Nobody Calls Me Chicken

Damian is not Marty McFly, obviously. There's not much here to discuss. This scene represents the end of what one might call the second chapter (which I organize this all into an ebook), so it sort of just ties things up and sets up where we start in the next scene. It's also sort of the launching of the adventure. It's fun to begin things in a very mundane way, and make it fantastical. Perhaps I just wish my similar experiences at the Day Job resulted in adventures...

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Spineless

The hand on the clock assaulted gravity once more, pulling itself upward with a tired, trembling arm. Damian imagined he could see the hidden gears flexing like muscles beneath the smooth, white exterior. The hashes marking the passing seconds were teeth, poised to chomp down on his neck and trap him here, forever.

“I was only on the phone for a mo-” Damian blurted, stopping when his boss raised a meaty hand.

“That's not why you're here,” his boss said, fingers steepled. “I’m going to have to ask something of you.”

Damian's eyes darted around the small office, searching for an escape. If the denizens of the world were strictly divided into “fight” or “flight,” he was most assuredly a bird. Even now, Damian found himself envious of a crow taking wing outside.

A thin glass pane surrounded by wood paneling hemmed him in as effectively as any metal cage, however. The menacing fluorescent tubes above chased away all trace of friendly shadow. Behind him, the closed door might as well have been a heavy bank vault.

“Um, sir?” he stammered.

The leather executive chair protested his boss’s shifting weight. “Our customer has requested your presence in an off-site meeting.” The sentence seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. His lips smacked before he continued. “So, I'll need you to go ahead and drive yourself to the airport tomorrow night. See my secretary on your way out. She's already made arrangements.”

“Did you say tomorrow, sir?” Damian asked.

“Yes.” Jowls trembled with a nod. “The first flight we could book you on is early. You should consider yourself lucky; the ungodly hour qualifies you for an overnight stay. Hotels are not cheap.”

Damian found it easy to contain his enthusiasm. The “first” flight was likely cheapest, more than offsetting the cost of the flea-ridden hotel. Still, this was behavior he’d grown to expect from his employer. What caused Damian to frown was the implication of the stay.

“Overnight?” Damian squeaked.

His boss shrugged. “I don't make the rules. Have a nice flight.”

And then he turned around and began pounding away at his keyboard. Damian stood to leave. He had obviously been dismissed.

You already have made plans! Inigo reminded him. Tell this thing to your boss. He cannot simply expect you to be available whenever he requires it.

Yes, he can, Damian replied. That's sort of how it works.

You do not even try, Inigo said.

Fine. Damian turned back, one finger raised.

As Damian opened his mouth, the phone rang. His boss revolved and made a shooing motion.

“Hello? Yes, Sherry. Put him through.”

Damian closed his mouth. Who was he kidding? He draped himself in defeat and left.

Coward, Inigo heaped on.

I'll just have to reschedule, Damian replied. Surely, she'll understand.

She would have to, wouldn't she?

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A Memory of Story

This is a direct re-posting of the article I wrote today on my gaming blog. I think it fits both here and there for obvious reasons, and my love for the story definitely merits a double posting. So, if you're subscribed both places, I apologize for the redundancy in advance...

During the last few days, the entirety of my gaming time has been devoted to finishing a book. I finally finished late last night, having burned my candle at both ends quite a bit. Even though I don't have much to say about gaming (just waiting on 5.2 for WoW), I figured A Memory of Light was worth mentioning. Several of you are probably Wheel of Time fans as well.

I won't say too much. I know I'm probably the last one finished, but I still don't want to spoil anything for anyone. No alerts here. Just wanted to do a bit of cheering.

What an awesome series! I was introduced to the Wheel of Time series by a good friend only about 4 or so years ago. Many of you have probably been living with these stories for much, much longer. 14 books (15 if you count the Prequel), over 4 million words, almost 12,000 pages. Wikipedia tells me that the audio would run 419 hours and 30 minutes. That's a lot of story.

