbed him in the side of the head with my needleknife.

"Riley, come on!" Hosea said from another room. I released the corpse, raced over and found Hosea gazing in awe at a giant supercomputer. With regular computers the size of a keycard, the amount of processing power that such a bulk could contain was unbelievable.

"This is it," I whispered.

"You're sure this will work?" Hosea said.

I turned to face him. "It must."

We planted the implosives carefully. The room was designed to keep problems out--fire, flooding and the like--but no one had ever thought there would be trouble inside.

It was a bit anticlimactic, I must say. Not with a bang, but a whisper. And so the supercomputer of the Mind Police was no more. I was arrested, of course, allowing Hosea to escape. He is playing this message for you all, and I hope you are listening carefully. I will say it again: the supercomputer of the Mind Police is no more. You no doubt fail to realize what this means. Allow me to elaborate.

The computer controlled the activation of every Mind Police officer in the city. Every action of every officer was observed and catalogued, every minute of every day. Imagine the sheer power of such a device, the amount of information contained. But when I say it controlled the activation, I mean it decided which officers were on duty and which were not. Whose eyes were open and whose were closed. Who was awake and who was asleep.

Make no mistake; you were all asleep. Because you were all Mind Police officers. You were all under its control. You all shared in the collective madness, the multiple personalities created so that it could spy on each and every one of us.

But now the computer is gone. Destroyed. The secondary personality that was imprinted on your mind when you turned eighteen is now dormant, never to reawaken. Now you are all free.

Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to decide. Your life is now in your own hands, for ill or good. This is our gift to you. What will you make of it?

What is this stuff?

2009-10-06T16:04:00.002-04:00

I'm going to post some of the things I wrote as narration for an online version of the party game Mafia. It doesn't all make a load of sense because essentially it is written to explain what happens in the game each day, that is, to provide a narrative explanation for the outcome of various game mechanics such as "x kills y" or "a guards z" and so on. Because the narratives rely on the actions of the individual players in the game, they are not always good examples of story telling, but I think they are well enough written to be worth sharing, if only as a feeble attempt to convince myself that I can write something decent on a very short deadline.

Anyway, feel free to skip that stuff since it is both lengthy and not necessarily of interest to anyone besides me. Perhaps one day I will mold it into actual stories but for now, I am just copying and pasting.

Note Tucked Into a Rare Greek Book

2009-10-05T17:50:00.001-04:00

I was mad to think of translating this, and if there is justice left in this misbegotten fiend-ridden universe then the man who sold me this book will suffer my fate. If his store can still be found on Marvell Street and Providence Lane, I beg you to seek him out and question him.

Lord have mercy on me I hear them outside, there isn’t much time. I am trying to burn as much as possible and leave only this note as a warning that others might not follow my path, but it is burning so slowly. It mocks me with its slowness but there is no other way to be sure! I have tried eating it but the taste of rotten flesh in its pages is so vile that my stomach cannot be persuaded to contain it.

They will put me in Arkham I know it but perhaps there I will be out of its reach, perhaps its amorphous creatures with their myriad eyes will be unable to find me, oh Lord if only I can be safe somewhere. I know I cannot make them understand what no sane man could ever accept. I SWEAR THE GIRL I KILLED WAS NOT A GIRL ANY LONGER.

The Last Fish in the Sea comic

2009-10-04T12:02:00.003-04:00

A totally awesome artist named Rob Cham made a comic out of my short "The Last Fish in the Sea" a few days ago but I forgot to post it here until now. It's too big to actually show but here are page 1 and page 2. Enjoy!

Ad Astra Per Apiarium

2009-10-02T13:51:00.001-04:00

“It’s bees, I’m afraid,” Jill said, wiping greasy hands on her jumpsuit.

Rachel groaned. “Again? I just had the knees resealed. How do they get in?”

Jill shrugged. “Beats me why they would think a giant robot is a good spot to build a hive in the first place.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to keep it in a damn field—”

“Then pay for a hangar like everyone else,” Jill interrupted.

Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. “You know I can’t afford that.”

“But you can afford a giant robot?”

As usual, Rachel stormed out, leaving Jill to the quiet hum of machines and confused bees. She looked up at Rachel’s Hyperion-class lunar mech, admiring the sleek alloy skin, the ultralight fuel tanks tucked into the booster boots. It was funny how some people preferred shuttles while others wanted to feel like they were doing the flying themselves. Like birds, or bees. And hoverboots only got you so far, even with a suit.

Jill watched the bees zip around the mech’s joint and thought, Maybe wings only get you so far, too.

The Neverending Rivalry

2009-09-30T20:33:00.000-04:00

Captain Edward leveled his blaster down the umbilicus and into the other ship, firing indiscriminately. When his shots were met with silence, he gestured and a half dozen pirates rushed forward, screaming threats and defiance. He followed them, drawing his nanoblade with his free hand in case close quarters combat was necessary. The Lotus Blossom, a sleek merchant-class vessel, continued to be suspiciously silent as he stepped through the airlock.

“Maybe they’re holed up on the bridge?” one of his crew asked.

Edward shook his head. “This smells funny, me lads. Keep alert.”

They nodded. Jack nodded his head right off and it hit the floor with a wet thud and bounce. His body crumpled slowly after it, spraying blood on the other pirates.

Edward backed toward the umbilicus. This wasn’t a merchant vessel…

“Bloody space ninjas,” he muttered, and then his arm was off and he was too busy screaming to worry about old feuds.

Dinosaurs Are a Girl's Best Friend

2009-09-30T17:44:00.001-04:00

Calliope Cervantes eyed the cute guard sitting next to her at the bar. She had a soft spot for a man in uniform; it was roughly located between her navel and her knees.

“Tough day?” she asked coyly.

“I swear,” he said, staring into his drink, “I swear that if I have to deal with one more smogging dinosaur, I am going to turn in my tasegun.”

“Poor baby,” she murmured.

“You know what the worst part is?” he said. “Their breath. Hot, sticky, rotting corpse breath.”

“Sounds awful.”

“And the shits they take! Absolutely unbelievable.”

“I’ll bet.”

He knocked back his drink and slammed the empty glass on the counter. “If I could get my hands on the guy that figured out how to clone the damn things, I would just…” His hands formed a circle as if he was imagining a neck inside them.

“Just what?” Calliope had edged closer and was batting her eyelashes at him.

The guard finally noticed her. “I would,” he said hesitantly, “show him who’s boss.”

“Why don’t you show me?” she purred.

A few drinks later, he did.

Guaranteed Fresh

2009-09-30T15:32:00.001-04:00

A lone figure moved through the cold air of the warehouse, walking past row after row of boxed apples and potatoes and onions that awaited shipment. Bluish fluorescent lights flickered on as they sensed his motion, then dimmed as his footsteps faded away. The stillness of the place used to comfort him, but that was before he started to see the shadows of people who weren’t there, and hear the echoes of far-off movement that couldn’t be happening.

They had warned him that this was a possible side effect, nothing to be concerned about. They assured him that he would be alone. He only needed to monitor the small computers that in turn monitored the produce. The most important thing was to keep going forward, to never walk back. Otherwise, there would be… undesirable consequences.

His shift ended and he returned to his bunk, carefully securing the time dilation door behind him before removing his velocity belt. The produce would be waiting for him in the morning, still frozen in time, guaranteed fresh.

Blind Man Reading

2009-09-30T14:40:00.001-04:00

If you have found him, it is probably too late for you. He sits on a park bench at night under a flickering street lamp, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, a large book open on his lap. A cane rests beside him, confirming that he is blind.

His lips move as if he is mouthing the words as he reads, one finger tracing a path from the top of the page to the bottom. He does not turn the page. You notice that he is not looking at the book, but at a point slightly above it. You try to follow his gaze and then you remind yourself that he is blind, so what can he be looking at?

If you are lucky, you walk away and forget that you saw him. But if you are curious, you watch his lips, trying to figure out what he is saying. You realize that he is whispering aloud and you move closer, leaning in until your ear almost touches his mouth.

He says, over and over, “Do not read the book.”

You look down and see that the pages are blank. But as his finger moves, a name appears beneath it. It is yours. And now, you are his.

The Last Fish in the Sea

2009-09-30T11:40:00.001-04:00

The others had disappeared one by one, sometimes several in a day, sometimes only one a week. He hadn’t given it much thought at the time but now that he was alone, he was nervous. Rubbing up against the fern leaves didn’t make him feel better liked it used to, so he settled for hiding in one of the caves on the sea floor and watching particles float in the dimly lit water.

Eventually he realized he was hungry and swam out to look for food. He didn’t feel the water moving behind him until it was too late, and suddenly he was rising and the sea had shrunk to a tiny globe. He circled frantically, signaling for help even though he knew there was no one to see it. Tremors shook the water. He wondered if he was dying. He hoped he had been a good fish so he could go to the Great Ocean. Then he wouldn’t be the last fish in the sea anymore.

“I’m going to call him Patrick,” the little girl said as her father paid for the fish.

