Plinkoscribble

Steampunkery, Sorcery, and Anarchism -- Dualus Project

2008-05-23T18:12:50Z

Title: Dualus
Chapter One: New Hires
Rating: PG-13
Length: Around 4k words.
Edits: Preliminary edit has been done. Now in cold storage for secondary edit and spell check.
Author's Notes: To follow.

New Hires

Alexandra Prescot-Maple was no more than a faint slip of a girl at age sixteen. In fact, she'd always been a faint slip of a girl, and there wasn't much of a hope that she'd ever become robust or voluptuous in any manner. As a child, she'd contracted the wasting disease, which modern doctors called Metapoliosis. It was believed to be caused by women breathing foul vapors while with-child, and possibly the over-intake rich foods and damaging drink by mothers during nursing. Quite a problem in the cities, and urchins on crutches or in wheeled chairs were not an unfamiliar sight. Thankfully, the Prescot-Maples were far too rich for their daughter to ever be seen as an urchin. Which was why, at this current moment, they were interviewing potential companions for the girl.

For, in truth, despite Alexandra being a faint slip of a girl who couldn't even walk without the aid of leg-braces, she was quite the bully, and an insufferable terror, and had set her former nursemaid on fire during a ballooning incidentt.

A fact which Mrs. Emily Prescot-Maple and Mr. George Prescot-Maple were currently glossing over in said interview.

"It wasn't quite a fire, really. Not as a fire might be known. A few sparks, and the woman's shawl caught ablaze. A complete coincidence which had absolutely nothing really to do with our lovely daughter," Emily said.

"The balloon landed safely. No permanent damage was done," George added.

"I...see," murmured the young woman in the jaunty blue cap. It matched the bodice of her dress so well that there could be no doubt someone had sewn both from the same material. But, the bright blue was at definite odds with the faded brown jacket, and the moth-eaten beige skirt beneath. The rather homely girl put her hand to the side of her neck and scratched at her skin lightly. "Well, I'm not particularly afraid of fire."

Emily and George appeared exceedingly pleased by this assertion.

"But, what exactly would I be doing? The agency said only that a strong girl of about eighteen was needed. You know, I may not look like much, but I worked farms afore I came to the city, and I..."

"Our daughter is a sickly girl," Emily began. George nodded in agreement and took another puff from his pipe as he leaned back in his parlor-chair. "Sickly, but so brave. She mostly needs someone to help her get around, run errands for her, and so forth..."

"She's precocious," George declared.

"Precocious," Emily echoed, the smile on her face looking not at all forced. "And I think perhaps the nurses and governesses we've hired in the past were a bit too...delicate."

The girl nodded once, solemnly and firmly. Her expression was mildly apprehensive, and certainly didn't seem to indicate that she found the conversation even slightly humorous. "I've known a few precocious girls."

"Good, that's very good to hear." Both Emily and George looked slightly relieved. "Well, can we expect you on Monday, then, Miss Moira?"

The girl called "Moira" took a moment to glance around the room. Every item sparkled or glowed or looked at least expensive enough to buy half of the village of Encarte. Even if working for this crippled girl turned sour, at least thievery might be a viable option... "Yes, of course," she murmured, "I would be honored to be of service to such a reputed home."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Moira Howard slunk back towards the girls' shelter, wandering through the tangle of streets and alleyways. Maze City had been built in a purposefully confusing manner to discourage invading armies. Conveyance chauffeurs took great pride in knowning the quickest way from point A to point Q. Moira, however, was just glad to only get lost once or twice during any particular journey through the perilous city.

Her feet hurt, as they oft did after a few hours of wearing these ridiculous heeled shoes. City-folk seemed to equate pain with beauty, for some reason. Not that anyone had ever accused Moira Howard of being a
particularly pretty girl.