For folks that do not know, here's a quick intro to the series. The Wheel of Time is epic, epic fantasy. Yes, that's two epics. Long, involved, with loads of plot threads and characters, it is not for the faint of heart. Due to scope alone, it may not be for everyone, but what it does, it does well. It's not pretending to be a thriller, it is epic fantasy. There is magic. And battles. And different races. And very, very human emotions.

The first dozen books were written by Robert Jordan. Then, unfortunately (but with a slight bit of warning), he died. The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills. Obviously, Mr. Jordan wasn't able to finish the series, and fans anguished that they would never find resolution for the characters that they'd grown to love. Fortunately, the man had prepared notes. Lots and lots of notes. And Brandon Sanderson was approached (as both a fan and burgeoning fantasy author) to finish the series.

It proved a prophetic choice. I can't imagine another author doing a better job of both treasuring the story and honoring the legacy of the late Robert Jordan. These books will remain a treasured series of mine for many years, and it is not without quite a bit of sadness that I finished last night. It was not the ending, but it was an ending. And endings can be both sad and fulfilling. AMOL was both. To borrow the word of Thom Merrilin: exquisite.

To all the other WoT fans out there, /cheer. I made it. We made it. What a ride.

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.

Welcome to the Fourth Age.

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On Fire

Damian stalked with false purpose through the cubicle corridor. It was always best to convey a sense of business-like importance. Fewer questions that way. If you looked like you had things to do, then people were less likely to assail you with inane questions.

Did you watch the game last night? No. See the latest episode of… nope. What about that awards program? Nada.

You need a hobby, Inigo observed.

Shut up.

Damian ducked into the break room, phone halfway to his ear. Fortunately, the room was empty now, the coffee having been adequately dispersed amongst the peasantry. Damian’s thumb grazed the “send” button, and he pressed the speaker to his ear. For no reason in particular, Damian fought to appear casual. It was not like she would be able to see.

The phone rang. Once.

“Hello?” Her voice was like a host of heavenly bells ringing down the line and into his ear. In the break room, Damian shuffled from foot to foot and groped for something to say. He pulled at his collar. He hadn't expected Genny to answer. Not on the first try.

Isn't that what is supposed to happen when you employ a telephone? Inigo asked.

Of course, of course, Damian replied. Shut up and let me think.

The silence stretched.

I believe you should state your name.

Shut up!

“Hey, it's Damian,” he said in a rush.

“Hi, Damian,” she replied. He could hear the smile in her voice. His stomach danced.

“I, uh, just called to...” Shoot, what did I call for? “Ah. Do you want to do something sometime?”

“Sure,” she said brightly. “What did you have in mind?”

Crud, he though. He was hoping she'd have an idea.

“A movie?” he tried.

Terrible idea, Inigo said. You cannot converse at a theater. At least not freely. I would offer her cheese and wine under the moonlight on a beach.

We don't live near a beach, Damian fired back.

“Dinner?” He realized he hadn't waited for a response from his first question and blushed. Thankfully, no one was around to see it.

“Dinner and a movie, then,” she said. “When?”

“Ah.” More decisions!

Dinner generally happens in the evening, Inigo pointed out helpfully.

“The evening?” Damian parroted.

Genny giggled. “How about tomorrow? Say eight-ish? I'll text you my address so you can pick me up. Sound good?”

Sounds heavenly.

Text? Inigo asked.

Don’t worry about it, Inigo.

“Sounds wonderful,” Damian replied. Fortunately, his brain wasn't entirely broken. It churned out his next question. “Um, do you have a preference where we go?”

“Surprise me,” she purred.

Damian swallowed. Hard.

“Okay, then.” He cringed when his voice cracked, but, like a champ, he powered through it. “I'll pick you up at eight, then,” he said in a lower-than-normal voice.

She laughed, reminiscent of tinkling bells. Damian found himself smiling, as well.

“Good bye, Damian.”

“Bye.”

“Damian.”

Crap.

That last voice had not been hers, his, or Inigo's. He turned and found his boss lurking in the entryway. His stomach stopped, dropped, and rolled.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the larger man said. “My office, now.”

The smile slid off Damian’s stupid face.