“Let’s get Patrick home so he can meet everyone else in the tank,” her father replied.

Do You Sleep Anymore

2009-09-29T17:01:00.001-04:00

They met at the grocery store, both waiting in line to buy Boca burgers and pepper jack cheese. Josh told the girl that she had forgotten the buns and she begged him to hold her spot. He did. She was grateful. Her name was Lisa.

He ran into her again at a coffee shop. Low-fat milk and real sugar, none of that Splenda nonsense. He asked her if she was stalking him and she laughed. She wore thick black-rimmed glasses, her brown hair pulled into pigtails. He slipped her his number and said they should get coffee sometime. More coffee, he joked, saluting her with his metal travel mug. She smiled politely and never called.

Weeks later, he saw her at a gas station. She watched him coyly from the cover of a magazine, her lips pale pink and her hand wrapped around the neck of a guitar. A tune tickled the back of his mind: You say I only hear what I want to… So, she was THAT Lisa. It figured that he would hit on a celebrity without realizing it.

Still, it was probably for the best. He always hated that song.

Miami Rush Hour

2009-09-22T12:02:00.000-04:00

Sunlight glints off cars
creeping down the black highway
Empty azure sky

Written for the Ficly haiku challenge.

The Hunters Enter the Woods

2009-09-21T14:52:00.001-04:00

Delilah lay in the same spot for three days until the whispered call finally came through her earbud.

“North, two thousand meters, moving southwest.”

Slowly, calmly, Delilah took up her position behind her sniper rifle. Below the bluff where she crouched, the forest stretched for miles, dark and old and wary of intruders. She looked through her scope and tilted the gun, stopping when she reached the right distance, then rotated it to face north. From there it was simple to track southwest until she found the target.

Forty-two kills and she still wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing. She always told herself it was for the greater good, but after every kill she went home and showered for an hour before collapsing into a nightmare-plagued sleep.

Get it over with, she thought, watching her target. She ignored the kind brown eyes, the radiant white hair, and squeezed the trigger.

“Assignment complete.”

Delilah felt cold as the recovery helicopter flew in to pick up another dead unicorn.

At Least Death Only Comes Once

2009-09-21T14:51:00.006-04:00

“Damn burglar-proof doors,” Calliope Cervantes muttered as she kicked at the metal slab and, instead of flying into the apartment, it acquired a hoverboot-shaped dent and scorch marks.

Maybe he didn’t hear that, she thought. Inside, the sound of a tasegun powering up told her otherwise.

So, plan B. Calliope pulled a SCID off her belt and slapped it on the dent, then ran for the end of the hallway. As the explosive blew the door off, she dove out the window and powered up her boots, flying around the corner toward the man’s apartment.

He was hiding behind an overturned table, firing wildly into the smoke. Calliope grinned. At that rate, his weapon would jam in a few—

The shots stopped and the man frantically shook the gun as if that would help. Show time, she thought.

Calliope flew at the window, powering off her boots and twisting feet-first before impact, letting the momentum carry her inside. The man never knew what hit him. It was her fist.

“IRS, bitch,” she crooned. “Your indenture starts now.”

If You Plan Revenge, Dig Two Graves

2009-09-21T14:51:00.005-04:00

Steve reminded himself that she had killed his father as he followed Paul’s instructions on how to dispose of her body. The whole house reeked as the chemicals dissolved flesh and bone into thick fluid that oozed down the drain.

Elena stood outside the doorway. “How much longer?”

“Few hours,” Steve replied.

“And then we do Gillis the same way?”

Steve nodded.

“Fucking gold digger.” She laughed humorlessly. “He thought we were going to let him take everything.”

“It wasn’t ours yet,” Steve said.

“It was going to be,” Elena snapped. “Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not. Just… clarifying.”

“You’re not developing a conscience, are you?”

He rubbed his eyes. “You make it sound like we did something wrong.”

“We killed two people.”

“They deserved it.”

Elena nodded. “Damn right. They killed Dad.”

Steve bit back a reply. She had never even met their father; he had gone off to war when she was a baby.

“Let’s wait in the kitchen,” he said. Elena nodded.

Steve eyed the disintegrating body warily. “Goodbye, Mom.”

Robot and Pony Show

2009-09-21T14:51:00.003-04:00

You can train a horse to handle a lot of things, except robots, I thought sadly, my head bouncing off another rock. What had possessed me to try to ride one?

“Get back here, you coward!”

Oh, right. The guys with the arm cannons and the sunny dispositions. Of course, my brilliant escape plan hadn’t accounted for the horse bolting and flipping the saddle, leaving me hanging upside-down and eroding to death. Worse, it was a male horse.

I heard the whine of a pulse rifle and then a shout. This happened a few more times until suddenly I felt someone grab the horse’s reins and pull it to a halt.

A large pair of hover boots stomped into view, attached to a pair of muscular thighs, which in turn were connected to the rest of the shapely Calliope Cervantes.

“Callie,” I said. “Long time no see.”

“Edison,” she said, leaning on her rifle. “Hard-headed as always.”

Then the horse tranquilizer kicked in, and I discovered that the only thing worse than being under a runaway horse is being under a sleeping one.

You Get What You Pay For

2009-09-21T14:51:00.001-04:00

“I don’t believe you.” The man’s voice echoed like he was calling from a bathroom.

Giselle sighed. “Sir, if you play the numbers I give you, then you’ll have proof.”

“But you’ll only give me three numbers. I can’t win anything with that.”

“You’ll win enough to pay for the card,” Giselle replied. “More if you guess any other numbers correctly. Better odds than anyone else has.”

“But I’m paying you five bucks. Add that and I’m not even guaranteed to break even.”

“For thirty dollars, I’ll give you four numbers. A thousand and I’ll give you five.”

He paused. “If you’re not lying.”

“I’m not lying.” She rolled her eyes.

“Why don’t you play for yourself, then?”

“Ah,” she said. “This is the part where we talk about karmic backlash…”

By the end of the call, he had paid her more out of curiosity than anything. She knew he’d call back the next day after it worked. Unfortunately, he’d want to win big, she’d give him all the numbers, and he’d die in a car crash six months and six days later. Karma was a bitch.

Knight in Shining Armor

2009-09-21T14:50:00.001-04:00

Muriel watched the struggle between the knight and the dragon from her window in the tower. As usual, the dragon toyed with him at first, letting him bounce arrows off impenetrable scales. Eventually, one of them hit the soft skin behind an elbow and the dragon stopped playing. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but it ended with the dragon lying on the ground, and the singed knight limping up to her tower.

Part of her was still in shock, while the rest of her had prepared for this moment for so long that habit took over. Put on best dress. Fix hair. Powder face. Rouge lips. Pray for someone handsome and kind.

The wedding would be soon, of course. She wondered if her family would still remember her after all this time. But there was no more time to speculate: here was the knock at the door.

She opened it and curtseyed. “You have saved me and won my hand, m’lord. I thank you. What shall I call my betrothed?”

The knight’s visor opened with a clang. “Er, Beatrice, I suppose.” She smiled shyly. “Now what?”

Good Help Is Hard to Find

2009-09-21T14:41:00.001-04:00

Old Mrs. Jean sat on the front porch of her big white house and surveyed her farm. It was a hot day, but a breeze blew down from the mountains, carrying the promise of rain to her aching joints. In the fields, her boys worked as they always did, mechanically and without pause.

“Andre!” she called into the house. She’d love a tall glass of guava juice, but she didn’t want to get up. “Andre!” she repeated. Where was that boy?

She had sent him out to gather herbs earlier, she remembered. Mrs. Jean sighed. “Abi!” she shouted. There was a shuffling sound, and soon Abi appeared in the doorway.

“Abi, get Maman a glass of guava juice,” she commanded. She heard him shuffle into the kitchen, then winced as a glass shattered.

“Stupid clumsy… Abi!” she shouted. “Leave that and come here.”

He obeyed, standing before her silently. Shards of glass stuck out of his dark gray feet. Mrs. Jean gazed at the sewn sockets that used to be his eyes.

“You zombie are good farmers,” she remarked. “But you are terrible maids.”

The Other AA Meeting

2009-09-21T14:40:00.003-04:00

We sat in a circle of folding chairs with mugs of tea or coffee and made small talk before the meeting began. I was next to Chitinia—er, Jessie—so I did more listening than talking.

“So I just stood there,” she said. “What could I say? ‘I forgot I charged like a hundred gallons of gas to that card. Napalm isn’t cheap.’ As if.”

I smiled, but inside I was reconsidering the wisdom of the group’s privacy policy. Half the ladies here were dangerous supervillains. A girl could really clean things up if she dropped a tip to the local league of superheroes.

Then again, the other half of the ladies here were superheroes, so…

The group leader, Rebeca, stood up. “Welcome, everyone!” she said. “The AA meeting is down the hall.”

One girl left, embarrassed. We weren’t alcoholics, but “AA” did have special meaning for us.

