Back to the Story Thread

Ok. I left y'all hanging on the door knock. Apologies. Been a busy couple of weeks, as mentioned. I got some time today to go back over the beginning of the first fight scene. Yes, I like writing fight scenes. This is sort of setting the stage for (hopefully) next week. And yes, that is a Lord of the Rings reference. I'm also particularly proud of the Van de Graaf reference.

If you're chuckling and saying "nerd" under your breath right now... yep, nailed it. :-)

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Room Service

Damian crept over on wary feet. He froze when the knock sounded again, and then closed the last few steps to peer through the peep hole.

Two suited strangers stood on the other side, looking very much like generic government agents, Righty and Lefty. Righty leaned back, bulky arm settling at his side. Lefty rocked back and forth on his feet.

“Who's there?” Damian called out.

“Room service,” Lefty growled.

Righty chuckled.

They do not appear to be employees of the inn, Inigo observed.

No shit, Sherlock, Damian replied.

“I'm sorry, I believe you have the wrong room,” Damian answered.

Righty leaned in toward the door and smiled. His teeth were stained yellow and cracked, gums dark around the edges. Damian involuntarily took a step back. Was that sulfur he smelled?

“Damian Gardner,” Righty said. “No, I believe we have it right. Open the door.”

Though there was a door between them, Damian suddenly felt naked. Wood, metal, or whatever the barrier was made of did not seem to stop the stares. The big men somehow sensed Damian.

Damian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could feel them out there. Waiting. Watching.

“G-go away,” Damian stammered. “Whatever you're here for, I don't want any part of it.”

“Well that's just too damn bad.”

The door exploded inwards, splinters of the jamb spinning through the air. Damian stumbled back until his knee slammed against something painful, and flipped onto the bed. Had they used a gun? Damian couldn’t recall hearing a blast.

The men strode into the room, eyes burning. Literally. Damian gawked. The irises were orange flames licking against a black background. There was nothing human about them. Panic shot through Damian like electricity arching off a Van de Graaff generator.

He fought with the comforter on the bed, wiggling like a fish in a net. He thrashed about, managing somehow to chuck the two pillows at his pursuers. Lefty swatted one away casually, while Righty slashed the other aside with a knife. A shower of white fluff spurted from the wounded sleeping implement.

A knife! A knife!

There seemed an echo in his brain. No time to worry about that now. We need a weapon. Damian flipped heels over head, rolling across the bed and landing on the other side. His hand darted out and grabbed the first thing it could find. The lamp. He pulled it off the nightstand and held it, burning before him as it if were a wizard's staff, though it was hardly large enough.

The men paused on the far side of the bed, pinning him with those awful eyes. They spread ever-so-slightly in the cramped room – Righty to the right, Lefty to the left – blocking both an escape around the foot of the bed and back across its disheveled surface. A crazed psychosis overcame Damian just then, and he embraced it, saying the first thing that came to his mind.

“You shall not pass!” he bellowed.

Lefty cocked his head and took a step forward. Righty just laughed.

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Content Sponge Mode

If you've been paying attention, it is probably obvious that I'm struggling to write. This isn't to say I'm not writing, just not really coherent and planned writing. It tends to be more spur of the moment. I won't lie, I feel somewhat guilty about this. On the other hand, I'm sort of experiencing life upheaval, so it's not all that surprising. Most of my energy is diverted to "holding it together." Sort of like shifting around the deflector shields on the Millennium Falcon. I thought you fixed the hyperdrive!

Apart from that, extra energy is being spent on going out and living a bit. We all go through different seasons of life. My previous had been one of, well, hermitage. There was so much going on at home that I never really got out. It was really conducive to writing, as one might imagine.

I've transitioned back (or forward, depending on how you look at it) to a season where I need to be out making new friends and connections. It's not a bad season, and I've been having a lot of fun. It is absolutely not conducive to writing.

I was driving and thinking (I do a lot of that these days), man these last few weeks would make a good story. One of the hallmarks of many of the writers I've studied over the years is their ability to find the story in anything. I recognized right away that I was doing the same thing. Curiously, it made me feel less guilty. I decided that while I was more productive word-wise in Hermitage Mode, there's something to be gained by getting out and living life every now and then. I think I want to call it Content Sponge Mode. Sure it's fun, but it is also giving me a whole bunch of experiences to draw from when crafting my next work. And that's not a bad thing.