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Scene Intro - Busted

I think I originally called today's scene "busted," so I went with something different today. "On Fire" is because I like my stop, drop, and roll quip near the end. If you find puns in my writing, at least 75% of the time they are intentional. Promise. I'm a sucker for cheesy puns.

I wonder if any other writers have the problem where someone picks out something you did, and you didn't even realize you'd done it. Like, "Wow, you did x and y and it was amazing." It's great when that is intentional and someone picks up on it, but almost as often it seems accidental. Do you just play it off? "Yeah, I mean to do that." Or admit that you stumbled into talent? Perhaps that's why so many writers crave approval. Half the time we're just bumbling through things.

Though, I will give some credit that, with any art, not being cognizant of something does not mean that you didn't do it intentionally. A lot of times when doing artistic stuff, the subconscious mind can assert itself in unforeseen ways. That's sort of the fun of it, right?

So, yeah, the rest of this scene was simply written by me rolling my face across my keyboard. Complete luck. Didn't plan any of it. Except for the pun. It was a planned pun. A plun.

Nailed it.

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All Work And No Play

Damian blinked and the world dimmed. He swore he could hear the clack of his eyelids closing. As they fought back up, fluorescent light lanced his eyeballs. It felt as if someone had spooned sand into his irises. Fridays were usually like this, especially when one visited a bar the night before.

The world returned to full speed once Damian's orbs were fully exposed. He ground a palm into each socket, hoping in vain to massage himself into wakefulness.  The clock on his computer read 3:01 PM. Two hours to go.

A pungent smell frolicked above the cubicles. Coffee. Of course there was coffee. The steaming black liquid was the lifeblood of engineers. It didn't matter the time of day; there was always a pot on. A terrible, horrible, exceedingly cheap pot. That is, unless you were friends with the guy on the third floor that ground his own beans and kept a spare brewer under his desk. Unfortunately, Damian was subjected to the free stuff.

It free for a reason.

Even so, the smell drew Damian to his feet. He periscoped above the cube walls like a rabbit sniffing the breeze, wary of hawks. Other heads popped up, swiveling. Should two rabbits happen to meet eyes, they would quickly look away as if ashamed at being caught contemplating something other than work.

Ben laughed loudly, oblivious, probably watching another video online. The noise startled Damian into action. He grabbed his brown-stained, handle-free mug, a streak of white plaster down its side, and went off in search of the watering hole.

The oasis was populated by animals of all sizes, jockeying for superiority. Rhino and giraffe stared each other down–or up as the case may be–and then back at the black wellspring. Elephant hefted a handful of creamers that could be flung at Zebra's face, should it become possible to advance his turn. Hyena cackled off to one side with Wildebeest. When Lion rounded the corner, mane resplendent in its dignified perfection, Gophers at his heels, each animal stepped aside. One does not bite the hand that feeds, especially on the wild office savanna.

Damian waited his turn. A second pot was put on. More beans sacrificed to the engineering gods. More perfectly good water dirtied.

The paper in his pocket twitched. Paper couldn't do that, of course, but Damian would have testified to it, hand on the Bible. His fingers found the napkin, folded in a small, neat square. He watched the drip, drip, drip of the coffee. Most of the animals around him were ones that had been too tired, too lame to chase down the first pot. In their sullen company, Damian wanted to scream.

Do it, Inigo urged. Unleash the beast.

Damian turned and fled back to his desk. He would return to the pot a bit later. It was... that had only taken seven minutes? It had felt longer. Time skewed on the savanna.

The paper twitched again. Damian freed it from his pocket and spread it out lovingly in the open space before his keyboard. The number was hastily scrawled in pen. He consulted the memory for the thousandth time. Chills danced along his spine. His stomach did a flip.

The digits burned into his mind, couching themselves deep within the delicate folds of his brain. For a while, he just stared. Should he call? He took out his cell phone and dragged his thumb across the screen, opening it. No bars.

He held the phone up. No bars.

He spun in a circle. No bars.

That device of yours usually seems to perform better near the break room, Inigo suggested.