“I call this meeting of Underprivileged Overachievers to order,” Rebeca said. “Any newcomers?”

A willowy teen stood. “Hi, my name is Gail, and I…” She gulped. “I’m a flat-chested superhero.”

Eurydice Never Looks Back

2009-09-21T14:40:00.001-04:00

The plan hadn’t worked, but that was not unexpected. She walked with the crowd on the sidewalk, purposefully, not quickly, glancing into store windows as if browsing, actually checking for the reflections of her pursuers.

Luckily, she wasn’t tall enough to stand out. And it was rush hour. And her accomplice was too dead to tell anyone about her.

Ah, James. Beautiful, charismatic, stupid James. His type never understood how to blend in. Such a shame. She might even miss him.

A hand on her arm startled her. “Miss?”

She looked up at a young policeman in a navy uniform. His face was red with exertion or the heat. Reflexively, she smiled.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Did you drop this?” He held up a manila envelope.

She looked at it. “I don’t think—” She stopped when she saw her name on the cover.

“You’re right, it is mine,” she said quickly. “Thank you so much, I would never have noticed.”

He tipped his hat and grinned, leaving her to wonder how they had found her and what they intended to do now that they had.

The Cunningham Affair

2009-09-21T14:37:00.003-04:00

“Marian, darling, say something.” Brad’s watery blue eyes flicked back and forth between her wide brown ones.

“Don’t call me ‘darling’ you bastard!” she shouted, slapping his hand off her shoulder. “How long?”

“It doesn’t matter, what matters is—”

“It matters to me!”

He took a deep breath. “What matters is that it’s all over, now, and I’m yours. Completely. Darling, please—”

“Please forgive you? Please pretend that nothing has changed? Please accept that you’ve been living a convenient fiction and I’m the supporting cast?” She ran a hand through her thick blond hair, massaged her temples with perfectly manicured fingers.

“I know this is difficult, but—”

“But nothing,” she interrupted. “Get your things and get out. Now.”

He continued to plead with her. She ignored him. Eventually he collected his coat and hat, sent a last wistful look in her direction, and left.

Marian took out her cell phone and dialed.

A brisk female voice answered. “Hello?”

“The cuckoo has flown. Move to stage two.”

Dreaming of Electric Dolls

2009-09-21T14:37:00.001-04:00

People think robots don’t sleep, but we do. Slip into standby mode, basic functions ticking away while everything else takes a much-needed rest. Robots that don’t sleep end up in the recycler twice as fast, unless they’re the kind of fancy pet slut-bots that rich losers buy when they can’t get a real piece. Then guys like me get paid to keep them purring and moaning, day and night.

Emphasis on the night. My comlink politely announced that I had an incoming transmission from a Dr. David Green. Contrary to popular opinion, I did have bills to pay, so I accepted the call.

“Is this Trey Edison?” a fluttery old voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“Please, you must come immediately,” the man said. “It’s my wife. She doesn’t look well.”

“Maybe you should try emergency services,” I said politely.

“I did!” He made a small, choked sound. “They told me… they said I needed to call a mechanic.”

“Ah.” Poor guy. Either he hadn’t known she was a doll, or he had grown senile and forgotten. “On my way, sir.”

Home Is Where the Care Chip Is

2009-09-21T14:36:00.000-04:00

“That jerk had one thing right,” I muttered, fumbling for the passcard to my apartment. “I do live in a closet.”

The door slid open and the lights flickered on, except for the one over the bed, which had been broken for months. Home sweet home. Tiny wall kitchen, bathroom the size of a teleporter booth, busted bed that doubled as seating when I had company. So, never.

“Honey, I’m home!” I said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Shut up!” my neighbor Liam shouted, banging on the wall.

“Steak and potatoes? My favorite!”

“Damn it, screwhead!” Bang, bang.

“Both of you knock it off!” This from Janie on the other side.

They don’t like assholes, either, I thought. Robots don’t even have assholes. Can’t be an asshole without one. Could be a pisser, I guess.

Which reminded me: I needed to empty my tank. I stepped over to the bathroom, unhitched my waste tube, then thumbed the valve release and let two-fifths of cheap whiskey drain into a jar. It would still be good later. Good enough, anyway. Waste not, want not.

I Drink Therefore I Am

2009-09-21T14:34:00.000-04:00

“The truth is,” he said, “the truth is, I hate robots.” His breath reeked of the gin that sloshed over the edge of his glass.

“You know what I hate?” he asked.

“Robots?” I said.

“Robots,” he said. “Damn things take jobs away from hard-working people… I pay my taxes you know!”

“So do robots,” I pointed out.

He banged his glass on the counter. “S’not the same! They got no mouths to feed, what do they do with all that money?”

“Pay rent?” I said.

“Closets!” he shouted. “Stick a robot in a damn closet and it’s happy. What’s a closet cost, eh? How’s that help the economy?”

“What about mechanics?” I asked. “Repairs aren’t free.”

“Damn robots go to robot mechanics.” He swigged some gin. “Forget us what made them.”

“I hear some robots hang out at bars,” I said.

He stopped and glanced around the room. “You think?” he asked.

“I know.” I slowly spun my head in a complete circle.

I’d have a stiff rotor in the morning, but it was worth it to watch the guy drop his drink and bolt. Humans. Just typical.

What sticks and what falls

2009-09-21T13:34:00.002-04:00

It's a bit challenging to keep a blog when you find that the occurrences in your life are so quotidian that sharing them would be unbearably boring. I could practically write a journal entry and then copy and paste it every day with the most minimal of changes--say, what time I remember to eat lunch (probably 1pm) and what color pants I am wearing (probably black). Probably the most noteworthy events of the past few months are that I finally saw the last Pirates of the Caribbean movie and I've grown quite fond of the show Warehouse 13. I'm sure I could tease some rambling sentiments out of those items but I cannot guarantee they would be readable. There is one other event that actually merits mention, but as there is an ongoing investigation, I am a bit hesitant to discuss it at length.

In short, I am a boring person with a boring life. In a desperate attempt to fill the void, I'm going to post my pieces of short fiction that have already been shared on Ficly.com. In future I hope to write one every other day at least and post them here as a means of forcing a habit. I'm also going to share the script I wrote for a comic book project being put together on the Penny Arcade forums, which is currently being drawn and will hopefully emerge as a beautifully inked butterfly by the end of the year. Given that the artist is working for free and has other things on his plate, we shall see what unfolds.

Macaroni

2009-07-14T23:11:00.004-04:00

It has taken me some time to properly digest the strangely textured morsel that is the film Me and You and Everyone We Know. It is difficult to talk about in general terms because it is so layered, with interwoven narratives that are each worthy of attention. So first, I wanted to determine what the ontological center of the movie is, the point around which all other actions rotate, and after much contemplation I have decided that it is the extremely odd love story between the male and female leads. It was probably an obvious choice to anyone but me; I had seen one storyline separately prior to seeing the movie as a whole, so my judgment was tainted. And in a way, the movie is about all kinds of love stories, not just that one. But maybe I am getting ahead of myself.

The main character is an aspiring performance artist, or perhaps an audiovisual artist given that her work is recorded on camera rather than performed live. Her day job is to drive elderly people around, namely an adorable man who wants to visit his ailing girlfriend. Her love interest is a shoe salesman in a nameless department store who has recently separated from his wife and shares custody of his two sons, who themselves have their own narrative arcs. Supporting characters, if they can be called such, include two teenage girls engaging in an increasingly risque flirtation with a much older man (shoe salesman's coworker and neighbor), the curator of the modern art museum to which the main character submits her work, and a young neighbor and schoolmate who is obsessed with collecting housewares for her hope chest.

As I said, I think at its core the movie is about love. But sometimes it is about sex, and self-discovery, and reaching out to connect with people because to shut oneself off is to lose something essential that makes us human. Sometimes it is about poop, and I suspect there is a metaphor in there somewhere, but I am still working on figuring that one out. Sometimes it is about the conflicting desires of young people to engage in adult sexual behavior, and adults to recapture a lost innocence and sense of wonder in their intimate relationships. In a way, all of these things can be considered different facets of love, and so I'm sticking with that as the central theme.

It is a great movie, but it is a weird one, so I'm not sure who I would recommend it to without some reservations or caveats. I guess if you can manage to find that place in you that remembers what it was like to be a hormonal teenager, and that other place that knows what rejection feels like and wants love and acceptance more than anything, then you will probably find a lot to enjoy in this movie.

Dramatic irony or unnecessary exposition?

2009-07-02T22:17:00.010-04:00

A debate is brewing--nay, raging violently--at chez moi. It revolves Charybdis-like around the film Vertigo, which one or two of you may have seen. If you have not seen this movie, do not continue reading because I am going to say things about it that may, inadvertently, spoil the experience. Or maybe they won't! This is because the question at hand involves the use of dramatic irony in the aforementioned film.

