Official Blog of Eddy Webb

What novel should I write?

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 22:39:56 GMT

Between encouragement (well, mocking) from my family and a few people at work keen on the idea, I'm seriously considering giving National Novel Writing Month a try this year. Which means I have to start outlining... well, now.

I've actually wanted to try NaNoWriMo for about five years now, but I've never had a chance to. This year I actually do, and I have the energy for it as well -- Whitechapel has really gotten me excited about writing longer pieces of fiction. While I've written whole books before, I haven't ever even tackled a novel before, so this will be totally new to me.

That isn't to say that I haven't had ideas for novels all this time. In fact, I've had several. I've managed to narrow it down to five that I have interest in and notes for, but I'm having a hard time choosing, so I wanted to see what y'all thought. I won't necessarily go with the most popular option -- it might be that I look at that option and go "Ugh," which means that I really had my heart set on another idea and didn't realize it -- but it will help me boil my options down to one. Here are the "elevator pitches" for each, and any pros or cons against them.

As The Devil Drives: A demon-possessed mobster runs afoul of a washed-up detective who has seen things most people won't believe. (Horror detective fiction) This is actually a novel I wrote a chapter or two on a while back, but I could never get moving on it. In feel it would be pretty close to Whitechapel, which means I might want to consider something a little different to change it up.
Night Fall: A witty female vampire hunter gets caught up in the society of the local undead who are all idiots. (Comedic modern fantasy) This is actually what started the idea of NaNoWriMo going -- a parody of various female vampire hunter novels out there. Of course, this is pretty close to what I do for a living, so it's got a similar strike against it as "As The Devil Drives" in terms of mood overlap.
Terrifying Disappointment: The salvage crew of the HCSS Terrifying Disappointment find that they are the only hope left in their sector of space against an alien menace. (Comedic sci-fi) I've been watching a lot of comedic sci-fi recently, so this idea is pretty fresh to me, but it would be two genres I've never done before.
The Bureau: A group of empowered individuals work together in secret to defeat a race of dimensional creatures from taking over the world. (Modern pulp superheroes) This is a pretty old idea that I've been poking at again recently. I like the idea, but I'm not entirely sure if it's a novel or something else.
Thy Kingdom Come: The War of Heaven comes to Earth in the late 19th century. (Dramatic alt history) Another old idea, and not something I've worked on recently, but I did a lot of research a few years ago, and I'm pretty sure I still have all those notes somewhere.

So, if you have a second, click on the titles you think are interesting/would be interesting for me to write/think I would have fun writing. You can choose as many as you want -- again, I'm not looking for hard data, but just collecting some random opinions to give me something to mull over and help me narrow these choices down.

(Note: Poll is not working for some, so if you can't vote, just toss your thoughts in a comment, tweet them to me on Twitter, or email me.)

View Poll: What book should I write?

Writing and writing and writing

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 00:38:57 GMT

Image by olinlibref via Flickr

Before I start, I need a moment.

Ahem.

HOLY FUCKING CHRIST I'M GOING TO BE PUBLISHED IN A FICTION ANTHOLOGY.

Whew. There. Now that that's out of my system, "Gloomy Sunday" has been confirmed as one of the stories in the upcoming Close Encounters of the Urban Kind by Apex Publishing. This is awesome for a couple of reasons: it's only the second time I've been paid for my straight fiction (the first was "Questions" for the Pseudopod podcast), and it's the first time I've been invited into an anthology instead of blindly submitting a story for consideration. I have a chance to do a polish and reformatting pass before the editor gives me redlines. And then, at some point in the future, the awesome happens.

But no time to slow down. I've been chugging along on Whitechapel, and I'm pretty pleased with how it's turning out. I've been babbling about my writing process on that project quite a bit -- you can check out my post-mortems if you're interested.

And because my brain doesn't have enough going on, I've been poking around with an older project for the past few days -- a weird kind of pulp superhero universe. It's something I've kicked around for a few years now, but it's been intermingled with some other projects in my head, and I'm in the process of slowly extracting them so I can focus on fleshing out those elements. Originally I had a few different OpenOffice documents that I was trying to keep notes in, but it was hard to keep track of all the interconnections, so I'm now putting all my notes into a TiddlyWiki page. My time running a Scion cycle on Obsidian Portal has helped me to think of ways to use a wiki for cross-referencing world information and characters. Of course, I don't have any plans to work on comic scripts or a superhero RPG, so I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with it just yet, but I'm sure I'll have some fun with it at some point.

More Awesome Internet Serials

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 20:37:06 GMT

Originally published at The Whitechapel Project (for MP3s and polls, click this link). You can comment here or there.

One week until the launch of Whitechapel! If you’re looking for other free Internet serials to fill your time with while you wait, I have four other sites you should check out.

Jet Pack is a central point for the fiction of three extremely talented writers: Chuck Wendig, Will Hindmarch and Wood Ingham. I’m particularly into Wood’s sci-fi novella “Memory Sticks.”

And if you can’t get enough Chuck Wendig, he and Marty Henley just launched The Storyverse, a dueling serial that trades off between Chuck and Marty every week. It’s… well it’s… there’s kind of a sci-fi thing… with pirates… and pulp… kinda. It’s awesome, and they’re big supporters of the Project (they even changed their release date so as not to conflict with the launch of Whitechapel), so go check out their work.

I’ve always been a fan of Mur Lafferty, and she’s been doing some of her own serial work in a multimedia story called “Her Side.” I haven’t read it yet, but I’ll probably start catching up really soon. I understand it can be a bit disturbing, but if you’re waiting for horror goodness from me, you’ll probably like Mur’s work just fine.

Finally, I have been ordered by Filamena Young to go check out Tim Pratt’s Bone Shop. It’s a donation-funded urban fantasy novella that’s only a few weeks old, so now is a good time to check it out.

Once you’ve read all that, come back here and get ready for episode 1!

[Repost] Questions

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 22:09:27 GMT

I've been thinking about my flash piece "Questions" again recently, and I was pleased to find that the podcast version is still online. I don't know why my brain keeps circling around a piece of mine that's several years old, though.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Part V

Mon, 15 May 2006 15:13:50 GMT

A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire: Part V
Foreword, Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

“I can’t believe you two. You’re useless. Fine, you two figure out how to work the jack, and I’ll look for a tool in the trunk…”

“Boot,” I said automatically.

“… to get the tire off.”