With a sigh, Moira slipped into an alleyway labeled "BAV5" and (finding it deserted), decided to take a break. Concrete stairs made for a much better chair than the flat side of a building, so Moira sat herself on the back stoop of "Mister And Missus Percy Pennebaker's Fine Haberdashery" (so labeled with a florid piece of ceramic). She slipped off one shoe and crossed her legs crudely so that she could rub her left foot.

Then she pulled off her wig.

The lifeless clump of hair came to rest next to "Moira's" knee, resembling a sleeping mammal, or possibly even a dead one. With a bit of a sneer, "she" reached up to rub "her" hand vigorously back and forth against "her" haphazardly-clipped black hair.

"Gods of Sorceros be damned, I wish I had a cigarette," the spindly boy muttered as he leaned forward to rest one cheek against a section of wrought-iron railing. He'd become addicted to Pillbox Lights while he was in the refugee camp. Most people in the camp smoked them. They suppressed hunger and helped keep refugees calm. But, nobody smoked Pillbox Lights in Maze City -- they'd done their duty and sent all excess cigarettes to the war front.

So Moira Howard, whose name was actually Matt Annointed Alligator, had nothing to smoke, and only a saucer of thin gruel awaiting him at the girls' shelter. His night would be filled with the coughing, crying, and possibly even lice of the multitude of girls staying at The Feast of Magnificent Charity.

But, at least, in three days time, he'd begin his new job.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"The Miss likes white flowers, but never red ones. Red is the color of religion and sorcery, she says. So, if you put strawberries in her cereal, you must make sure they are sunk to the bottom, like this, or she shall become quite cross with you."

Hannah did her best not to look incredulous. Of all the ridiculous things to worry about... Rich people had absolutely no clue about the world at large. No idea of the suffering in the fields of farmers and the valleys of war. And the fact that Nora Ebberts, the head housekeeper, seemed to understand and encourage this behavior was just all the more distressing. The short, wiry girl stood up just a bit straighter, swallowed her pride, and tempered the monotone bitterness in her voice with a smile. "Yes, of course, that makes perfect sense."

"Now, you may take this tray up to Miss Alexandra's room, but please do not speak to her or disturb her if she's at her desk. But, if she's elsewhere in the room, you may say something along the lines of 'Good morning, miss. Here is your breakfast.' And you certainly must not stare at her, and for the love of Bunsen Burners, don't offer to help her to the table..."

Nora was still babbling when by the time Hannah left the room with the tray. The anxious housekeeper irritated Hannah, but not enough to cause any dire concern. After all, this particular mission was Hannah's Final Test. If full membership in the Covenant meant subjugation of her pride was necessary, than she'd effect enough humility to impress even the most timid of maidservants.

But, what a place. What a place! Marble floors which glistened so emphatically that someone had draped carpets edged with gold thread and dyed with priceless indigos over them to block the sheen. And the ridiculous wooden molding on the stairway railing? Every leaf and vine likely carved by hand... Not to mention the oversized paintings of... Well, Hannah had no idea who these people in the portraits were, in their fancy silk dresses and crisp black tailcoats. Friends and family of the Prescot-Maples, no doubt.

The silver tray clinked gently as Hannah made her way up the stairs. The faint sounds of a piano being played in one of the massive parlors on the first floor drifted far enough through the halls to become faintly tinny. Or, perhaps the musician just had little skill. Either way, it reminded Hannah of the last Bright Festival she attended, when she and her mother had released their doves and then handed out lemon cakes to the children. Songs of praise for Celeste's bounty echoed through the village streets...

And for this...? For that simple joy...?

Hannah ground her teeth. This place. These people. The whole situation was incomprehensible. All Hannah had ever wanted, all she'd ever dreamed of doing, was to become a seamstress like her mother. To work in the little shop on the hill. To marry some kind man...perhaps even Joseph Dunlop, even if he was a bit thick around the middle. She'd always liked his stupidly simple smile. But, no. Now there was nothing left. Nothing but the Covenant, and the possibility of revenge.