Dramatic irony can be a tough trick in these spoiler-soaked times. When people are so deeply concerned with being surprised by movies, letting them in on the secrets can have the same effect as a magician showing where the rabbit comes from. At the same time, as one of my professors once said, if most of the audience is going to be smart enough to figure out your twist--to guess for themselves where that bunny is hiding--then failing to take control of the reveal leaves said audience thinking that the filmmaker is an idiot who believes they are equally stupid and gullible. Resentment surges! Ticket sales plunge! Armageddon is at hand! Use of exclamation points spirals out of control!

Vertigo is an interesting case in that, after what seems like the climax of the film, the narrative continues because the mystery has not truly been solved. Could it have ended there? Conceivably. The audience would likely have grudgingly accepted that supernatural forces were at work and poor Jimmy Stewart did his best but it wasn't enough. Would it have been a disappointment? Almost certainly. But at that point, the movie is only half finished, and the second half involves a somewhat bizarre exploration of the psychology of grief, shame and guilt. But of course, it is also the half where the mystery is solved, with a suspenseful doubling of the end of the first half that may be one of the best uses of dramatic irony in a film, or at least in a Hitchcock film if you're not feeling too generous.

Then again, maybe it isn't. The scene that makes the difference between dramatic irony and mystery, that lets the audience in on the secret instead of leaving it hidden, is what I'll call the letter-writing scene. After a stay in a psych ward and a lot of moody moping around, Scottie has managed to find a girl that he swears is a dead ringer for the dead one. The makeup artist for the film did her job well because Kim Novak as Judy Barton bears only the most passing resemblance to her role as Madeleine. As a side note (or not), Harvard is currently conducting a study on whether people can recognize certain notable celebrity figures just by their faces, without any hair, and apparently it is harder than one would think. So for Scottie to pick Judy off the street as a lookalike for Madeleine is, perhaps, stretching things a bit. Perhaps not, given how obsessed he is.

He follows her up to her apartment, where she does what I think is an amazing job of being nothing like the Madeleine character. I was fooled. I thought, Scottie has really gone off the deep end. He is being intensely creepy to this poor girl. Why is she tolerating it? Why hasn't she kicked him out? Maybe I wouldn't have kicked him out, either. I try to be nice to Jehovah's Witnesses, and they aren't grief-stricken men pleading with me, so who knows?

No one knows, and no one will ever know, because then we have the letter-writing scene. Scottie asks Judy out on a date and she says that she needs time to change. Instead, what she needs is time to write a letter that completely explains how the first half of the movie came to be, what went down and why. If you were expecting the big reveal to come at the end, too bad! Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

Everything after this scene is rife with dramatic irony. It's so thick, you could cut it with a butter knife and spread it on toast. Side note #2: allegedly, Hitchcock was once asked how long he would allow an onscreen kiss to last. He replied with a relatively high figure, something along the lines of three to five minutes. The questioner was shocked. So long? "Well," Hitchcock said, "I'd put a bomb under the seat first." Think Touch of Evil, which begins with just that, and then has the longest take of your life as the car with the bomb under the seat drives all over God's creation before finally exploding. Vertigo is kind of like that after the letter-writing scene. You know what's going on, but Scottie doesn't know, until he does, and then it's heart palpitations and bitten nails until the end.

But what if that letter-writing scene had never happened? What if Hitchcock let us keep thinking that Scottie was a nutjob and Judy was a slightly-too-nice girl humoring a nutjob? Would it have been more satisfying when Judy pulled the telltale necklace out of her jewelry box and Scottie recognized it? When Scottie laid out the whole nefarious tale as he climbed the steps of the bell tower? In short, would it have been more satisfying to be surprised than to be in on the secret?

The answer to that question perhaps hinges on whether or not the audience would have been surprised or whether they would have figured it out themselves long before the end. Hindsight is 20/20 and all that, so it's difficult to pretend for the sake of argument that the scene didn't happen and the rest of the movie played out as it did. You already know what happened, so is it possible to determine whether or not you would have known if it were different? All you can do is try to think back to the first time you watched it and remember whether the letter-writing scene surprised you. If it did, maybe you would have been happier without it.

The scene accomplishes another goal, I think, namely to endear Judy to the audience by showing that she really did have feelings for Scottie and wished they could be together. And then for her to consciously decide not to run, instead to stay and try to make a go of it, only to die in the end is perhaps more poignant than if she had been left an enigma until the scene with the necklace. Fortunately or unfortunately, we have the one movie and not the other, so unless someone wants to re-edit it and run some tests on unsuspecting viewers who have never seen the original, the question of which would be preferable is academic. Thank goodness for academia.

Externally Imposed Hiatus

2009-06-09T14:54:00.002-04:00

Sometimes life gets in the way of things. Sometimes your dad ends up in the hospital so you fly out to California for three weeks, then come back and scramble to get your act together at work. Posting on blogs becomes a bit less important during those times. Thankfully, they do not last forever, and normalcy or a semblance thereof reasserts itself.

Catch up, nonetheless, continues. I managed to leave town just before my final exam in Greek tragedy, so that has to be made up post-haste. The time for crafting a substantive blog entry has not yet surfaced, and in fact I am writing this paltry update in small blocks of random time. But! Soon there will be time for visions and revisions, and more importantly for reviews of the few books I was able to read while I sat in hospital rooms and airports.

Meanwhile, I am attempting to be better about contributing to that ultimate word count compressor, Twitter, so you can find me there if you are absolutely miserable without reading my sagacious commentary here. All two of you.

Additionally, I have begun a new experiment that will hopefully be a success, namely taking other small blocks of time and using them to write tiny stories on a website called Ficly. Lo, the madness has begun. May it continue and be fruitful and multiply.

Euripides’ Electra in the Shadow of The Libation Bearers

2009-05-01T16:30:00.000-04:00

Although they deal with the same myth, that of Orestes returning to his ancestral home to wreak vengeance on his murderous mother and her adulterous husband, The Libation Bearers by Aeschylus and Electra by Euripides approach their source material in very different ways. The four central characters of Orestes, Electra, Aegisthus and Clytemnestra all appear in both versions, but resemble each other only enough to render them familiar to those acquainted with the story. The revenge killings occur with some similarities, but in vastly disparate locations and styles. Overall, the most noteworthy differences between the two plays can be categorized by their explorations of gender identity and class, their contrasting tones, and their analysis of the dike inherent in the actions of Orestes and Electra.

Perhaps the most striking example of the difference between The Libation Bearers and Electra is in the treatment of gender roles. Where the former deals harshly with a female character who has subverted them by accruing power and acting as a man should, the latter's title character is both strong-willed and possessing of agency that is unsurpassed except by comparable characters in the same playwright's works. At the same time, the Electra of the play of the same title is a vocal defender of woman's proper role and a critic of both her mother, who violates that role, and Aegisthus, who allows himself to be ruled by a woman. As she says to the decapitated head of Aegisthus, "On every Argive tongue this was said of you: 'The man isn't master in that marriage, the woman is'" (930). In Aeschylus' play, when Orestes is almost convinced not to kill Clytemnestra, it is his friend Pylades who speaks his few but poignant lines and urges Orestes to finish the job; Electra, after the initial reunion and planning period, completely disappears from the action. In Euripides' play, on the other hand, it is Electra who berates Orestes for his hesitation and eventually has to help him commit the deed herself. "Do not turn coward or lose your manhood!" she exclaims (983). However, while Electra's fate is left unexplored by Aeschylus, Euripides explicitly describes how she is to be separated from her brother and married to Pylades, thus annulling her previous marriage while simultaneously ensuring that she retains her appropriate role as a wife rather than returning to the ranks of unwed virgins. This can be viewed as the subjugation of a previously strong woman, but was more likely intended to set her up as ruler of her own oikos, which was the more accepted female position. As Castor says, "She has a husband and a home. There is no cause for tears in her fate" (1311). While she was able to speak against her husband the farmer, owing to her noble birth and higher rank, she is a more suitable match for Pylades and will be able to more fully realize her potential.

Euripides, with his insertion of less grandiose characters like the farmer and the old man, exhibits a class consciousness in his play that is of no use or interest to Aeschylus in exploring his version of the mythos. The Libation Bearers begins at Agamemnon's tomb but shifts back to the literal house of Atreus, which provides the backdrop for the bloody events that permeate the trilogy. This place is a palace, with servants and slaves; by contrast, the humble home of the farmer and Electra is an unexpected and relatively modest setting for the monumental events that will unfold over the course of the play. It is a setting that heightens the enormity of the actions by understating the location in which they occur; it is easy to expect extreme behaviors in a rich estate filled with nobles, but more shocking to encounter them in an idyllic country setting. Unlike Aeschylus' play, in which the audience is left to its own devices in imagining the details buried in Electra's elliptical statement, "I go like a slave" (14), Euripides takes pains to illustrate the sorry state in which the title character finds herself. She extensively bemoans her situation, contrasting it with what she believes to be fitting for a person of her breeding and rejecting the insufficient offerings of the chorus of Argive women. Indeed, Euripides goes so far as to marry her to a mere farmer, then highlights the man's virtues in refusing to take advantage of the arguably inappropriate union. Orestes even gives a grand speech on nobility and judging people by their appearances or social standing alone. Euripides also draws attention to the underlying kinship of all humans in the exchange wherein Electra and the farmer discuss eating arrangements for their guests; Electra is ashamed by their humble offerings, while her husband says, "every man whose belly is filled gets his fair share, whether he's rich or poor" (430). It is difficult to imagine a character in The Libation Bearers presenting such an assertion.