Rob and I looked at the contraption, and then at the flap, hoping for a set of instructions there. There was nothing. I set it on the ground and looked at it. Rain bounced off the cheap metal as it oozed a bit into the mud. Rob picked it up and set it down in a different way. We both agreed that this was probably the most likely way to orient it, so we put it under the car and started twisting the only control on the device, a knob. Elizabeth found some sort of cheap tin mutant wrench that was all one piece, and she put the hubcap next to her in the mud and started working on the bolts of the tire while Rob and I took turns twisting the knob.

A car drove by, and sprayed water all over the car and us as they waved. I swore at them.

Elizabeth slipped and ended up sitting in the mud. Rather than getting back up, she just sat there, trying to muscle the bolts off of the tire. Rob wiped the water off of the face of his watch and glanced at it. “I’m going to wait in the car,” he said quietly.

“You’re going to stay right here and help me,” Elizabeth snarled, as the tool slipped off of the bolt again.

“How can we help?” I asked.

“Having you standing there as wet and miserable as I am helps,” she said, yanking hard on the little tool.

Another car drove by, splashing us again.

“Alternatively, you can start killing other drivers. That would be nice too,” she added.

I opened a door and leaned inside to dig Rob’s cell phone out of the center arm next to the front seat. I flipped it open, but there were no bars on the screen. I closed it and tossed it on the seat. “There’s no cellular reception out here.”

“We’re in the Dales,” Rob said. “There’s naught out here but grass and hills.”

“And sheep,” Elizabeth said, pointing to the side of the road before working on another bolt.

Sure enough, a couple of inquisitive sheep were standing behind the low rock wall, watching us with large eyes.

“What stupid creatures,” I remarked.

“What, for standing in the rain staring when they could be doing something more productive?” Elizabeth said as another bolt plopped into the mud.

“Sheep are actually quite intelligent creatures and have more brainpower than people are willing to give them credit for,” Rob said, as he wiped the rain out of his eyes. “Read that on a website once.”

I was about to reply when another car came up. It slowed as the passenger rolled down her window. “It’s a shame,” she said without preamble, her graying hair held tightly in a bun.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Our tire blew out as we tried to let another car by.”

“And you force the woman to do all the work. It’s a shame, a crying shame.” She shook her head and the car pulled forward, splashing us with water.

“I’m not sure whether to thank her or kill her,” Elizabeth said.

I put my hand over my eyes. “So now that we’re stuck in the rain with a flat tire, no cell phone reception, and only sarcastic old women to help, do you think it’s okay to start panicking now?”

“Well, the rain’s easing up,” Rob said. I dropped my hand and glanced at the sky, and I did notice a few holes of sunlight piercing through the oppressive cloud cover.

A loud clank of metal drew my attention, as Elizabeth threw the last bolt into the hubcap sitting next to her. “There. Now you big strong men can help me put the tire on.”

We wrestled the spare tire into place, and Elizabeth had Rob and I take turns putting the bolts back on while she forced the dead tire into the depression in the trunk (boot). She checked the bolts, tightened all of them a little more, and I cranked the car back down to the ground. My hands were cramped and sore as I tried to put the strange jack back into the space that was suddenly too small for it. After a few minutes I managed to shove it back in, and we replaced our bags. We got back into the car. We were wet, sore, dirty, and exhausted, and just glad to be sitting down somewhere dry.

The sheep who had been watching us must have found some break or hole in the wall, and were now standing in the road watching us with the same vaguely interested stare. Rob carefully eased the car forward, and tried to get around the sheep on the right side. At that moment, a van came around the corner and stopped, blocking the other side of the road. The rain died away as we sat there and the driver of the van and the sheep stared back at us.

Rob pulled the car forward, hoping to coax the sheep into moving, but they just looked at him as if to say, “You must not be quite right in the head.” The driver of the van wouldn’t drive around us, instead smiling and motioning to us.

“He wants us to drive around him,” Rob said wearily, as if he was resigned to his day becoming even more surreal.

“Through the sheep, apparently,” Elizabeth said.

Rob tried to motion to the sheep to the driver, indicating that they can’t go around. The driver continued his smile and motioned around again.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, and I got out of the car to shoo the sheep along. The sheep shot me a look of mild contempt and started trotting away from us. The van slowly edged around us and departed as the sheep made their leisurely way in the middle of the road. Rob pulled the car up close to them, driving at five kilometers per hour. A few minutes of yelling and waving and honking the horn apparently irritated the sheep enough that they finally hopped back over the stone wall.

I sat back in the back seat and sighed. The clouds continued to break, and the rolling hills of the Dales glowed emerald in the bright sunlight. I rolled down a window, and the fresh, clean air was wonderfully fragrant with the smell of wet grass and damp earth. Elizabeth glanced back at me from the front seat. She held up her sheep keychain and pointed it at me, and gave a very stern “baah.” We all laughed until our sides ached as the car wound its way through the beautiful Yorkshire Dales. I knew then that I would never forget this trip.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Part IV

Mon, 15 May 2006 15:08:04 GMT

A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire: Part IV
Foreword, Part I, Part II, Part III

Although much of our trip that morning was not in heavily urban areas, the route to the George Inn was particularly rural. The roads were only slightly wider than a car, often with hedges or low walls of loose stone on both sides. When two cars met going in opposite directions, one had to pull off if there’s room, while the other passed by. It started to rain hard again as we approached a particularly hilly road. Another car came in the opposite direction, and Rob pulled off to the left to let the car by. The edge of the road was muddy, and our front left tire slipped into a hole sitting on the side of the road. The tire burst with a loud BANG, and we came to a halt.

Rob wrestled with the steering wheel, but the car wouldn’t move. We all got out. The rain splattered on my head and got into my eyes, but I could still see that there was a large and point rock in the hole that the tire was stuck in. The tire was split open like an exploded potato. Rob slid back into the driver’s seat to put the car in neutral, while Elizabeth and I rocked the car out of the hole. My shoes slipped on the mud, and I fell hard onto the road. “Damn it!”

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said, trying to help me up.

“Just help me get the damned car out of the hole,” I grumbled, shaking off her help and pulling myself to my feet. She muttered something under her breath, and we both went back to work, finally managing to get the car out of the hole and back down the road. Rob guided the car into a slightly wider portion of the road so that we wouldn’t block any potential traffic.

“Where’s the jack?” Elizabeth asked.

“In the boot,” Rob said from inside the car.