Damian had been known to make calls from the break room. Usually to his mother. He stood up, gazing once more over the cubes. The animals seemed to have returned to their pens. The Lion was nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was coffee time, now. Surely, there would be some left. If not, he could always put on another pot, maybe make a call while it was brewing. He had time to kill; it wasn't even four yet.

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Chapter 2 - Intro

Today's scene would be the start of the second section. Call it a chapter if you wish. Very obviously, this is the next day after Damian gets Genny's number at the bar. It is also Friday. Like today.

I don't think this scene bears any relation to any of my real-life experiences. Not at all.

(Yes, that is sarcasm).

Is it 5pm yet? C'mon weekend!

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Damian Tutone

You should have asked if you could write her, Inigo admonished.

Write her? How about get her number? Damian glanced over his shoulder at the bar retreating in the gloom.

Yes, so you may telephone her. Sometimes I am forgetting of modern conveniences.

Damian shook his head. No, that's not my style.

I can feel the untruth of those words, Damian. You are simply scared, Inigo said.

There was no point in lying to an entity already in your head. Of course I'm scared. You saw her, Inigo. She is way out of my league.

A league? Inigo asked. Of gentlemen?

Extraordinary. Damian chuckled to himself.

I’m afraid I do not understand.

Damian sighed. Yes, Inigo. Out of my league. As in, she is far too attractive for me.

Damian checked to make sure that he had replaced his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. After spending more than enough on drinks – delivered swiftly and with a radiant smile – he'd tossed a pair twenties on the bar and left. The night had raised his spirits somewhat, and so, in that regard, he supposed it had been a success.

Ah, but you are intelligent and possessing of a well-paying job, no? Even in my time did money entice pretty women, Inigo said. It cannot be much different in these days.

No, I guess you're right, but… she's not like that, Inigo.

And you know this how?

I don't know, she just... I can tell. Damian shoved his hands into his pockets.

It sounds to me like you are making excuses. I could not help but notice the amount that she smiled upon you.

She was working. It’s her job to be friendly in addition to serving the beer. Damian frowned. Had she really smiled at him more than the other patrons? Just let it go, Inigo.

As you wish, Damian.

“Damian.”

The voice said his name at the same moment as Inigo. It took Damian a moment to ascertain that it hadn't been in his head as well. He froze a few steps later with one foot in the air.

“Damian,” Genny said again, the patter of her boots closing.

Damian's heart hammered against his chest as he turned. He swallowed once as he drank her in. Even in the unflattering orange of the parking lot lights, she was radiant. He struggled to remember that he could speak.

“Yes?”

Genny smiled, closing the last few steps between them. Her chest heaved and Damian tried not to stare.

“I'm sorry to chase you but… I just…” She bit her lip.

Damian envied the tooth. They stood there. Crickets chirped nearby. A truck passed on the distant highway.

Genny shook her head, and the beautiful curls bounced. “Here.” She had a napkin in her hand.

“Did I spill something?” Damian looked about in a panic. Why am I such a klutz?

Genny giggled. “It's my number.” She pressed the paper into his hand.

Damian was stunned.

“Call me sometime,” she suggested.

Damian plumbed the depths of his willpower for a nod.

Genny turned and walked back to the bar. Damian stared openly. She was so... smooth.

It took the door swinging shut to release Damian from his trance. He held the napkin in his hand up to the light. Sure enough, there was a number scrawled on it.

He resisted the urge to pump a fist high in the air.

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Scene Intro - Damian Gets a Number

This scene is pretty simple. Genny follows Damian out into the parking lot to give him her number. What guy doesn't like being chased by a beautiful

I added the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen joke during the edit. What can I say? I'm fond of both cheesy puns and that movie. Here's a secret about me that you might not know: I do an excellent Darrell Hammond doing Sean Connery voice. (Anyone else love those old celebrity Jeopardy SNL skits?)

I mess around with Inigo's word order here. The point is to give you a sense that English is not his native language. I'm being lazy, as what I should do is make use of Google translate or something to get some actual messed up word order examples. I did not do that. Instead, I'm just peppering his speech with odd things here and there to give it a unique voice, hopefully without being annoying.