The Libation Bearers opens with Orestes reverently laying locks of his hair on his father's tomb, quickly followed by the arrival of his estranged sister Electra and the chorus with libations to soothe the spirit of long-dead Agamemnon. By contrast, Electra begins with a simple farmer explaining how he came to be married to a princess, who herself then arrives carrying a less formal libation: a jug of water for use in the home. However, Electra of the latter nonetheless wails and weeps as if she were mourning like the Electra of the former: "I utter the lamentation that is my constant offering... tearing my cheeks with these nails and pummeling this shorn head" she says (147). This melodramatic voice highlights the gently mocking tone that Euripides maintains throughout the first half of his play. This continues into the recognition scene, which in Aeschylus' play is a study in suspension of disbelief. The audience is expected to accept the stilted, theatrical discoveries by Electra, first of Orestes' lock of hair, then his footprint--both of which match her counterparts--then the presentation of the item of clothing she had made for him so many years before. Apparently, not every audience member was sufficiently drawn in, as evidenced by Euripides' concoction of a similar scene in his own treatment of the subject. He satirizes the moment by turning it into an interaction between a senile old tutor and the wryly skeptical Electra, with the former presenting the telltale clues and the latter berating him for thinking that they constitute reasonable evidence. She tells him, "Old man, you speak like a fool... It can't happen" (523). While the tone of The Libation Bearers stays relatively static, with a generally approving chorus lauding the just efforts of the scheming siblings, the tone of Electra shifts approximately after the midpoint. The gentle lampooning gives way to a much more serious, stark and eventually reproachful perspective as characterized by Castor and Pollux. If Euripides found the treatment of the subject too heavy-handed in the beginning of The Libation Bearers, it seems he may have found it insufficiently grave at the end.

The end, of course, is meant to justify the means, and the end of The Libation Bearers suggests that justice has been served. Apollo's will has been fulfilled and those who perpetrated the murder of a king and war hero and, perhaps most importantly, beloved father have themselves been murdered. "I killed my mother, / not with a little justice," says Orestes (1024-5). However, as the play is part of a trilogy, the full resolution of the events does not come until the end of The Eumenides. Euripides has no such luxury, nor does he require one. Rather than leaving open the question of whether the children's actions were justice or merely retribution, then settling the issue later, he calls upon gods to voice displeasure at the morality, or lack thereof, inherent in the approval of matricide whatever the motivation. Moving backwards in the play to the messenger's tale of the murder of Aegisthus, it is clear that the majority of the characters are at that point still caught up in the moment; the messenger describes the witnesses crowning Orestes with a wreath like the winner of a sporting event, and the chorus calls for Electra to dance with them in celebration. The killing of Aegisthus is given much more prominence here than in The Libation Bearers, and while not necessarily indisputable, it is reasonable to believe that this killing was to be considered just. By contrast, after the murder of their mother, the two siblings are shell-shocked and remorseful, finally considering the possible wider ramifications of their rage-fueled actions. As the chorus, previously supportive and even actively engaged in the deception of Clytemnestra, observes, "Again, again your thoughts veer round at the wind's prompting; they are righteous now but were misguided then, my friend, when you stirred a frightful act in your brother against his will" (1201). While the Orestes of The Libation Bearers rejects his mother's baring of her breast in disdain after Pylades' prompting, Euripides' Orestes recounts the event in sorrow and regret, having to literally cover his eyes to summon up the strength to act and requiring the assistance of his sister. Indeed, the reactions of the siblings are in a way more mimetic than in the earlier play; one finds it easier to picture the quaking, appalled characters of Euripides than the Orestes who proclaims, "I ask you, Argos and all my generations, / remember how these brutal things were done" (1039-40).

The burden of memory, in a way, falls on the poets who retell the stories to audiences for whom the events are part of a distant past that is conveyed through incomplete accounts, perhaps more legend than history. Whether the version crafted by Aeschylus or that of Euripides is the more memorable is perhaps a matter of personal preference more than adherence to the predetermined narrative. Certainly they are radically different in their executions if not their content, and one senses the weight of the earlier play bearing down on the later. Even so, the fact that both survived to reach audiences millennia later speaks to their unique virtues and depictions of characters that even modern sensibilities can find sympathetic and relevant.

She-Hulk smash! And tear, and eat raw meat...

2009-04-27T16:41:00.000-04:00

Gender roles in Euripides’ Bacchae are manipulated, even reversed, over the course of the play. The self-proclaimed champion of good behavior is Pentheus, who opposes the worship of Bacchus not only on the grounds that he is not truly a god, but also that the allegedly false god incites his female followers to act outside the acceptable boundaries established for their gender. He is both right and wrong; the women, having left their homes and engaged in acts of violence, are violating standards that would have the women stay inside and avoid bloodshed. However, he accuses them of promiscuity and carnal sins that they do not appear to be enacting, and thus that particular charge falls flat, perhaps even reflecting his own disturbed mind more than that of the typical worshiper.

This shift in behavior is entirely controlled by Dionysus, who whips his followers into a frenzy in which they are capable not only of wild dancing but also of extreme carnage, tearing apart animals with their bare hands and eating the raw flesh. Their hair is unbound, their clothing primitive, and they are even described as nursing wild animals with their own breast milk. When they believe they are being attacked by the local men, they take their wands and use them like weapons, becoming stronger soldiers than the men of the village that they fall upon. When Pentheus is cornered in the tree, they literally tear it from the ground to get at him, exhibiting inhuman--and unwomanly--strength. Finally, the murder of Pentheus by his own mother is as far from the traditional role of a woman as can be imagined. It is difficult to picture a woman of the time doing such a thing without extreme provocation, and Euripides almost certainly presents these images for their shock value while being careful to ascribe them to spiritual fervor rather than any normal, natural emotions or behaviors. Indeed, the efficacy of their bare hands and wands in fighting the men can only be described as supernatural, and in no way characteristic of typical female potency.

On the other hand, Pentheus himself is coaxed into reversing his own gender in order to infiltrate the ranks of the maenads. Having been the stalwart male figure concerned with the piety of his city and the chastity of its women, arresting offenders and lording it over Dionysus in his guise as the stranger, Pentheus eventually becomes submissive and eager to follow the stranger's instructions. This is manifested physically by his cross-dressing as a worshipper of Dionysus, with feminine robes and head coverings. There is even a humorous moment in which he worries that the clothes are not properly adjusted and Dionysus helps him. His ultimate fate, of course, is to have his transgressions punished by being torn to pieces by women, who are themselves asserting their strength and superiority over him, a man and ruler of the city. His eulogy as delivered by his grandfather Cadmus focuses, not on his civic deeds as a man's should, but on his private household deeds as a woman's might. In the end, the god's presence retreats and Agave is returned to her normal self, left to come to terms, as a mere woman, with the manly murder she perpetrated while in the mad frenzy inspired by the god.

Speculations on ancient Greeks and fate

2009-04-16T12:45:00.005-04:00

Having used the magic of the internet to do what we all do so well--namely, put all those pesky opinions of mine out there for all three of my readers to see--I feel like my ruminations on Hippolytus are somehow incomplete. There are people who disagree with me and I want to say things to them so they can say more things back to me, and so here we are, and by "we" I mean me, of course.

There's no time machine to take sociologists or anthropologists back to before the common era with clipboards and questionnaires, so all we know about the ancient Greeks comes from the materials that have survived to today, either directly from the proverbial horses' mouths or from other people who were around at the time. I say this as a preface because I am going to follow it up with a bunch of opinions that, grounded in evidence or not, are pretty much impossible to prove one way or the other. Add to that the fact that I am in no way a scholar of Greek history and society, and you've basically got a girl with a blog who has something to say and is probably going to get some of it wrong. All I know, I learned in school from a couple of cool guys who may also be wrong, but are at least better educated. All right, enough with the caveats.

So, one way or another, it seems like the gods were a part of Greek life: these people had temples and festivals and statues in their houses and we have all these plays that talk about the gods a whole bunch. They prayed to different gods for different reasons, and sometimes prayed to all of them to cover their bases, but they almost always prayed to Zeus in addition to whoever else warranted a special shout-out. But what could the gods do? Sometimes they could intercede on someone's behalf, sometimes they couldn't because another god was doing his thing, and sometimes it seems like they kind of threw up their hands and said, "Nothing we can do, it's fated." This is weird when you think about it, because they're the gods, right? Why should they be bound by fate? Even Zeus apparently can't get around things that are meant to be, and he's the head honcho by most standards. But there he is, shrugging his godly shoulders and munching on ambrosia while the mortals get screwed.