So, for now, I'm going to embrace Content Sponge Mode. I'll write as I get a chance, but I probably won't get a book out this year. I'm sure I'm missing the proverbial boat as e-books continue to take off, but I was never doing this as a get rich scheme anyway. Just wanted to tell stories.

I'm going to still try to keep Damian's story going, but it may be hard some weeks. Just wanted to let y'all know and appreciate those that are sticking around here even in the face of the really sporadic content. I'll never give up on writing, but you may have to weather me being a bit of a flake this year. Artistic license... am I right?

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Cell Phone Hokey Pokey

Random scene today. I wanted to write something short and this bit came to mind. Ever have phantom spasms where you store your cell phone? Happens to me all the time, especially when I'm anxious about a call. Then I pull my phone out and check it twelve times before telling myself to stop being obsessive. Wonderful inventions, these cellular telephones. :-)

Not sure where/if this will end up fitting in the story, but it was fun to write. Hope you enjoy.

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You Put Your Right Leg In

Damian’s leg vibrated. His hand was fishing around in the pocket before he even realized it. Reeling in the catch, Damian studied his phone.

Are all of the world’s intimate secrets now made clear? Inigo asked.

Huh?

I’ve heard it said that such a device contains the world wide web, no?

Damian’s brain had trouble processing both Inigo’s statement and the state of the phone. There were no messages. No alerts.

I swear it went off.

He shoved the device back in his pocket.

A false alarm?Inigo said.

I guess.

His leg vibrated again. Reflex had the phone out in seconds. Again, the screen was brain.

What the hell?

He set the phone on the table. A few seconds later, his hand was in his pocket again, only this time, there was no phone to catch.

Muscle spasm? Inigo offered.

I guess. Damian replied. Maybe I’ve developed some sort of superpower, able to anticipate a future phone call.

Or perhaps you are just overly anxious to hear from her.

Perhaps. Damian admitted.

He stared at the phone, foot tapping beneath the table.

Probably. He amended.

He felt Inigo’s rolling eyes.

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A Google Reader Alternative

This is not the fiction post you were looking for, I know. Still, it may be pretty useful for many of you. I posted the same article on my gaming blog, but it bears repeating both places. Anyway, here we go...

The announcement Google made about retiring Reader sent me into a mental tailspin (as well as a whole bunch of others, it seems). I've been a Google Reader user for years now, and I'm not even sure I could find half the blogs I like to read again if Reader just disappeared. So yeah, I was just a bit panicked. Plus, as a content provider, you have to somewhat wonder how this is going to affect your readership.

Have no fear. Feedly to the rescue!

After I calmed down a bit, I suspected it probably would not be too hard to find a replacement. Surely, someone else has created a clever RSS-based reading application. It did not take long. I found Feedly right away, installed the Chrome app, logged in, and perhaps 15 minutes later was staring at my Google Reader subscriptions in a new service. After a bit of poking around, I was sold.

Then, I decided to go look to see if my Reader subscriptions would be safe with Feedly after the inevitable shutdown. The good folks at the Feedly blog had two wonderful articles. One with tips for all of us transitioning from Google Reader. The other explaining how your subscriptions WILL be transferred over (short answer: seamlessly and without any action on my part. Huzzah!).

I figured I'd pass this all along as a sort of public service announcement, as many of you undoubtedly had faced similar freak-outs in the last few days. I want to note that I am in no way affiliated or receiving anything from Feedly. I'm just pimping them because they're the first service I came across, it was super simple to set up, imported my existing subs with a button, and assured me that they've got my back when Reader is shut down. What's not to like?

So no, I do not think Google shutting down Reader will be the end of blogging. I don't think it will really harm traffic all that much. Sure some folks may be left in the dark, but where there's a will, there's a way. If we keep creating content that folks want to read, they'll figure out how to read it. How do I know this? Because I'm more consumer than creator these days anyway!

Case closed. The Mayans were still wrong.