“The what?”

“He means the trunk,” I said, opening it.

During the course of the trip we had packed everything we were traveling with, as well as accumulated souvenirs, into the trunk (boot). By this point, it was nearly packed solid with suitcases, garment bags, shopping bags, and grocery bags full of snacks we picked up at a supermarket.

“We’re going to have to move these out of the way,” Elizabeth said.

“No shit,” I said. I could feel the mud oozing into my shoes as we stood there looking at the luggage. “Where are we going to put it? There’s no place dry around here.”

“We’ll have to put them into the car.”

“They’re already in the car,” I said sarcastically. “We need to get them out of the car to get to the jack.”

Elizabeth pushed her dripping hair out of her face and glared at me. “I meant we take them out of the trunk…”

“Boot.”

“Whatever, and put them into the back seat until we can fix the tire. That way they’ll stay dry.”

I stared at her for a moment. I was so annoyed that I hadn’t thought of it that I yanked the door to the back seat open harder than I intended to. “Hey, Rob,” I yelled as I tossed the first bag in. “Want to give us a hand?” He applauded, but after a look at Elizabeth’s face he quickly got out of the car and helped us unload the car.

The spare tire and jack were under a flap that went across the entire bottom of the trunk (boot), so we had to completely empty it to get it out. The spare tire, thankfully, was a regular tire and not an emergency tire. The jack, however, was an anemic little metal contraption that didn’t look strong enough to hold up a tire, let alone the entire car.

“That’s it?” I asked incredulously.

“That’s it,” Rob said, shivering in the rain.

“How do you work it?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Rob said.

“Well, you live here!”

“But I drive motorbikes, not motorcars. I don’t know anything about changing motorcar tires.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about it either!”

Elizabeth looked at me. “You don’t know how to change a tire?”

“No,” I said, trying to look more angry than sheepish.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Part III

Mon, 15 May 2006 15:04:10 GMT

A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire: Part III
Foreword, Part I, Part II

There were, of course, the typical gift shop offerings of metal refrigerator magnets, postcards, commemorative glasses, and gift boxes of nearly fresh butter fudge, crammed tidily into a small room full of shelves that looked like they would collapse at any moment. In the next room, however, was the cheese shop, where dozens of varieties of cheese were lined up on a glass case packed with waxed cheese wheels and thick slices wrapped in plastic. Each cheese had a small sign, a blurry little computer-printed scrap of paper with the name and price of each offering, as well as a plate with small cubes piled in a mound for sampling. They had many typical cheeses like sharp cheddar, Swiss, and of course Wensleydale, but they also had unique concoctions such as sharp Wensleydale, very sharp Wensleydale, jalapeno Wensleydale, and even blueberry Wensleydale. My stomach rumbled with the thought of our missed breakfast, and we eagerly moved down the case to sample each cheese. The cashier gave us a disapproving look as we traded remarks on the quality (or lack thereof) of each type.

Elizabeth looked out the window and pointed at a sign on another one of the buildings. “They have a museum and factory tour here.” We finished our sampling and stepped outside to walk across the lot to the museum. As soon as we stepped outside, however, the sky darkened. The rain pounced on us, making up for lost time. Our mood was growing more sour, so we went back into the shop and sampled all of the cheeses again.

The rain, lacking a suitable target for its torrent, left just as we got to the raspberry Wensleydale. Elizabeth had a half-hearted conversation with the cashier about the difficulties in transporting cheese overseas and the unlikelihood that we would spend a hundred pounds to buy an entire wheel of sharp cheddar, while Rob popped a few extra cubes of Colby into his mouth.

“Let’s just go to the museum,” I said.

The cashier turned on me, perhaps taking advantage of an opportunity to vent her frustration. “Can’t. The museum’s closed today.”

Elizabeth asked, “Why is the museum closed?”

“Because we’re not producing cheese today,” the cashier responded matter-of-factly.

I paused for a moment, trying to make sense of this comment. Failing, I was forced to ask, “Why is the museum closed because you’re not producing cheese today?”

The cashier had apparently figured out that we were Americans, and therefore stupid. She turned to Rob with the air of explaining something simple to a foreigner’s translator, or perhaps the father of retarded children, and told him that the museum was in the same building as the tour and the production facilities, and since there was no on in there to make the cheese, there was also no one there to open the museum. The room fell uncomfortably silent, and Elizabeth decided to buy a couple of boxes of butter fudge as a peace offering, explaining that we could give them as a thank you gift to our friends who were watching our pets back home. She made her purchase and said good-bye to the cashier and the chicken before making our hasty departure.

“Where to next?” Rob asked.

“I could do with a pint,” Elizabeth said, before sneezing again.

“And some lunch,” I added.

“I know just the place,” Rob said. “There’s this great pub called the George Inn in Hubberholme. It’s a tiny little village deep in the Dales, but not too far from our route to Edinburgh.”

“Lead on, MacDuff,” I said.

“Actually, it’s ‘lay on, MacDuff,’” Elizabeth said.

I shot her a nasty look, and she blew me a kiss as we got back into the car.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Part II

Sat, 13 May 2006 16:29:07 GMT

A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire: Part II
Foreword, Part I

We stayed in London for a week before heading up to Doncaster in South Yorkshire on Sunday. Rob had called ahead and told Dennis about our plans. Dennis liked the idea of the excursion, so he agreed to let us stay. All he asked was that we take dinner with him (which usually consisted of tea, wine, and Indian take-out that was so spicy that my mouth was numb for a few hours after) and drop Dennis off at the railway station when he went into work on Tuesday before we headed on through the Dakes to Edinburgh, Scotland. Dennis was a very entertaining and accommodating host, only mocking our American ignorance a few times a day.

On Monday Dennis showed us around Yorkshire. We explored Conisbrough Castle, Brodsworth Hall and Gardens, Roche Abbey, and the Fitzwilliam/Harrington Estate. Every place was enjoyable and entertaining as we listened to Dennis make up the history of each place while Rob took dozens of pictures with his digital camera. There were very few visitors at each location, because of the relentless rain that leapt at us every time we stepped out of the car or a building.

That night we had another spicy Indian dinner while we each got out of our wet clothes and took turns toweling off. Rob couldn’t figure out the alarm clock in the guest room, so he set his cell phone to go off at 6am, which would get us up, showered, fed, and out the door in plenty of time for Dennis to make his 7:45 train at the station. I kissed Elizabeth good night, and snugged next to her, pleasantly drifting off to sleep.