The "S" curved brass handle on the door to the girl's room shone with many a morning's polishing. Hannah had no idea how many parlor maids worked in the Prescot-Maple estate, but she was somehow certain that she'd find the answer displeasing. Setting her jaw, Hannah pressed the handle with one hand while balancing the tray on the other. The door clicked, and then slid along a light groove in the floor, disappearing into a cavity in the wall. The odd door startled Hannah, and for several seconds she merely stood motionless, peering at the gap in the wall which had swallowed the door.

"Don't dawdle. It's drafty."

The sharp voice shook Hannah from her reverie, and she quickly stepped inside with the tray. The girl was exactly as portrayed in newsprint and the many portraits and photographs throughout the house. Dainty. Pale. With shimmering blonde hair pulled up into a single ponytail, and a headdress of white flowers perched upon her crown like some sort of mock-tiara. Then, of course, there was the wheelchair, composed of wood and rubber and sprockets and gears, ticking ever-gently like a wind-up toy. She had her back to the door, but turned to look over her shoulder at Hannah, the pencil in her hand hovering over some extensive and complicated schematic.

Hannah did her best to ignore the stare and glanced around for someplace to put the breakfast. It was a difficult task. The room was nothing like she'd imagined. She'd pictured sn elegant room, in the same style of the rest of the house. But, no. There were papers everywhere, boxes of things, opened clocks and piles of books. There were odd mechana -- a rotating replica of the solar system, a telescope, miniature conveyances, several types of clockwork men, and various contraptions Hannah just couldn't identify for the life of her. She finally settled on what appeared to be a work-bench near the pink-silk canopy bed crammed like an afterthought into the corner of the room.

But, as she crossed to put down the tray, that sharp voice once again pierced the air, "You...what -are- you wearing on your face?"

Hannah bit down on her cheek and summoned all of her strength to keep walking, rather than throw the tray at the girl. She set it down on the workbench and pretended to be arranging its contents so she wouldn't have to turn around quite yet. "An eyepatch."

"Good gracious, do you fancy yourself a pirate? Take it off."

Hannah brought her hand to her face, but only faintly touched the edge of the black leather patch over her eye. Should she obey the ridiculous request? Why not? It would probably shock the rich girl in the wheelchair. Maybe she'd be frightened to see such a ghastly deformity. Suppressing a smirk, Hannah dutifully flipped up the eyepatch and waited for a reaction.

Seconds of silence passed as an amusing series of expressions passed over Alexandra Prescot-Maple's face. Surprise. Mild disgust. Curiosity. Hannah tried not to wince at the too-warm air prickling over her wound. To show any sort of weakness in front of one of these people would be... Well, it would be shameful.

"You...you have only one eye," Alexandra finally managed to say. This time the sharpness in her voice waned, and was replaced by a mild edge of astonishment. "How grotesque and disfiguring. What happened to you?"

Hannah couldn't keep herself from frowning. Grotesque? Disfiguring? Well, surely it was shocking, but was there any need to say these things so plainly? "A conveyance accident." The simple lie had been given to her by the agents of the Covenant. No need to draw attention to the real origins of Hannah's wound. Quickly, Hannah tugged the eyepatch down, and managed to say in a quiet, almost demure tone, "Does Miss require anything else?"

Alexandra stared for several more seconds before turning back to her desk. One willowy hand lifted and waved dismissively at Hannah. "No, you may go. Have Nora send up this new companion when she arrives. Ridiculous fools, my parents..." Alexandra muttered several impolite curses under her breath as Hannah made her way quickly to the door. She wanted to get out of there. The crippled girl was creepy beyond belief, and rude to boot. And anyway, she didn't have much to do with Hannah's mission, so there was no point in...

"What's your name, anyway?"

Hannah had almost escaped. Almost. She dug her fingernails into her palm reflexively, as she forced herself to turn around and bow. "Hannah Greene."

"Ah." Hannah saw Alexandra put down one pencil and pick up another, thicker one. "You may bring my breakfast from now on, Hannah."