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Chapter 3 - Intro

Back this week with another scene. Chapter 2 would be a short chapter. I switch to 3 here as we've switch location, which is sort of what I'm using to break up "chapters." Sort of an arbitrary choice, but I think it helps keep things clear.

Not too much going on here. I set up the scene and try to have some fun fleshing out my two characters. I really enjoy having a voice inside my main character's head, as it provides someone with which to have constant dialog and spruce up normally description-heavy sections. To me, it just makes things more fun. I'm also skimping a bit on description, relying the reader's experience to fill in the blanks. Pretty safe to assume that most people have been to a hotel at some point. I note that it's not a dive, but otherwise unremarkable.

The chapter's name makes more sense down the road I think, so I won't comment too much on it just yet.

For the record, I don't have any plants in my house, plastic or otherwise. But I do not mind wide-brimmed hats.

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Can I Expense That?

Damian pulled into the hotel parking space and the engine sputtered off. As usual, the door did not want to open when he pushed against it. He put his shoulder down and gave a harder shove. It squealed past the point of resistance, flinging wide. Thankfully, the space next to him was unoccupied. He'd chosen this space – furthest from the door – for just that reason.

Sometimes, it is considered mercy to kill a lame horse, Inigo pontificated.

Damian chose not to respond. Instead, he yanked the trunk open and removed his luggage. He slung a black bag containing a laptop over his shoulder. The other, larger piece was on wheels. Damian heaved it out and pulled on the handle. It slid halfway, and then stuck.

Damian pressed the button again and pulled. Nothing. He pressed harder and jiggled things a bit. The handle would not budge. He pulled and rattled, rattled and pulled. No dice. He cursed, but that didn't solve the problem, either. Finally, Damian turned and trudged toward the hotel, stooped at an uncomfortable angle.

I wonder if she got my voice message, Damian's mind wandered.

Are such messages often waylaid? Inigo asked.

Damian considered. I suppose it depends on the person.

She could have lost her phone for all Damian knew. Or left it at home while she was at work. Or turned the ringer off and didn't realize he was trying to reach her. Whatever the case, he hoped she wasn't sitting alone at home, waiting on him. Not that any girl ever would ever do that. Ever.

He considered calling again, but didn't want to risk pushing the number of missed calls into double digits. It would seem desperate, he reasoned with a nod.

Inigo let that one pass with only a chuckle.

The check-in went as smoothly as one might expect. His last name had been misspelled: G-a-r-d-n-e-r, Gardner. People always insisted on adding an extra “e” for some reason. He was neither a botanist, nor a tiller of land. Wide brimmed hats made him look silly, and his thumbs were most assuredly not green. In fact, all of the plants in his apartment were plastic.

The room was tolerable. There was not an inch of dust on the faux-wooden surfaces. No shards of glass lurked in the bathroom sink. The air was free of a musty chlorinated smell. The bed was only slightly lumpy when Damian lay down atop the comforter. He'd been in worse. Heck, he might even risk sleeping beneath the covers.

There was a time when one was fortunate to be able to sleep on something other than straw, Inigo noted. Shall I call you Lord Damian?

If you wish, fair subject, Damian answered. He waved his hand majestically to the amusement of the empty room.

If the voice in his head could have scowled in disgust, Damian was sure Inigo would have. It made him smile. The smile made him think of Genny. Damian pulled out his phone and stared at it. The clock read quarter to eight.

Damian sighed and reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. It was long, skinny, and utilitarian, like everything else in the room. Perhaps he would do some reading. He began to rummage through his things.

It is not too late! Inigo interjected.

Damian sighed. She is over an hour away, Inigo. There is no way I would be able to keep the date now.

A pity.

A knock at the door startled them both.

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It's the Simple Things

Day Job was really busy this week, and I didn't have time after work to do any editing, either. So I have nothing ready for you. Mah bad.

I did write this article over on my secret public journal today. Perhaps it's worth a read. I'm waxing a bit philosophical about the "simple" things in life and how they apply to me and my current goals. When life gives you lemons, maybe first you need to work on remembering how to squeeze the lemons and worry about making a full refreshing beverage later. Or something like that.

See y'all next week.

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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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