The next thing I knew, Rob was yelling at us to get up. I glanced at the clock, which read 6:40. I think I was still asleep as my body jolted out of bed and threw on clothes while Elizabeth helped Rob pack. We quickly got our things into the back of the Focus. We didn’t have time to shower, and if Dennis hadn’t woken up an hour earlier and had coffee ready for us, we probably wouldn’t have had time for that either. Rob and Elizabeth looked miserable, but in my stupor I was only aware of the growing need to get Dennis to his train by 7:45.

“We need to go,” I said, forcing myself to swallow the coffee as it burned my throat.

“We’re fine,” Rob mumbled, his face buried in his arms on the kitchen table.

“It’s nearly 7:15,” I said.

“How far is it to the train station from here?” Elizabeth asked quietly.

“About twenty minutes,” Dennis said.

My tongue screamed in torment of the abuse I gave it, between the Indian take-out dinners and the boiling hot coffee. My head felt like a lead balloon, too heavy to hold up but full of a strangely buoyant gas. “We need to go,” I said again.

“We’re nearly ready,” Elizabeth said, not moving. She held her coffee tightly in her hands, as if she could extract the caffeine directly through the mug into her hands.

“I’ll just lie in the back seat,” Rob moaned.

“You’re the driver,” I said. “You can’t get us there from the back seat.”

“It’s okay. I’ll give directions.”

“We’re getting ready,” Elizabeth said, still staring at her mug.

Dennis watched the conversation with amusement. He finished his coffee and walked over to one of the cabinets. “Want something for your head?” he asked.

Elizabeth sneezed suddenly. “I think I have a cold.”

Now that she mentioned it, I was feeling stuffy too. All of the rain from our previous excursions must have given us colds. What a fantastic way to start the day. Dennis got us all some odd cold medicine packets that looked like tea bags. He told us to steep them in some hot water when we had a moment to get some. We thanked him, and Rob drove us rather unsteadily to the railway station. We dropped Dennis off, giving him a full five minutes to find, pay for, and board his train. We exchanged hasty good-byes, and Dennis ran into the station.

Our immediate time concern alleviated, Elizabeth pulled out the map to navigate the next phase of our trip. Rob had a particular fondness for a local brewery called Black Sheep Brewery. It was in Masham, a small town an hour or so from Doncaster and not too far out of our way. A brewery tour sounded interesting, so Elizabeth plotted a route while Rob drove on. The rain toyed around with our visibility, but not too badly – it only caused Rob to miss turnoffs a couple of times before we arrived at the brewery. The rain went to play somewhere else as we got out of the car at 9:30.

Rob took a picture of Elizabeth and I standing on the ramp that led up to the front door. Huge vats loomed over us as we entered through the visitor’s entrance. Inside there was a clean-looking restaurant that served nice, hot English breakfasts and cool, rich Black Sheep ale, or it would have had it been open. Off to our left was the kiosk for the start of the brewery tour, tastefully displaying a sign that explained that the first tour would start at 2pm, and apologized for our inconvenience. The aptly name Sheepy Shop to our right was actually open, and had a cornucopia of sheep-related merchandise for our consideration. We entered and looked for mementos.
“Five pounds for a bottle of ale?” I said as I looked at the collection of souvenir bottles of ale.

“For five quid we can get a more ale than that,” Rob noted. “And from a tap as well.”

“Mike, they have little sheep keychains over here, made with real wool!” Elizabeth showed me the keychain, a blob of wool stuck on a wooden head and legs with a metal chain attached to it.

“Go ahead and get it, as long as you don’t have to take out a loan,” I said.

“I’ll get one for you as well,” she said, turning back to the display.

“Isn’t it a bit strange to buy keepsakes for a place you didn’t really get to see?” Rob asked me.

“Well, we can stay here for four and a half hours until the tour starts.”

Rob shook his head. “I like Black Sheep ale, but not that much.”

Elizabeth came back with her keychains. “Maybe we can see if they’ll have some hot water for our medicine.”

They did. We paid for our collectables and sat at one of the restaurant’s empty tables, drinking the cold medicine that tasted like warm bitter lemonade while I fought with my keys to get the little blob of wool attached. Elizabeth and Rob looked at the map to plan our next visit, the Wensleydale Creamery in Hawes where they make Wensleydale cheese. The creamery was made up of a number of old buildings tucked away in between some hills, and it looked abandoned as we approached it. After we pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car, we were met by the Wensleydale Creamery Welcoming Committee – a lone chicken wandering around, scratching and clucking quietly to itself as it splashed around on the gravel lot.

“Hello, Mr. Chicken,” Elizabeth said, leaning over to get a better look at him. “How are you today?”

“He’s certainly not constipated,” Rob said. “I think he just went on Mike’s shoe.”

I carefully stepped aside and tried to scrape my shoe clean on one of the parking blocks while Rob looked around. “I think there’s a gift shop over there,” he said.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Part I

Fri, 12 May 2006 19:35:03 GMT

A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire: Part I
Foreword

I’ve never changed a tire, and certainly not in a foreign country. I watched Elizabeth struggle with the bolts on the tire as a couple of sheep watched me watching her. The cold rain dripped off of her red hair and splattered on the rocky, earthy road. Her toned arms struggled with the wrench, while behind her acres of green stretched off into the horizon. Our friend Rob shifted from foot to foot, and my mind went over the events that led to me standing stranded in the middle of Yorkshire.

It was all Elizabeth’s idea, of course. When we met I mentioned to her that my mother was born in England and that I had always wanted to go. Even though our money was tight, she worked hard to make sure we could save enough to go to the UK for our honeymoon, and we both absolutely fell in love with it. It was during that trip that we met Rob. We were at a science-fiction convention in Manchester, and we met him over stacks of vintage X-Men and Judge Dredd comics as he was telling the booth volunteer about the problems he was having with his motorbike. He was a little shorter than me, but we both had long curly brown hair, and sometimes Elizabeth confused us from behind. He had a comfortably thick northern accent, which can get a little hard to understand after a few drinks, as we discovered in the pub later that evening.

“You should come visit my homeland,” he muttered before taking another gulp of ale.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Well, I currently live in Birmingham, but I’m a Yorkshireman deep down. Yorkshire is beautiful country, especially the Dales.”

“The Dales?” Elizabeth asked.