What scene is not complete without some heaving breasts? Just sayin'. Breathing is sexy. I mean... well... when compared to the alternative... um... I guess that's pretty obvious?

I really, really, really badly wanted to have Genny say "Call me maybe?" But... c'mon! Too cheesy even for me. Plus, Genny is not the sort of girl to ask. She's got a fair bit of self-confidence. Maybe is not a word she'd use. More like:

"You're going to call." (Jedi hand wave.)

(Monotone) "I am going to call."

Yes, Damian is weak minded where Genny is concerned. Men have this problem with beautiful women all the time, but you didn't hear that from me.

Once upon a time, I asked a girl out when she was working at Dairy Queen. Got her number on a little DQ napkin. I was totally a nervous wreck going in (for probably no reason). Afterward, success in hand, I was on cloud nine. I always have loved the movie scene where dude gets kissed, then celebrates when he thinks he's safe, and woman sees and chuckles. Real life goes more like Damian's encounter, I think. That film plays upon the silver screen in your mind, but you hold it in. For all that is holy, you hold it in!

But really, who are you fooling? Everyone can see your idiot smile.

Just sayin.'

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I'm Learning New Words For Dust

I'm going to sit out another round of ROW80. Sad, I know. Unfortunately, I'm still pretty focused on other areas of life, and writing has taken a back seat. It's still happening, just not as regularly, and certainly not to the point where I can set goals and be supportive of others. I'm lucky if I get one post a week in on here, but things are looking up. Writers write, so by no means have I stopped. Just... not very organized. I go weeks where I'm super busy, and I throw a crappy poem down in my notebook. Then, the next week, I have some time, edit almost an entire scene... and then hell breaks loose at work.

Also, here's one thing I'll say upon making the transition from coupled to single living. When you're living with someone, you can divide a lot of the chores. If you have a rough week, you have someone to lean on. Even when things aren't exactly peachy.

When you're living alone, it's all on you, baby. Dust on everything? Milk going bad? Carpet need swept? Laundry? Dishes? Yep, all on you. Or, they just pile up and point accusingly from the doorway/sink/closet/fridge.

Chores bad. Writing good. Arch-enemies. That's what I'm saying here.

(In all reality, it could be that I work full time, volunteer as a coach, and am trying to resurrect a social life. That's probably more to blame, but I choose to blame chores. Still, writers write. Excusers make excuses? I'll finish my stories, just... slowly, and in fits and starts.)

Anyhoo, I did want to give a shout-out to the ROW folks. They're gearing up for another round, and I wish them all the best. I will be lurking in my usual haunts, and I wish you all the best. If you've stumbled over here and don't know what ROW80 is, check it out here.

In other literary news, I'm super-excited about this. Any Wheel of Time fans around here? Huge finale to my favorite fantasy series... releasing tomorrow! (Gosh, I'm almost tearing up looking at the pictures.)

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Happy 2013!

I've been on a much needed hiatus during this holiday break from, well, pretty much everything. I saw a whole bunch of family and friends. Warmed my heart. Caught a cold. Dug into some good books and video games. Murder Mystery-ed in the New Year. It's been refreshing.

It's crazy to think that I'm entering my third year on this blog. It doesn't seem all that long ago that I was starting my publishing/writing journey out in the light. I'd written for years, but never shared like this. A long conversation with a new friend last night reminded my how cool this plunge really is. That is to say, there are a whole lot of writers out there that never share, never publish, never take that first step. I try to encourage where I can, because even though I've not sold a million books, gotten rich, or become famous, I've still gotten a whole lot out of the experience. Even if I stopped doing this today (which I'm not), I would be able to look back on this as time well spent and something to be proud of.

I've met a solid handful of very supportive, very talented, and very nice writers through my writing here and involvement in the larger writing community. I'm incredibly thankful for those that have stopped by, commented, and otherwise warmed this space. When you're going through a crappy year, even the smallest support means a whole lot.