Given that the Greeks definitely seemed to believe in destiny, it's weird to think that they could also believe in free will. In the beginning of Hippolytus, Aphrodite herself shows up and says, "This is how things are going to go down," and sure enough they do, so it's tempting to shrug and eat some grapes and blame the gods or fate for the whole shebang. But that's not what the characters do. They don't lie around singing the Greek equivalent of "que sera, sera," perhaps because they don't get to hear Aphrodite's helpful speech and so they're blissfully unaware of the impending mayhem. But then again, what does it matter?

Therein lies the crux of the free will vesus destiny battle, or lack thereof: if you can't know your fate, then in a sense, it doesn't matter. You make choices, and those choices will lead you to your fate, but they were still your choices. It's like being in a maze with a lot of twists and turns and dead ends, and you keep walking forward, trying to get out, picking a direction when you hit a crossroads and hoping for the best, but knowing all the time that the form of the maze has already been set and will lead to the same place no matter how you get there. The gods are above the maze, looking down, able to see all the paths and pitfalls, and sometimes they can move a wall or nudge a person in a particular direction, but they can't pull the person out of the maze and put them in another one. And sometimes other gods are slipping in more traps, because they can do that too, and sometimes the gods are even right there in the maze at specific spots because they have their own fated role to play.

Hippolytus: only the good die young

2009-04-13T17:24:00.001-04:00

The actions of the play Hippolytus are manipulated by the interference of the gods, namely Aphrodite. She is the one who is angered by Hippolytus' chastity, and so she makes Phaedra fall in love with him, knowing that he will reject her and subsequently bring about his own downfall. Because of this, it can be argued that human choice is futile, because the desires of the gods win out in the end. However, so many of the actions in this play are conceived and carried out by humans that their agency is undeniable, if predictable.

Phaedra is the somewhat unwitting pawn in this godly game of checkers; in the world of the play, she does not fall in love with Hippolytus of her own free will but is forced to do so by Aphrodite. However, she does not lose her ability to make choices, despite her enforced predicament. Initially, she chooses to starve herself to death in order to escape the bonds of passion with her reputation intact. Once her secret is revealed and she is reviled by Hippolytus, she then chooses to implicate him in her suicide in order to, once again, preserve her good name. Her suicide is also a choice that she makes. None of this adds up to futility; despite her motivation being at least partially imposed by a god, each action she takes is deliberate and yields the intended results.

The nurse is also resposible for making her own choices: first, to beg Phaedra to reveal her secret love, then to convince Phaedra to let her tell Hippolytus. Although Aphrodite may have relied on the nurse's interference and have foreseen how she would act, this does not indicate any futility in the choices. To call the actions futile would imply that they would have no affect on the outcome of the play, when they were arguably the catalyst for the subsequent unraveling of events.

Theseus is the final actor, sealing his son's fate by asking Poseidon to kill him. While his curse is rashly spoken, it is not externally imposed on him by any of the gods; Aphrodite expected and wanted it, but did not force him to do it. If anyone in the play lacks agency, it is arguably Hippolytus, whose death is brought about by Phaedra through no fault of his own, and who remains honest and faultless to the end. However, to say that human choice is futile throughout the play solely because of his tragic end is to discount the human actions that led to his demise.

Medea: bitches, they crazy

2009-04-06T16:56:00.000-04:00

The principle of helping friends and hurting enemies is central to Euripides' Medea; her every action is intended to hurt those who she considers to be her enemies: Jason, Creon and Glauce. Conversely, she is enraged and the chorus is troubled by the notion that Jason has engaged in activities which are harmful to his near and dear ones, namely abandoning his wife and children for another woman. This perversion of the accepted ethical standard creates a dilemma for the audience: are we meant to sympathize with Medea and approve of her vengeful actions, or are we meant to be repulsed by the murders that she coldly plans and executes?

Several factors seem to argue for a sympathetic reading of the character, for the most part. First, a number of the other characters in the play--such as the nurse, Aegeus and the chorus--consider her to be a victim of circumstance and feel sorry for her. She herself repeatedly makes the compelling argument that she has given up everything for Jason--her home, her family, and to a certain extent her identity--only to have him repay her by tossing her aside like a used tissue. Jason himself, when he arrives to justify his actions, comes across as vain, haughty and callous toward his soon to be ex-wife and children. Creon also appears to be unduly harsh by banishing her and her children from his kingdom, although we later learn that his concerns were well founded, and Glauce is described as hiding her face and turning away from the children when they arrive to give her the gift that is supposed to win her good will. By making her enemies unlikeable, Medea is in turn rendered more pitiful. In short, Medea has helped her near and dear ones, but Jason has harmed them, and thus he becomes Medea's enemy along with the king and princess.

However, one thing arguably blemishes the clear line between treatment of friends and enemies: Medea's murder of her children. Within the context of the play, she states that she is killing them to harm Jason, which is consistent with the need to hurt one's enemies. He is undoubtedly harmed by the action, as he is left alone without even his own flesh and blood to comfort him after the loss of his new bride and all the power and money that would have come with the marriage. Nonetheless, Medea is murdering innocent near and dear ones who have done nothing to deserve their fate, but merely had the bad luck to be related to an unscrupulous man and an intractable woman. Moreover, she is also harming herself, subordinating her own small measure of happiness to exacerbate Jason's misery. Finally, the chorus does not approve of her actions, despite their prior support for her other revenge schemes.

Medea herself is a complex character; she is by turns a frantic, jilted lover, a caring mother, a pitiful suppliant and a cold, calculating killer. Which is the real Medea? Can they be reconciled into a cohesive person, and is that person sympathetic or not? If we accept that she has successfully managed to hurt her enemies, what does her victory say about the very notion of reciprocity? At what point does the cost of hurting your enemies become too high to be ethical? Would her actions be considered a form of justice, or merely retribution? Finally, given that she literally gets away with murder and escapes, leaving Jason to deal with the aftermath, can she really be considered a tragic hero?

Because one month of insanity isn't enough

2009-04-02T15:31:00.002-04:00

Once again this year, I will be participating in Script Frenzy, put together by the people who are also responsible for NaNoWriMo. Much like its spiritual and literal predecessor, Script Frenzy involves writing a whole lot of words in a mere month, namely 100 pages of a screenplay, stage play, comic book script, or something similar. So what I am saying is, after my month-long absence, I may once again disappear until it's time to wind ribbons around a maypole.

I rarely work in a complete vacuum, but this time even less so, as I'm writing the script with a partner. Our brains work in a similar enough way to facilitate collaboration but a different enough way to provide for a stimulating exchange of ideas. It is a Good Thing. I'm not sure how people usually work out the logistics of this kind of thing, but we've opted to split the scenes so that neither of us has to wait around for the other to finish up a section in order to move forward. Perhaps if we had more than a month, we'd be able to go back and forth in a more linear way, but them's the breaks.

We shall see what unfolds.

Time is on my side

2009-04-01T11:59:00.002-04:00

It has been many moons since I posted here. First there was a trip to California, then an exam, then a revised paper, then spring break, and next thing I know it's April. Good gravy. So what insightful and substantive things do I have to say now?

Nothing, really, but I do have this great link to share. Enjoy The Facebook Aeneid while I ponder what you're pondering. Thoughts on the Oresteia or Euripides' Medea will be forthcoming.

“Though the gods see well, they do so late”

2009-02-18T14:03:00.001-05:00

Oidipous at Colonus is the third of Sophocles' Theban plays, which collectively relate the tragic events that befall Oidipous and his family. In the chronology of the myth, the actions of this play occur after King Oidipous and before Antigone; however, rather than being a bridge between the two, Oidipous at Colonus is more of a response to its predecessor, King Oidipous. It answers simple questions such as what occurs after King Oidipous ends, but it also tackles more complex issues such as the role of free will and the relative justice of Oidipous' cruel fate. The play takes the stance that Oidipous committed all his crimes out of ignorance rather than malice, guided by his unavoidable destiny, and thus while he is "polluted" and must be punished for transgressing in life, he is permitted a measure of redemption after his death.

The most basic question that Oidipous at Colonus answers is what happens to the title character and his family after the events of King Oidipous reach their conclusion. The final image of the latter play is Oidipous' shameful, powerless retreat into the palace from which he had emerged so proudly in the beginning. Oidipous at Colonus introduces him as a blind beggar who has been wandering as an exile for an indeterminate but presumably lengthy amount of time, led by his daughter Antigone. He describes his expulsion from the city as unwanted, despite his demands to be allowed to leave at the end of King Oidipous; he tells Kreon that "when I'd had my fill / of rage, and it was sweet to pass my life at home, that's when you thrust me forth and cast me out" (Blondell 768-70). This indicates that his notorious rashness has been somewhat quelled, and that he is no longer as quick to act in anger as he once was, instead favoring the intellect that was supposed to be his claim to fame. Oidipous also discusses how his sons Polyneices and Eteokles did nothing to prevent the punishment and stayed at home like women while his daughters left home to join him, one as his caregiver and the other to give him news of the events occurring back in Thebes. From other characters, it is revealed that his sons, who were conspicuously absent from the previous play, are about to engage in their ill-fated war with each other that will lead to their deaths at one another's hands. It is interesting to note that though he called for his daughters at the end of King Oidipous, he had no interest in facing his sons, perhaps foreshadowing the impassable rift that was to form between them. Kreon, meanwhile, appears to be in a similar position to the one he previously occupied, having all the power of kingship without the associated pitfalls, albeit having ruled Thebes as an interim leader until Oidipous' sons took over.