“Aye. The Dales are lovely green open valleys in North and West Yorkshire. If you don’t mind the sheep and the cattle, it’s beautiful country. I have a mate named Dennis who has a flat up there.”

“Flat?” Elizabeth said.

“An apartment,” I said, before turning to Rob. “It sounds amazing. Unfortunately, we already have the rest of our honeymoon planned in London.”

“Of course, of course. You have plans. Don’t expect you to drop everything and head to Yorkshire.”

Elizabeth smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “We’ll just have to come back, won’t we, Mike? We can plan another trip, and Rob can spend a few days showing us all around Yorkshire.”

“Now that’s a cunning plan,” Rob said. He held his half-empty glass of ale up in the air. “To Yorkshire.”

I clinked my glass to his. “To Yorkshire,” we echoed.

As the glow of the honeymoon wore off and we started to grow comfortable with each other, Elizabeth and I began to build our future together. We bought a house and a car, we paid off debts and invested wisely, and through it all Elizabeth never lost hold of the idea of going back to the UK for a return trip.

We kept in touch with Rob. Once in a while he would call us on the phone stone drunk and tell us that we were his pet Americans. It was always from a pub at some unreasonable hour, but through the magic of time zone changes it always managed to be shortly after dinner for us. The rest of the time we traded emails and instant messages which were slightly more sober.

Elizabeth saved money here and there, and a few months ago she surprised me with two round-trip tickets. When we told Rob the news he was very excited, and all of us planned thirteen days of travel over England and Scotland – including, of course, a few days to explore Yorkshire, and an afternoon in the Dales.

After a long and tedious transatlantic flight, we were met by Rob and rented a gold Ford Focus. Although Rob mainly rode motorbikes, he did have an automobile driver’s license that he hadn’t used in years. Still, that meant he had more experience driving in England than we did, and he was elected the driver for the trip. After Rob ran the wheels off of the road a couple of times and sorted out that the driver needed to be closer to the right side of the lane when he’s driving instead of in the center like on a motorbike, things went pretty smoothly.

[Fiction] A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire, Foreword

Thu, 11 May 2006 15:06:27 GMT

My third and final story in class was a fictionalized memoir of a humorous (though not at the time) experience I had in Yorkshire. The story is titled "A Sheepish Trip to Yorkshire." I just got it back from my professor, and he thought it was very good (although not a proper story per se, which I agreed with). The clean-up suggestions he had were actually very few. While I still need to hammer on it to make it more of a proper story for eventually publication, I've had a few (well, two) requests to read it, so I'll be publishing it in installments in my LJ. Feedback of any sort is always appreciated!

[Microfiction] Glass

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 16:25:06 GMT

"Come on, let's go out."

She tugged on his arm playfully, but he yanked it back and continued typing on his keyboard. "No. I'm busy."

"You're always busy," she pouted. "You're always writing."

"Yes. That's because I'm a writer. Writers write. Pretty self-evident."

"But you don't have to write all of the time."

He stopped, and looked up at her. "Why not?"

"Aren't writers supposed to be writing about life? How can you know anything about life if you're always stuck in front of your computer writing about it?"

He stood up, his posture suddenly tight as he stared at her. "Is that it? You think I just go out, live life, and then come back and dump it into my computer and sell it for a million dollars? Is that all it is to you?"

She took a step back, blinking at this sudden anger. "What did I say?" she asked, her voice just covering a stammer.

"You make it sound so easy," he snarled, his hands waving in the air like vultures coming to roost. "I don't write to talk about my life. I write to tell the lives of everyone around me, because I have no life of my own. I'm in a glass box, able to see everything around me but unable to touch any of it. I take it all in and put it somewhere, hoping that maybe by writing it all down and taking control of it that I might feel something, sense something, experience something that I can call my own."

"But what about your friends, or your family? What about them?" She looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "What about me?" she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper.

His shoulders relaxed as he slumped back into his chair, his eyes tracing patterns on the floor in front of him. "Some people can get very close to the box," he said. His voice trailed off, other possibilities unspoken.

She reached forward and grabbed his hand, clenching it tightly in hers. "There is no damned box. I'm right here, touching you now, holding you. Can't you feel me?"

He just chuckled sadly at her, and she let his hand drop. "That is the box. The real me in inside, separated from everything."

It was her turn to grow stiff, tense, her voice razor-sharp glass as she flung it at him. "So that's your excuse? You're going to sit there and mope and whine about how no one loves you when someone is sitting right here, wanting everything for you?"

"No." His voice was a blow, sending shards of glass everywhere. "You assume that I want to be in the box, that I want to be outside. I don't have a choice. This is how I am. I'm an alien in my own skin, an audience member when I want to be on stage, a foreigner that wants so badly to get rid of his accent. But I don't understand you, any of you, any of this race called humanity. That's why I pick scraps up and put them there." He pointed as the screen. "I put it all together, and try to make sense of it. I sit and I hope that maybe it will all make sense there."

"Maybe you should look here instead," she said, pointing at his chest.

They stared at each other for a while, both of them bleeding from their words like shards of glass buried in the skin.

Author's Note: First draft, but I'm not looking for comments; this is just free-writing, but some people seem to like these rough little scenes, so I'll keep posting them. Don't look too closely into it, because it's just me getting some thoughts out of my head. It's not like "he" or "she" refer to specific people or anything.

[Fiction] Tales of the City: Prologue

Thu, 17 Nov 2005 00:46:02 GMT

Feathery snowflakes fell and melted into her golden hair as we held each other. Time became muffled under snow and ice. Her arms squeezed me tightly as she buried her face in my chest. Her face was wet as I held her to me, assuring myself of her reality, clinging to something I didn't understand but was so afraid to lose. A second, an hour, a lifetime passed by as we held each other, no other words needed but simple human contact.

I felt her stir, and I looked down into her eyes. Her electric-blue gaze slammed into my mind. I leaned forward just as she did and our lips connected, completing the circuit started in her eyes. Soft passion flowed through me as I felt her hands inside my coat, her nails gently raking my back as our lips flowed over each other and melting snow slid down my face, masking my tears.

Three shots cracked in the darkness. Warm life splashed over my face as I felt my leg buckle. I fell to the frozen street, banging my head on the car parked behind me. I screamed her name as I drowned in a sea of darkness. Frozen pricks dotted my tongue as I called her over and over again, struggling to keep my eyes open.