I'm still going to be working on Damian's story in 2013. I'm hoping that as things get back to something more closely resembling a normal schedule, and that I'll be writing more earnestly. I'd definitely been sporadic at the close of 2012 (for good reason, but sporadic nonetheless). If there's one thing that seeing friends and family reassured me, it's that writing is a fundamental part of who I am, and I've gotten a lot of people if not interested in writing/reading, then at least curious about the creative process. I think there's something fundamental about creating, about giving life to stories and emotions through words or other media, that speaks to something very primal in all of us. I would definitely advocate anyone interested in taking the plunge with a blog, story, or other creative project, to do so in 2013. It may not take you where you expect to go, but it will be fulfilling in new and unexpected ways. Less destruction, more creation in 2013, says I! I mean, we did make it through the Mayan Apocalypse after all.

So yeah, just wanted to take some time out for reflection this morning and say thank you. Your continued support means the world to me. And I've loved reading/hearing about your creative pursuits as well. We're all in this crazy boat called life together, and it's an honor to be rowing beside you all.

Happy 2013!

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Closer to Adele

Damian tried not to stare as the gorgeous woman sauntered toward him. Something in her gait reminded him of a big cat on the hunt.

Been watching the discovery channel too much, Damian mused. His stomach did a flip as their eyes met briefly.

Close your mouth, Inigo advised.

Damain’s jaw snapped closed, and he looked away, cheeks burning. He missed the tiny smile that his obvious discomfort elicited. By the time he’d worked up the courage to turn his head back, she was standing in front of him.

“Okay, on a scale of Taylor Swift to Adele, how bad was it?”

It was the voice of heaven. The barkeep put on a sympathetic smile and Damian’s world faded to a tunnel. Her teeth were the brightest thing in the room. It was as if a spotlight operator was painting her from above.

What the hell had she just said? Damian’s mind stumbled all over itself.

She continued to smile, but one dark eyebrow arched and a booted foot began to tap. Even her impatience was sexy. Damian felt jealous of the grimy floor.

She spoke again. “Only two types of folk in here tonight, the desperate and the lonely, and I know that look.” Her eyes locked onto Damian’s and held him there, a prisoner in their speckled, emerald depths. “So… how bad?”

Her voice had a light lilt, just enough to keep Damian aware of her tongue. He tried his best to prevent his own from wagging.

Ha, Inigo laughed. It worked, did it not?

What worked? Damian wanted to know.

My summons! Hurry, you must respond before she is ensnared by the others.

A group of men to the right looked as if they might seize the opening and start up their own conversation. Panic gripped Damian as he realized his chance might be slipping by. Thinking quickly, he formulated a proper reply.

“Uh,” Damian said.

He regretted it immediately.

Eloquent, Inigo agreed dryly.

The woman’s renewed smile was salve to the burn on Damian's face. “That bad, eh?” It was the third time she'd spoken to him, and she still seemed to be expecting some sort of reply. Something more than “uh.”

Quickly, Inigo whispered, repeat after me: I apologize, but your beauty hath momentarily disarmed me. What would my lady suggest?

Damian parroted, his mind still mostly blank. To his surprise, the boot froze mid-tap. The bartender giggled; Damian's heart bubbled right along with the laugh.

Amused eyes kept him pinned down. “Well, that gets points for originality, anyway.” She gestured vaguely behind her. “How about a beer?”

Damian nodded.

His eyes followed as the woman bounced away. With casual familiarity, she flipped a glass up, caught it, and then slid it under the tap. Beer frothed forth, golden and inviting. She tipped the foam from the top and danced back. When the beer was beneath his nose, Damian was surprised to find her sizing him up.

“Was that a Spanish accent I detected?” she asked.

Crap. “That depends,” he said.

Inigo, of course, was nowhere to be heard, now.

She raised an eyebrow. “On?”

“Have you ever been to Spain?”

She shook her head, setting her curls aflutter. “No, but I think I'd like to.”

“Me too,” Damian admitted.

It is not all that and a plate of patatas fritas, Inigo grumbled.

She giggled again, genuinely pleased. The corners of Damian's mouth soared. He took a sip of beer to hide his idiot grin. When he set the beer back on the counter, he was wearing what he hoped was simply a friendly and inviting smile. Smooth would probably be too much to ask.