Hannah nodded curtly, but added a, "Yes Miss," on afterthought. She waited to see if Alexandra would stop her again, but when there was nothing but silence, Hannah took the opportunity and escaped.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Moira Howard, aka Matt Alligator, arrived at his new job precisely on time. Not a minute early, not a minute late. No, he waited until the Maze City tower clock struck exactly eight, and then knocked on the servants' entrance door.

He'd managed a newer dress by pawning his mother's Loca ring. It wasn't surprising that the pawnbroker had no idea what powers the ring held. Back home, almost every wife was given a Loca ring upon the birth of her first child, but such magical institutions were banned in Tolas. The pawnbroker appraised it merely on the value of the silver and the crystal.

Anyway, it was no good to Matt for the moment. Most everything useful stopped working by the time he got to Maze City. And it didn't look like he'd be finding unprocessed aqueous any time soon.

But, at least the dress was suitable. A thick grey jumper with three large black flowers stitched into the side, a crisp white undershirt, and a dour black jacket to match. Warm and functional, and above all -- practical. It hid most of his "shortcomings" as a woman. With a little hastily-applied (and shoplifted) makeup, he looked like any dumpy farm girl new to the city.

"Oh, who is it? Is it you, Markus? Strange of you to bring around the milk so late in the..."

The abrupt opening of the door stopped the woman's prattle mid-sentence. Matt looked her over, trying to discern what calibur and temper such a woman would be. And, of course, he tried to figure out who the hell she was. From the look of the too-frilly apron and the loosely-pinned hair, not to mention the overall motherly seeming of the ruddy-cheeked woman, he took her for some sort of head maid, or perhaps a cook.

"And you are?"

Matt cleared his throat a little before answering. That was the worst of it. He could look like a girl, but actually -sounding- like a girl took a bit more effort and practice. "Moira. Moira Howard, ma'am. I'm newly hired for..."

"Yes, of course! Of course! Miss Alexandra's new companion. Come in, come in. Do come in. Let me show you to your room. I'm Nora, by the way. Nora Ebberts, head housekeeper. Say, how do you take your tea? Bit of lemon? I bet you're a bit of lemon sort, with a few drops of honey."

"Well, actually..." Matt found himself being all bit steered along by the chatty woman, her hand on his shoulder effortlessly guiding him through the rather cavernous kitchen, past several half-chopped vegetables laying on the counter, a myriad of kitchen implements hanging from the ceiling, and a rather sour-looking man with a butcher knife who alternately sliced meat from a horse-hock and yelled expletives at a small, rather static-laden, radio.

Nora cut him off. "Cook, it's not going to come in better just because you yell. Hush up now." She clicked her tongue as she steered Matt out the door. "I swear, people have become so addicted to those silly little boxes. Though I must say, I do enjoy Hospice Labs. Oh, it's such a hoot to hear what those scientists get up to. Agent Balliwick is good, too. But, oh, it gives me such a fright, sometimes..."

Matt tried not to trip over his feet. Nora was shoving him down the hall at a pace he didn't quite appreciate in these particular shoes. Still, he found the woman's chatter endearing, so he refrained from protest. Instead, he tried, though mostly in vain, to take in his surroundings. The corridor was long, and unlike the profuse amount of gas lamps which kept the meandering streets of Maze City lit, contained only the occasional stand for a three-pronged candalabra. But, with morning's light streaming in the windows at the far ends of the corridor, there was no need for the candles. The entire length of the corridor, lined with a moth-eaten crimson carpet, appeared to have been hewn out of brown rock which shone from bits of reflective silica. Even more than the kitchen, this hallway felt rather like a cave.

"The servants quarters are in the shape of an "H" you see," Nora explained, "And on that end is the stairs and the lift. The pantry is on the end by the kitchen, and over there is a passageway to the garage. Don't worry, the estate is quite immense, but you'll learn your way around quickly. Everything is laid out quite logically. You know, Mister George actually designed this house after his daughter became ill? From the topmost shingle to the tiniest cog in the lift. He's quite the thinker..."