As the freezing void drug me down, the last thing I saw was her lying on the ground, her dead eyes staring at me as gritty, sticky blood oozed under my hands.

Author's Note: Decided to get a scene out that was lurking in my head. This is background to events in my eventual Midway City story. Revised 11/18.

[Microfiction] Phillip the Duck

Wed, 10 Aug 2005 15:12:37 GMT

Dedication: There are a few people in my life who have felt like ducks recently. This is for all of them.

Once upon a time, there was a duck. This was not a particularly unusual occurrence, since there have been ducks before this time and ducks after, but most ducks like to talk to other ducks, and ducks all sound much like one another in duck-talk.

This particular duck, however, liked to watch the other animals. Phillip, for that was what the other ducks called him, was fascinated by things with no wings or no bills or an abundance of sharp white things in their mouths. He studied how they completely failed at such simple things like flying and swimming in water, but were able to do impossible tasks like holding a fish or walking around without feathers.

One day, Phillip decided that he was going to talk to one of the other animals. He decided to start with one that looked somewhat like him. "What are you?" he asked the very pretty almost-duck animal.

"I am a swan," she replied. "And you are a very loud and abrasive duck."

"I speak as I am," said Phillip. "The other ducks don't mind how I talk."

"Then you should go back to your duck friends," the swan said. "Your loud speech is offensive to my ears." With that, the swan swam off, her nose in the air.

Phillip was sad, but refused to give up. He decided to try an animal a little less duck-like, to see if they would talk to him. He found a small furry animal, and waddled up to it, remembering the conversation with the swan. "You are very small," he said to the small animal, trying to be as quiet and non-quacky as he could.

"YAAAH!" the animal screamed. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, but you are very small and I want to know why you are so small and have no feathers."

"I'm a mouse!" he squeaked. "I can't help it if I'm small! Why are you holding it against me?"

"I'm not," Phillip said, confused. "We ducks just mention what we see, and I see that you have no wings and no feathers. How do you fly?"

"I can't fly! Just because I can't fly doesn't mean you have to rub it in! Why don't you just go away and harass someone else?"

"But I didn't mean..."

"Just go away, you unfriendly duck!" the mouse shrieked, and scampered off.

Phillip was well and truly depressed by now, and sat down next to the river. He cried big duck tears because no one wanted to talk to a loud, unfriendly duck. After a while, a big brown animal noticed Phillip crying, and he slowly sat down next to it. "Why are you crying, little duck?" he asked.

Phillip looked up at the large animal, and was a little afraid. Remembering his conversations with the swan and the mouse, he carefully asked in a very small voice, "May I ask who you are, sir?"

"I am a bear," he said, "and you do not sound like any duck I have heard before."

Phillip wiped his bill with his wing. "I am trying to be quiet because the swan thinks I am too loud, and I am trying to be nice because the mouse says I am too offensive. I just want people to like me, but people don't seem to like ducks very much."

The bear looked at his paw, and then at the duck. "That is a shame. I like talking to ducks. Their quacks are very funny, and make me happy, and when I talk to one, they are always willing to tell me what they think. Other animals confuse me when they try to pretend to be nice, but I don't have to worry about what a duck thinks. Do you know where I can talk to some ducks that act more like ducks and less like swans and mice?"

And then, Phillip understood.

Agent Patriot Library Online

Sat, 14 May 2005 16:46:26 GMT

It all started with me making a quick PDF of "One Patriot Too Many" last night for naamaire to read. And then... well, my muse went a little crazy.

THE AGENT PATRIOT LIBRARY
For people who have no idea what this "Agent Patriot" business is, this is probably the best place to start.

The first three complete stories of Agent Patriot (from xiombarg) are up in PDF format. I tried to get it to look a little like a pulp magazine. I also did a quick spellcheck and grammer check on each story (because I know it's rough getting that right when you're dashing it out on LJ). I've also put the Creative Commons legal information in each story, and posted the first four parts of "One Patriot Too Many" for anyone else who has trouble reading it on my LJ. As I hear of more completed AP stories, I'll PDF those as well. If people want to contribute art to these stories, let me know. The number scheme is fairly arbitrary in the order that the stories came out, with the digression that "The Blood Queen" has to thematically take place after "Ghost of Genius" and "One Patriot Too Many" - hence why it's numbered before the almost-complete "The Dark Infection".

Anyhow, enjoy.

2009 Edit. That website is down. The best collection right now of the Agent Patriot fiction is here: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=xiombarg&keyword=patriot&filter=all

[Microfiction] Agent Patriot: One Patriot Too Many (Revised)

Fri, 13 May 2005 20:10:57 GMT

I've slightly rewritten "One Patriot Too Many", Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV.

Feel free to reacquint yourself with the story while I work on the new parts. :)

[Microfiction] Roller Coaster

Wed, 04 May 2005 13:14:11 GMT

The car slowly climbs up the hill. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.

At the top of the hill, there's that pause. Your stomach is jelly, and you can see for miles. Anxiety and exhilaration collide in your brain. You feel weightless, calm, peaceful.

And then, before you know it, you drop like a rock. WHOOSH. You're going face first towards the ground at a million miles an hour. OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.

You slam back into your seat as the car twists and rockets up and away from a demise you know was never possible but your instincts are still screaming over. The car rattle rattle rattles against the track. You've been saved, reprieved, but you can still see miles of track ahead of you. The next hill climbs in front of your eyes.

The car twists away violently, unexpectedly. You can feel your teeth chatter as your body lurches against your restraints, unable to predict anymore which way you will fall. You are powerless, helpless against this beast of metal and gravity. You can feel yourself start to panic. Don't scream don't scream don't scream don't scream.

And then you're on the hill. You can feel the adrenaline turn to sludge in your body as the car slowly coasts up. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick.

Again you hurtle towards the ground. WHOOSH. Maybe it's because this hill isn't as high, or your mind is just overwhelmed from the experience, but you barely see the green blur rising towards you. You notice your hands gripping onto the bar in front of you, but it doesn't seem real anymore.

The car jerks to the other side, and you slam against your friend next to you. THUMP. He smiles and gives you a quick thumbs up, his eyes wild with excitement.

Then you feel yourself jerk forward, rising suddenly, and the ride is over. The car coasts to a slow, gentle stop in the station. The brakes hissssssss, and the restraint that you were so thankful for a moment ago digs into your chest. You scramble to unlatch it and pull yourself out of the cramped car.