“I'm Damian,” he said, extending a tentative hand.

She took it. Her skin was silk. Damian held it expectantly.

She cocked her head over a shoulder. “Genny."

Her name was displayed on a hanging placard above a half-filled tip jar. It had been handwritten; both the leading and trailing letters were embellished with swirls. Damian felt his stomaching mimicking them.

With a quick squeeze, she broke contact, heading to the other end of the bar. Her departure was like ripping off a bandage. Suddenly, the pain that had brought him to the bar came crashing back. Damian took a long pull of the beer. He watched surreptitiously as Genny served the group of boisterous men. He couldn't help but notice that she wasn't shaking any of their hands.

His satisfied smirk warred with the recently ripped hole inside of him. Was he here to bury an old love or chase fruitlessly after a new one? Seemed like there were some decisions to be made, despite his intentions.

You can guess at my vote, no? Inigo chimed in.

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Scene Intro - Hope Springs

Didn't get around to posting last week, sorry. Holidays are busy and stuff, right? It's okay, though, because we have a slightly longer scene this week. Plus, I totally snagged one of the early lines from a pretty popular Internet meme. I think it's pretty hilarious, and fits in the context of what is going on. The only danger to using memes like this is, well, in ten years will it make any sense?

In this case, I think folks will be able to pick it up even if the artists are unknown to them. Plus, it's not really necessary to get the joke in order to get the scene. I was told, once upon a time, that dating yourself is a bad thing. I tend to agree if we're talking dinner and a movie. Otherwise, I like to see a bit of personality in my characters, and of course a bartender would "know the look."

There's a reason Genny spells her name with a G, and I needed to find a clever way for Damian to learn the spelling. We're sort of viewing the story through his eyes, and it would bug me to read an abnormal spelling and not understand how the protagonist knows. Don't ask me why; it's completely unnecessary to explain in 3rd person, especially we're mostly omniscient in this story. I try to refrain from head-jumping, but I wouldn't classify this as strictly limited either. Maybe I'm wrong. Point is that I was hoping to draw attention to the spelling more organically than just plopping it on you and not explaining anything. I think having it appear in the world makes one kind of go, "It's weird, but the main character doesn't know why it's spelled that way, either... so it's okay, for now." We'll learn more later.

I like having Inigo leak over into Damian. If you've not caught on by now, the leaking tends to occur when Damian loses self-control. It's also important to note that Inigo is not malicious when he leaks in. One might correctly surmise that an entirely different relationship between the two could easily have formed. One where they are not so friendly.

Also, if you consider Damian's formal reply... I find that hilarious in your typical bar setting. I sort of want to use that line some day. I also use the word aflutter, which I had to look up to make sure I wasn't making up. Word nerd points there, am I right? I may be exposing the underlying romantic in me...

Perhaps one of my favorite themes is exemplified in this scene: "In the depths of despair... hope." Left are these three...

Anyway, here's the scene. Enjoy!

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A Diamond in the Rough

The bar was a dive. They tried to hide it with sub-optimal lighting, but the effort was ineffective. Light didn't hide the grimy, sticky floor underfoot. Neither did it help the awful crooning that crackled through the ancient sound system.

At least the music is good, Inigo said. He was still in control, and had Damian bobbing his head in time to the dreadful beat.

Ugh, Damian replied, I hate country. And the speakers are at least a decade old. Can’t you hear the signal distortion?

You have not experienced the minstrels that I have. This is not so bad, Inigo replied. Besides, your women appear to enjoy it.

Damian's head swiveled toward the dance floor. Even calling it a dance floor was generous. It a space without tables. Several scantily clad older women gyrated in the middle. Their clothes might have looked at home on younger girls. These ladies obviously took pride in the fact that they could still rock a mini-dress. Damian supposed they had a right to their pride; they were very obviously in good shape. He was being unfair, but he did not find it alluring.

Cougars, he sighed.

What do felines have to do with anything? Inigo asked.

Damian chuckled. His mind-companion had some difficulty with colloquialisms. As Damian was trying to craft an explanation, he realized that his body had stopped halfway from the entrance to the bar counter. He was grinning at the dancing women. One had already begun to smile back.