Nora stopped abruptly and dug her hand into one of the larger pockets on her voluminous skirt and produced a ring of keys.

"Here we are. Your room is quite nice, but is one of the inner rooms, so I'm afraid it doesn't have a window. You'll get an extra allowance of lamp oil for lighting. Now, the washroom is just over there. Full plumbing, like the entire house, but do knock because sometimes Cook likes to fall asleep taking a soak, and I assure you, the sight of his manly giblets have never brightened a maiden's morning. Speaking of which, we don't allow gentleman callers, except for family, and then please only in the kitchen or lower garden during daytime hours. You may have Mondays off, as well as Thursday afternoons. You must set your laundry by the door on Tuesday for the washerwoman. Breakfast is promptly at seven, and a cold dinner will be waiting for you after Miss Alexandra dismisses you for the day. Any questions, dear?"

Matt shook his head, and felt the braid on his wig slap his back several times in rhythm with the movement. He knew he -would- have questions, but Nora seemed fairly approachable, so it didn't concern him.

"That's lovely. Here's your key, dear. I doubt Miss Alexandra will send for you until after she's had her breakfast, which I just sent up. So, please feel free to take this time to get settled in, hm?"

Matt thanked Nora in the sweetest, most feminine voice he could muster, and then entered his new abode. It was far nicer than he really expected. Then again, even the dingiest hovel in Maze City was palacial compared to the refugee camp. And even before that, in their home in Encarte, Matt and Gretta shared a loft, which they usually partitioned for privacy with bales of hay or milk cans.

But, this room... Well, Gretta would have adored it, at least. With the rich wallpaper of yellow and purple posies... Sure, it was cracking and peeling in a few places, but that just gave it charm. There was a writing desk with carved moldings, a chair with brass accents (which had a nasty creak that Matt would later discover), a dresser with several drawers which didn't quite shut all the way, and an extremely soft (but also creaky) bed which was exactly one foot too short for Matt, causing his feet to stick out at night. Still, when compared to his cot at the Feast of Magnificent Charity, Matt decided it was all a step in the right direction.

He set about lighting the oil lamp with some provided one-strike matches and closed the door. With a bit of cleaning and dusting, this room would be quite nice. He could probably even hide Gretta here, when he found her, until he could figure out how to get them out of Tolas.

When he found her...

If he found her...

No, Matt chided himself as he put away his meager belongings. He would definitely find his sister, even if Maze City seemed ten times as massive as he'd originally imagined. Now that he had employment, he'd have far more resources for his search. Plus, Mondays off... It wouldn't be long now before they managed to get home.

Spying the little mirror over the dresser, Matt rubbed it down with a bit of cheesecloth and then peered at his reflection. With this wig, and these clothes, and if he turned just right and pouted out his lips a little, he looked rather like an older version of his sister.

Actually, it was rather disturbing. He looked like a GIRL. Sure, some of the older guys had called him a sissy when he was younger, but after he joined the Encarte Home Guard, and subsequently beat a few of those fools black and blue, the name-calling idiocy pretty much stopped.

Matt whipped off his wig and vigorously rubbed his hand through his dark hair, then swiped his hand back and forth across his mouth until the lipstick was gone. Yeah. He was still a guy. A cigarette and a EHG uniform, and nobody would ever think he had to pose as a girl just to get fed.

But, after all, it was for Gretta, so... Well, Matt would probably put up with it even if guys went back to calling him a sissy. Maybe.

A sudden whoosh of air startled Matt. Despite all the things in the room which produced creaks or squeaks when used, it seemed neither the door, nor the floor outside possessed any fraction of this defect. In the doorway, a grim-looking young woman with an eyepatch and a pointed nose blinked several times and dropped her jaw several millimeters.