Your body tingles. Your mind spins. Your balance is shot. Your stomach is queasy. You spend a moment trying to remember what solid ground feels like under your feet instead of in front of your face.

But it was all worth it.

[Microfiction] Perfect Stranger

Tue, 12 Apr 2005 12:11:24 GMT

I looked at myself in the mirror. She stood behind me and smiled, playing with my hair. "You're perfect," she whispered.

"Perfect?" I glanced at her, and then went back to looking at myself.

He nodded slightly. "Your hair, your skin, your eyes... even the sound of your breathing is perfect. No one will ever know that you're not human."

My eyes flicked over to her again, watching her mouth shape the words, and then flicked back. I stared into my own eyes, looking for something there. "I will always know," I said to myself, and felt the heavy burden of being alone.

[Microfiction] Shadow of a Ghost

Sun, 20 Mar 2005 08:05:03 GMT

I touch your lips from a glassy distance.
I feel your warmth, a hot breeze to the distant horizon.
I run my hands over your face before it fades from my fingertips.

Your scent lingers in my nose, purple perfume fading to black.
Your soft whispers echo broken promises of forever in my scarred ears.
Your eyes close as a single tear falls, but they never look at my soul again.

You are the shadow of a ghost, and only your dim memory keeps me company.

Author's Note: Another late night inspiration.

[Microfiction] I contain multitudes

Fri, 04 Mar 2005 05:00:13 GMT

My mind spins.

Is it my mind? I have a mind to choose my own mind. But my mind is not my own. The slightest comment, the merest scent, the faintest touch sends it off into unknown depths. I (me) follow behind as I (he) race off on a new world that you (me) set before me.

I feel what you feel. Is it my feeling? Property is theft. Your every thought washes over me unbidden, and I'm dragged back into the pool. I (he) run forward, and you (me) pull back.

I ramble - I gibber - I speak in riddles with the answer key torn out. I can't make sense, because I don't know what sense is driving. You are what you have made me to be. I am the master of my own destiny, with your permission.

I am a soldier, the weight of the world on my shoulders. These shoulders shift but they won't break. Who am I holding this world for? If not for you, then for me. If not for me, then for the faith that I am who you think I am.

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.).

Note: I don't understand it either - not yet. That doesn't make the need to get it out of my fucking head any less pressing. I sleep now.

[Microfiction] Eyes

Sun, 30 Jan 2005 07:41:27 GMT

Have you ever noticed that someone doesn't seem real until you look into their eyes?

Words on a screen, reflected in my mind.

Words on the phone, echoing in my ears.

Words are what we use to communicate. An exchange in symbols. Thoughts encoded, thrown across the void, and decoded by another. A soul separated by physical distance, but not by mental space.

When I look into your eyes, the symbols melt away. Our thoughts touch directly through the windows of the soul. It's cliche, yes, but things become cliche because they have power behind them - a clarity of purpose that we find appealing. I look into your eyes, and I know you are there with me.

The feel of your skin, the warmth of your embrace, the scent of your breath. These are sensual pleasures that I enjoy and even crave. But the feel, the touch, the scent of your mind is a reassuring weight that lingers in my heart. Friend, enemy, lover, stranger - one look is all I need to feel your reality.

Different eyes touch me in different ways. Warm brown eyes that twinkle with passion and warmth. Ice blue eyes that hold me and send shivers down my spine. Pale green eyes that caress me with a mercurial touch. Soft gray eyes that carry the weight of the world.

I look at you with my eyes. Do you see me? Do you know I'm real?

Author's Note: I should be asleep. However, a drive home with nothing but my thoughts planted this in my head, and I can't go to sleep until I put it down.

[Microfiction] The War Begins

Wed, 17 Nov 2004 15:12:31 GMT

Admiral Anthropoid sat with his feet propped up on his desk, idly bouncing a pencil between his toes. Most of the paperwork for the Monkey Army battle plans was in order, but he wasn't sure how to word his latest report. He had finished all of the boring logistical sub-reports (including mention of a distinct lack of uranium for the inter-dimensional poo cannons, as well as an outage of dried banana rations), but hadn't figured out how to explain the latest twist in the ongoing war with their natural enemies. Sighing, he turned the pencil around and continued to write, while he put his hands behind his head.

We have also had extensive negotiations with two other armies, and 
have agreed to put our differences aside for the short-term goal of 
dealing with our common enemy.

Lieutenant Lemur entered the tent, vibrating slightly, and snapped off an extremely fast salute. "SIR! THE REPRESENTATIVES FROM THE PIRATES AND NINJAS ARE HERE TO MEET WITH YOU, SIR!"

Anthropoid dropped the pencil and got to his feet. "Very good, Lemur. Go ahead and burn off that nervous energy. I think there are some trees behind the provisions tent."

"THANK YOU, SIR!" Lemur shot off, as Anthropoid ambled behind with his lazy gait.

Outside the tent were hordes of soldiers. The Monkey troops were chatting, smoking, and screeching at each other. One soldier walked by, covered head to toe in poo. He gave a sad salute to Anthropoid and walked past, heading for the showers. Anthropoid made a mental note to tell Lemur that the troops weren't supposed to be fighting within the camp, even if they were only using their natural weaponry.

However, there was a different note to the usual noise before a major battle. The occasional cry of "Avast!" and the smell of rum reached Anthropoid's keen senses. Black eye patches, gold earrings, and green parrots seemed to be more prominent as well. Anthropoid winded his way between the tents, noticing that the usual dice games seemed to be played for gold coins instead of rations.

He made his way to the docks, where a number of huge wooden ships were anchored. Standing on the docks were a number of Pirates, surrounding a shorter man with a huge red beard. Anthropoid made his way to the bearded man, and offered his foot in greeting. "I am Admiral Anthropoid of the Monkey Army."

The red-bearded pirate looked at the foot for a long moment, and then carefully shook it with his hand. "I be Captain Posey of the Pirate Armada, but ye can be callin' me 'Red'."

Anthropoid dropped his foot, and looked around. "Where are the Ninja troops?"

He heard a small cough behind him, and turned around to see a short man dressed completely in black standing behind him, although there was no one there previously. In his hands was a wrapped brown paper bag with the words "Ninja Burger" written on the side. The man in black bowed, and offered the bag to Anthropoid. "We are here, most honorable Admiral. We offer this gift so that you may be strong in the coming battle."