Just take us to the bar, Damian ordered. We're supposed to be destroying memories tonight, not creating more I'll wish to forget.

Inigo acquiesced and they glided across the room with far more grace than Damian thought he could manage had he been in control. Not for the first time, he puzzled at why this was. How would a fragment of his mind be able to coordinate his muscles better? Why should it make a difference? Nothing he'd studied about schizophrenia had shed any light on this. In fact, most of it suggested that he shouldn't even be aware of the other voices.

Easing onto the wobbly wooden stool, Damian-Inigo turned to look at the row of gleaming taps. If there was one positive thing that could be said about the place: it carried a wide variety of beer. At the current point in time, though, there was no bar tender.

Just my luck, Damian whined.

Let me deal with this, Inigo said.

"Barkeep!" Damian-Inigo hollered.  "I desire ale!"

Several of the patrons turned to glare. Most, though, simply ignored the outburst. They were drowning in their own problems. Damian snickered. In previous centuries, perhaps yelling for the barkeep had been more effective.

Then, she appeared.

Spilling from beneath a classic Stetson were dark ringlets of perfectly shiny hair. Her skin was sun-darkened with an olive cast and her red lips shone like sin. She wore an understated tank-top that bowed in all the right places, though only a modest amount of cleavage was exposed to the smoke-laden air. Her jeans appeared to have been painted on, though most of the fun views were obscured by the half-apron she wore with the implements of her trade stuck in it: straws, napkins, and a bottle opener, among other things.

Damian was willing to forgive her the cowboy hat. Hell, he was willing to forgive her murder. Damian felt the sudden urged to regain possession of his faculties.

Hey, Inigo whined.

Shut up, Damian replied. I think I might want to keep my memory, after all.

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Barkeep!

My original concept for having a voice in Damian's head was born out of a desire to convey a lot of story through dialog. I always enjoy conversations between characters, and it's a heck of a lot more interesting than long internal monologues. The thought skittered across my mind: But what about internal dialog? I wanted a companion without having a companion.

Inigo is a lot of fun. If you've not caught the Princess Bride reference, then I'm giving it away now. That's how I imagine Inigo's voice. We'll learn more about Inigo, but I thought it would be fun to have an old-fashioned, swashbuckler type consciousness alongside Damian's analytic, engineering mind.

If Inigo's input sound somewhat stilted, that's intentional. I want to convey that English might not be his native tongue. If you're asking yourself, how can a made up voice in Damian's mind know things that Damian does not or could not know... good question. More of that later. The short answer: he's not a figment of Damian's mind.

Now, Damian isn't exactly a bar-goer. Still, sometimes when we're really lonely, we'll take any sort of human interaction we can get, am I right? I wanted to convey that Damian is not chasing tail in this scene. That's not really his thing. (Inigo, on the other hand... well, he's not exactly picky.)

I liked the idea of Damian just sort of sitting back and letting Inigo "drive." As far as Damian is concerned, the lack of control is simply another facet of his condition. Since the voice is in his head, it's not as if someone else is controlling him, he simply cannot summon the will to care right now. He's depressed, so Inigo can control things a bit more than usual. This is important to consider down the line. We can see that when Inigo takes control, Damian is smoother, more nimble. I'd also imagine his voice takes on a light accent. The implication here being that these are traits Inigo might possess.

Ultimately, it is important to note, Inigo cannot do anything that Damian does not allow. When Damian directs Inigo away from the women, Inigo follows. When Damian wishes to seize back control, he can. There is, most definitely, a hierarchy of consciousness here.

Finally, I introduce Genny, the barkeep. We'll find out a lot about her, but the correct question her is: What's a girl like you doing in a place like this? Ever been to a dive bar on a work night? Interesting clientele, let me tell you. And if the good-looking bartenders have a choice, they'd work when there'd be better tips. So what is Genny doing here? Not simply serving drinks, I'll say that much.

Damian seizing control is hopefully as interesting as it is slightly humorous. Ever met someone that causes you to sit up just a little bit straighter and take notice?

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