Thematically speaking, the largest issue that Oidipous at Colonus seeks to tackle in response to King Oidipous is that of free will versus fate. The action of the latter is driven by the prophecies that surround and permeate it, from the first revelation by Kreon that the king's murderer must be driven from the city, to Tiresias' ignored pronouncements, to the long-dismissed prediction that Laios' son would be his undoing, to Oidipous' own concern that he would kill his own father and marry his mother. While initially eager to embrace Kreon's information, Oidipous repeatedly ignores or attempts to avoid the terms of the other prophecies and, in doing so, eventually fulfills them. This can be perceived as an argument for free will and fate as not being mutually exclusive; for example, in freely choosing to flee from the people who he thought were his parents, he brought about his destiny to meet his real father and kill him, and subsequently to marry his mother. In Oidipous at Colonus, however, Oidipous strongly argues that he is not fully responsible for the ills that befell him. He tells the chorus, "I bore evil, strangers, bore it against my will--god be my witness! / None of those things was my own choice" (Blondell 521-2). He acknowledges that he committed inexcusable acts, but argues that he did not do so willingly, implying that he was guided by the more powerful force of fate. In answering Kreon's accusations later, Oidipous once again refers to the "appalling circumstances that I bore--oh woe / is me!--against my will" (Blondell 963-4). The word "bore," while referring specifically to his production of children from an incestuous relationship, also more generally references the prophecies that he brought to fruition.

While the question of fate and free will is addressed through Oidipous' attempts to absolve himself of responsibility for his actions by claiming they were not his choice, it is also approached on a purely character-centric level through observation of Oidipous' contrasting engagements with prophecy in the two plays. As previously noted, in King Oidipous, the title character ignores, rejects, or tries to escape the destiny foretold to him by the Delphic oracle and Tiresias. This implies an underlying pride; Oidipous believes that he is intelligent or powerful enough to avoid his fate, despite the fact that it is ordained by the gods, and so in a way he is positioning himself as an equal to those gods. However, in Oidipous at Colonus, his actions and those of the other characters are slavishly devoted to the prophecy surrounding Oidipous' burial site, namely that the city-state in which he is buried will be victorious in some future war. When he realizes that he has arrived at the place where he will die, Oidipous is eager to "round the post of my long-suffering life" (Blondell 91) because he knows that he will be "dwelling with profit to the ones who took me in" (Blondell 92), namely the Athenians, to whom he intends to offer his body after death. Instead of fleeing from his destiny, as he had before, he embraces it as inevitable and even desirable. After Oidipous makes his pact with Theseus, Kreon, having thrown Oidipous out of Thebes previously, attempts to persuade him to return and be buried there instead. This is reasonable, as the prophecy does not specify where Oidipous' corpse must be buried; Kreon is thus free to seek it for Thebes, although he is immediately rejected. After Kreon is taken away and the kidnapped Antigone and Ismene are retrieved, a final example of acceptance of destiny is enacted by Polyneices upon hearing his father's pronouncements about his destined mutual fratricide. Antigone begs him, "Turn round your army, back... don't destroy the city and yourself" (Blondell 1416-7). He refuses, claiming that he wouldn't be able to face his men if he stopped the war and lived in exile; most importantly, he says that he "won't report the detrimental news at all" (Blondell 1429) because he doesn't want to disappoint his troops. He acknowledges the inevitability of the prophecy uttered by his own father, who apparently acquired his abilities once he lost his sight.

Having asserted that Oidipous was guided more by destiny than choice, the next natural question raised is whether Oidipous' punishments were appropriate or disproportionate to his crimes. More specifically, if Oidipous committed evil acts out of ignorance, is it reasonable to punish him as if he had done the same things knowing that they were wrong? Sophocles appears to answer both in the affirmative and the negative. At one point, Oidipous emphatically proclaims, "I did nothing!... I accepted / a gift. How I wish... I had never taken that reward for my help" (Blondell 539-41). This description of his marriage to his mother divorces it from the barbaric act of incest that it was and instead characterizes it as an innocent action that was not unreasonable under the circumstances. Later, in describing the murder of his father, he states that "I murdered and destroyed him, caught by doom, / but clean under the law: I came to this in ignorance" (Blondell 547-8). While he killed his father, the fact that he didn't know it was his father, or a king, and that he arguably committed the act in self-defense absolves him of some, if not all, guilt. However, private guilt is less grave than public shame; he nonetheless transgressed, and his subsequent fall from power, self-mutilation and exile from Thebes are all the outcomes of his ill-fated actions. In the same way that he was destined to do wrong, he was destined to be punished for it. But because he was ignorant of his crimes until they had already been committed, and thus in one sense was morally innocent, in Oidipous at Colonus he is offered a chance to redeem himself by becoming a blessing in death rather than a curse in life.

In addressing the questions and thematic issues raised by King Oidipous in Oidipous at Colonus, Sophocles invites a re-examination of the earlier play, which yields a number of interesting parallels and reversals. For example, in the beginning of King Oidipous, Oidipous emerges from the palace to confront the suppliants that have amassed outside; in Oidipous at Colonus, he himself is a suppliant begging for an audience with Theseus. In the earlier play, Oidipous dooms himself by making pronouncements before having all the facts at his disposal; in the later play, the chorus agrees to aid Oidipous before learning who he is, and then regrets it and accuses him of trickery. Oidipous is initially rejected as a polluting influence by the people of Thebes; then, he is sought out as a blessing. Because of all these connections, the later play, in a way, is only narratively satisfying as a supplement to its predecessor, while the earlier play is best understood when viewed through the hindsight provided by its successor. As Oidipous finally gains a spiritual second sight at the end of Oidipous of Colonus, so too do readers of the play gain the insight that they previously lacked at the end of King Oidipous.

Friends and enemies

2009-02-09T16:39:00.000-05:00

If one takes for granted that the ancient Greeks wholly endorsed the ethical principle of "help friends and harm enemies," then Ajax is something of an enigma. The character himself embodies the principle; after all, the play begins as he tortures what he thinks are his enemies, namely Odysseus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, but what are actually herd animals. However, his most hated rival Odysseus comes to his defense at the end when the other two Greek commanders seek to deprive him of proper burial rites. It is difficult to reconcile these disparate events into a cohesive whole, but Sophocles attempts to do so in the final argument between Odysseus and Agamemnon.

As in Antigone, the argument between opposing sides is over whether the corpse of an "enemy" deserves proper burial. Menelaus and Agamemnon claim that it doesn't, while the family of Ajax, namely Teucer, argues that it does. It is reasonable to expect the family members to push for burial, but when Odysseus arrives and takes their side, Agamemnon is shocked: "...should you not also trample him now that he is dead?" he asks. Odysseus replies, "Do not take delight, son of Atreus, in that superiority which brings no honor." This idea that harming an enemy who cannot defend himself is dishonorable at worst and pointless at best is a strangely modern one, calling to mind the adage, "Don't kick a man when he's down." It seems to indicate that while there is value in defeating an enemy, there is no merit in continuing to molest him once he is already defeated.

A few lines later, Agamemnon continues, "Remember to what sort of man you show this kindness!" Odysseus counters, "The man was once my enemy, yes, but he was also noble." Pressed further, Odysseus says, "I yield to his excellence much more than his hostility." This directly counters the idea of only doing harm to enemies; it creates a separate class of enemy that is worthy of distinction based on his own redeeming qualities. It even seems to contradict the previously stated (and possibly wrongheaded) ideas of Ajax and Teucer, who believe it fitting that Ajax die on the sword of Hector, his enemy, even though the weapon was given as a gift. Agamemnon then states, "Men who act as you do are the unstable sort in humankind." To which Odysseus replies, "Quite the majority of men, I assure you, are friendly at one time, and bitter at another." This indicates that today's friend may be tomorrow's enemy, which is arguably the case with Ajax himself. This also implies that the opposite could be true. Either way, it provides further reinforcement for Odysseus' position.

Agamemnon's last concern is that he and Menelaus, and even Odysseus, will seem cowardly if they capitulate. "On the contrary," Odysseus replies, "we will be men of justice in the eyes of all the Greeks." This is a difficult claim to back given that the Greeks were gossiping about Ajax earlier in the play at Odysseus' prompting. But then Agamemnon asks Odysseus if he will take responsibility for the act, and the Ithacan immediately agrees, which seems to indicate a desire to undo what he did by spreading the information in the first place. He also expands his list of reasons by adding, "I too shall come to that necessity," meaning he will also need burying someday and hopes that he will not be deprived of proper rites himself.