Anthropoid carefully looked over the man, and then accepted the bag, trying not to notice the grease stain growing on the bottom. "Thank you. Where are your troops?"

The man in black looked at Anthropoid. The only visible expression was a slight crinkling of the eyes, which Anthropoid took as confusion. "They are present, most wise Admiral."

"But I can't see them!" Anthropoid shouted. He fought back the urge to fling poo at the annoying ninja - this was a delicate diplomatic situation. The ninja, however, simply bowed. From all over the camp, black-covered men appeared. They appeared out of trees and out of tents. They came up from under rocks and grass. They appeared behind pirates and monkeys. They jumped off of the ship and crawled out from under the dock. One even managed to appear in the coat of one of the pirates, and handed the pirate his wallet back after dusting himself off.

Anthropoid nodded. "Excellent. Now that we are all here, we can..." A shadow covering the camp cut short his words. He looked up, and everyone else in the camp followed his gaze. The sky was covered in shiny metallic forms. Boxes, curves, and spheres blocked out the sun, and the smell of ozone filled the air.

The Robot Invasion had begun.

Author's Note: Between the continuing insanity in learsfool and mr_sarcasm's journals, the regular brainwashing from the Order of the Deceased Simian (a la monkeegoth), and my personal appreciation of the Monkey, Ninja, Pirate, Robot game suite, I suppose this was inevitable. If my math is correct, there's actually four inside jokes in here, outside of the usual pop culture archetypes.

[Microfiction] I Can Read Your Mind

Mon, 01 Nov 2004 22:24:10 GMT

He sat at the table and sipped his tea. "How long have we been friends now? Five years? Six?"

She pushed her hair behind her ear, her feet curled up under her in the seat next to his. "It seems like we've known each other forever."

He nodded, and set his cup down. "You're right. I mean, sometimes it feels like I know you so well that I can read your mind."

"Really?" Her lips twitched into that half-smirk he knows - something wicked was on her mind.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled ATM receipt and a pencil. Blocking her view with his hand, he jotted something down on the receipt and folded it in half, sticking it under his tea cup. "Go ahead - tell me something."

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, her breath a soft summer breeze. "I love you."

He handed her the receipt, which she unfolded and read.

I love you, too.

[Microfiction] Sparkle Brightly

Sun, 31 Oct 2004 22:34:48 GMT

I looked down at her, my contempt barely hidden from my expression. "You don't interest me anymore."

Her eyes were full of tears, but her voice was broken glass. "You've been chasing after me for years. You kept telling me that you loved me. Now I'm here for you, utterly and completely, and you say that to me?"

I put my hand on her shoulder, but she slapped it away before the warmth of her skin could even register. "You were wonderful when I was pursuing you. Now that I have you, your luster is gone. You sparkle more brightly in a glass case than in my hand."

She stood up and spat at my feet, her hands clenched into fists. "Then see how much I sparkle in someone else's hand."

[Microfiction] Better Than Me

Fri, 29 Oct 2004 15:47:15 GMT

When he put the gun to my head, I realized that I wasn't the best anymore.

I had told the unit commander that things were rough. There were fewer and fewer men, and time wasn't making us any younger. I was the guy who had been in the unit the longest, which meant that I got to hear all of the gripes and complaints, so I told the commander we needed some new blood to keep us focused and redistribute some of the weight.

So the commander brought him in, all hyped up like a ferret on mescaline. He was young, he was cocky, and his previous unit had been disbanded before they saw any action. ("Budget cuts," the commander grunted.) He was trained, but still raw. I took him under my wing, and the rest of the boys nicknamed him "Sparky" because of his attitude.

Sparky's first real action was a wetwork job in the Middle East. We had to disappear a guy whose name nobody could pronounce but the brass said was causing problems. Everything was going fine, until Sahib Whatthefuck's guards started pouring out of the woodwork. We were getting pushed back, when Sparky just calmly leveled his pistol and started carefully pulling the trigger. Each shot blew a guard's brains out of the back of his skull, turning the walls into a mess of twitching life. Bang - dead. Bang - dead. Bang - dead. When we had mopped up the rest, I went over to him to check on him to make sure he wasn't just dealing with shock, but he was starting at the brains on the wall with this creepy sort of half-smile. That's when he told me that he didn't need my help anymore. After we got back, the rest of the guys wanted to throw a party for Sparky. I didn't come. Something told me I wouldn't be welcome.

A few more missions, a lot of dead bad guys, and my feeling about Sparky got worse. He wasn't the same newbie full of nervous energy and smiles. There was something wrong with him, like there isn't anything living behind his eyes except when he kills. None of the rest seem to notice it, but that gleam comes out when he's shoving the barrel of his gun down a guy's throat and blowing his dinner all over the hardwood floor.

But he's just a rookie, and I'm the best in the unit. Last night, after the boys had all come back from hitting the bars with Sparky, I walked up to him and laid it on the line. I told him that I thought he was bad news, that he enjoyed his work a little too much.

"You're getting slow," he told me, that damned half-smirk on his face. "But I'll tell you what. On the count of three, draw your sidearm. Whoever can get their pistol on the other's head first gets to stay."

The fucker had me at two and a half.

So now my gear's packed up, and my transfer is in. The guys don't even look at me now as they walk by. I'm trying to tell myself that Sparky has what it takes, that the unit will do better with him instead of me. Fuck, it's my own damned fault that he's even there to begin with. He's better than me, he's younger than me, and the guys love him - I should just put my ego aside and move on. Yeah - it's better for everyone.

And maybe one night I'll stop dreaming about him holding his gun to my head and laughing at me.

[Microfiction] Drip. Drip. Drip.

Thu, 28 Oct 2004 21:14:29 GMT

My knuckles bled, the skin ripped and torn around the bones. The wall in front of me was a chaotic swirl of dark smears and tiny dents. I heard her gasp behind me as I dropped my hands to my sides, two numb lumps of flesh.

"Why?" she asked.

I turned to her, drawing myself away from the chaos. "When I feel the wall under my fist, for a moment the world is simple."

"And now?"

A drop of blood formed on my knuckle as my hands slowly came alive in a blaze of pain.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

"I need to find a bandage," I said, and walked past her.

Author's Note: Blame xiombarg. Although I still have UK Trip updates to make and Agent Patriot to write, I am bogarting his concept of "microfiction" and using it as a kind of prose poetry - very few words, a lot of emotional impact.