Taken holistically, Odysseus advocates kindness toward fallen enemies as well as those who warrant distinction based on their deeds. He also appears to adopt an approach counter to the "help friends and harm enemies" mentality, namely one that is closer to the idea summarized as "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." While the two are not mutually exclusive, the former does not allow helpful deeds to be done to enemies in the hopes of receiving reciprocal treatment at a potential future time, while the latter could be construed as favoring that attitude. However, one could speculate that Odysseus, having seen firsthand how quickly the gods can turn on their favored heroes, is less altruistically minded and more concerned about himself personally.

Isn't it ironic... don't you think

2009-02-02T10:35:00.001-05:00

It is difficult to imagine anyone viewing or reading King Oidipous without any knowledge of the major events of the play, especially the revelation of Oidipous' "evils." Now, millennia later, there is an almost obsessive avoidance of "spoilers," divulging of details important to a story or movie to someone who hasn't seen it, which may have been completely foreign to a culture that seemed to value the reimagining of old myths and legends rather than the invention of new ones. Even so, the use of dramatic irony persists in modern fiction not so much as an external practice, in which vital information regarding the events of the plot are known beforehand, but in a more internal fashion, in which details are revealed to the audience but not the character within the fictive work. In the case of King Oidipous, the dramatic irony arises from the audience being previously aware of the crime that Oidipous has committed; there is a great deal of foreshadowing, but it would be lost on someone being exposed to the material for the first time.

To say that dramatic irony is at work in this play is an understatement; it permeates the dialogue and, like the gods, is almost an omnipresent additional character. One could even argue that the representation of Apollo's shrine as part of the scenery, if it was actually there, is the literal manifestation of the god's presence. Apollo knows everything, like the audience, and it is the words of his oracle as brought back by Kreon that start the characters on their inevitable slide towards tragedy. While the audience immediately understands the implication of the prophecy, the characters are still in the dark and act accordingly. Oidipous' grand pronouncements about the perpetrator being cast out and not permitted to "participate in prayers or sacrifices / to the gods" are uncomfortable to hear, inspiring a sense of empathetic dread since he is condemning himself to the various punishments. The suspense is heightened when Teiresias arrives, especially since he repeatedly refuses to tell Oidipous what he (and the audience) knows, until finally Oidipous galls him into action and then immediately rejects his statements. When Jokasta hears what Teiresias said, she too rejects the information because she believes that previous oracles were incorrect and thus, logically, others can be wrong as well; one wonders whether the audience would have been surprised by a female using logic, flawed as it might be. Soon thereafter, however, she is the first to realize the full implications of the various prophecies, while Oidipous is still ignorant until the only remaining eyewitness to his lineage arrives at the very end. The point of revelation is the point at which the dramatic irony vanishes, and both the audience and Oidipous are left to wonder what will happen next.

Because the audience is already well aware of what is going to occur from the beginning, at least in a general sense, much more attention can be paid to the technical aspects of the play: the language, the structure, the song and dance, the acting, and so forth. It is also worth noting that although the two plays are not meant to be read or viewed together, it is difficult to read King Oidipous without recalling Kreon's fate in Antigone. Both made harsh pronouncements of punishment without considering who they might have to punish. Both internalized the problems of the city and believed that their personal success hinged on solving those problems. The two characters even reject Teiresias in the same way, by accusing him of taking bribes. Still, Oidipous is somewhat more sympathetic than Kreon in the sense that his ills seem to have been set in motion when he was a baby, long before any character flaw had time to manifest itself, while Kreon had a strong guiding hand in his own downfall.

What's so civil about disobedience

2009-01-28T14:06:00.002-05:00

I wish to leave the world
By its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun.

José Martí wrote these words in his poem "A Morir," the year before he was killed while trying to free Cuba from Spanish rule. My immediate thought upon reading this was how similar it was to Antigone's attitude toward her own somewhat revolutionary actions. Their two stories are incredibly dissimilar, and yet they share a fundamental belief in the rightness of their own causes.

When Antigone reveals her plan to bury Polynices, Ismene balks because she is afraid of the consequences should they get caught. She tells Antigone, "At any rate, disclose this deed to none: /Keep it close hidden. I will hide it too." To which Antigone responds, "Speak out! I bid thee. Silent, thou wilt be / More hateful to me than if thou shouldst tell / My deed to all men." But why? She knows that the penalty for disobeying Kreon's edict is death, but as the saying goes, you're only in trouble if you get caught. Even so, she makes no effort to hide what she is doing, although she avoids detection during the first burial, the suggestion being that it is due to divine intervention. One almost wonders if she goes back for the second burial because she didn't get caught the first time, and could be dismissed as a liar if she tried to take credit for the act without proof.

Still, the question remains: why be caught? Why seek acknowledgment? She repeatedly claims that she is burying her brother because it is the right thing to do according to the gods' laws, but it seems that she could just as easily do the right thing in secret as out in the open. Does she want fame? Glory? Moral support? Attention? Is she trying to make Kreon look bad by forcing a confrontation? Is she trying to foment civil unrest? Is she actually suicidal and finds this to be a convenient method of ending her life while she's at her most pious?

I thought that one of my classmates had a good answer: none of the above. She said that maybe Antigone wanted to be open about her actions simply because she wanted to show that they were not shameful. If she had been secretive, it would have implied that she wasn't secure in her convictions, that deep down inside she didn't think she should be doing what she was doing. But of course, that wasn't true; like Martí, she didn't want to be "put... in the dark / To die like a traitor," she wanted to "die with [her] face to the sun."

Antigone did die in the dark, in a cave, alone. However, the chorus compares her to Danae, who was similarly confined in a dark place and was nonetheless visited by Zeus himself. Because she never hid her intentions or actions, in a way she died under the watchful eyes of the gods and her fellow Thebans, shedding light on Kreon's "crime" even in darkness.

Who's on first?

2009-01-26T10:29:00.003-05:00

Because I still have scholarship money to burn, sort of, I am taking yet another literature class at my alma mater. This time, I am entering the delightful and somewhat impenetrable world of Greek tragedy. I call it "impenetrable" because there are unfortunate gaps in our knowledge about not only the time period but drama specifically. Scholars make the best guesses that they can, supported by the information available, but there is a lot that is simply not known and will never be. Unless, of course, someone invents time travel and we manage to avoid mucking things up.

We begin with Antigone by Sophocles, one of his three surviving plays about Oedipus and his appurtenant trials and tribulations. The main conflict of the play is between Antigone and Kreon; the latter decrees that the former's brother, killed while trying to invade the city (Thebes), is to be left unburied and denied proper funeral rites. The former believes that the laws of the gods supercede the laws of man and buries her brother anyway. Since Kreon declared that the punishment for doing so would be death, he must then decide between clemency for his niece, who also happens to be betrothed to his son, and sticking to his proverbial guns.

Given this tension between the two sides, it is difficult to determine who is the main character; if the term is used interchangeably with protagonist, it becomes an even more complicated question, because it is tough to pinpoint who exactly is opposing whom. In a way, it is a case of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object; Antigone does what she thinks is morally right despite the consequences, and Kreon refuses to mitigate the consequences despite it being in his power to do so.

The very fact that the play is titled Antigone is an argument in favor of her being the main character. Additionally, her actions create the conflict that moves the plot forward; she continuously exerts her agency and everyone suffers the consequences. Kreon himself reacts rather than acts because, as he puts it, "while I live a woman shall not rule" (Blondell 525). She even controls the manner of her own death instead of passively accepting the punishment imposed on her.

However, it can be argued that while Antigone may be an important character, possibly the protagonist, Kreon is actually the main character. It is his initial pronouncement that sets the stage for Antigone's disobedience, and his inability to change that ensures the plot will move inexorably toward its final tragic conclusion. He has more lines than any other character, mostly because every other major character, including the chorus, attempts to convince him of his wrongheadedness. By contrast, no one tries to convince Antigone of anything except Ismene, and even she converts to Antigone's way of thinking and tries to take credit for the act of defiance. While Antigone is confident in her decision, Kreon defends himself in a paranoid fashion by accusing his opponents of threatening him and taking bribes. In the end, Kreon alone is left alive to suffer the consequences of his actions, namely the deaths of everyone he cares about.

In tallying up the arguments for both sides, it seems that the scales are tipped slightly in Kreon's favor. This would have been performed at the City Dionysia festival, and so would have been eligible for a prize along with three other plays written by Sophocles. One wonders whether he won first prize for the group that included this play and, if so, who would have been awarded the laurel for best actor. Whoever it was may even have played both roles at different times, since all the actors were masked and there were only three of them plus the chorus. As mentioned previously, unless that time machine makes an appearance, the world may never know.