Matt quickly turned away from her and attempted to affix the wig to his head. "It's not..." Matt coughed a little when his voice came out too masculine. "It's not what you think...er, how it looks isn't..."

"Oh?" The girl's voice rumbled across the room in a stoic monotone, "That seems doubtful."

"No, I mean, I'm not some sort of pervert, I just needed a job, and..." Matt turned around pressed his hands together as if praying. "Don't tell anyone, alright?"

The eyebrow over Hannah's one remaining eye arched languidly. She looked Matt up and down, and then glanced quietly around the room. The tight frown on her face worried him. But, finally she said, "It's no concern of mine. But, I would recommend locking your door more often."

"Right, ah...?"

"Hannah." The dour girl turned her back on Matt, apparently uninterested in having the introduction returned. "The crippled pig has summoned you."

"Eh...excuse me?"

"Miss Prescot-Maple desires your presence." Hannah made a noise which Matt could only deduce was some sort of snort shortly before she pulled the door closed behind herself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Author's notes: There were several spots of extremely awkward phrasing that I didn't manage to completely fix on the first edit. I think the first section needs more indication of Emily and George doting and their daughter and being completely oblivious to her personality defects. Gretta's name may need to be changed to something more "girly and wholesome". Some work needs to be done on Matt to make him less passive, and perhaps begin to more clearly indicate his odd brand of religious fanaticism. Better descriptions are needed of Alexandra's room and the mechana in it. Better descriptions needed of the kitchen and the alleyway. Give them all a smell! Tune up the dialog. Why is there no description of Emily or George?

To Examine.

2008-05-21T20:18:08Z

I enjoy stories:

Where all protagonists are also antagonists.

About the fragility of relationships, particularly friendships.

About betrayal and revenge.

About unrequited love.

That are relevant and thought-provoking without being preachy or didactic.

With villians I love to hate.

Where someone is cross-dressing.

Where great power comes with great sacrifice, rather than great responsibility.

Where struggle and suffering is balanced with wit and humor.

With bittersweet endings.

This is the thing I wish to write.

Stuff.

2008-05-13T14:42:58Z

I've been working on the "steampunk thing", and made some changes...definitely for the better. I've decided that the two warring countries (one Fascist and one Ultra-Religious) have just about exausted their energy resources when the aliens show up with their Advanced Technology. The aliens bring with them a couple of "floating islands" which make up the West Isles. They mete out energy and technology to the warring factions in a very measured manner, because they claim to not wish to take sides. In all actuality, the aliens are not as beneficent and peaceful as they lead the planet to believe. They're attempting to get the two warring sides to kill each other off, but want them to do the least amount of damage to the planet in the process (because, of course, the aliens want to take over the planet and live there). They are in the middle of their own war with the Lava People (the aliens are the Ice People), and need the planet as a strategic base.

Anyway, I had some great ideas about how the characters join forces to work together in the beginning (when they are young), but as they get older, their respective factions drive them apart, especially Alexandra and Matt.

Anyway, I have the first couple of mini-scenes written for that. It's got some humor, but also some dark bits.

I've also been mulling over a story about an AI. I'm absolutely fascinated by the "hybrid" on BSG, and how she babbles about random things. I'd love to write a story from the point of view of a computer program or AI of some sort, slowly becoming aware of itself. Perhaps even over several decades or centuries... I mean, there are lots of stories about AIs becoming self-aware, but I've never read one as told from the point of view of that AI. It seems like it would start as a garbled mess, with slow interjected phrases of pseudo-sentience, and go from there... An interesting challenge.

Breaking News

2008-05-08T19:18:35Z

In some foreign country, there are men in fatigues stalking through the streets. They've got guns and they're going...somewhere. In the hazy distance, a massive tank passes between two crumbling buildings. Some reporter gets a shot of a pool of blood on the sidewalk, dripping into a filth-filled gutter, but there are no apparent victims to be found nearby. Silence litters the city, punctuated at intervals by sharp shots echoing between the stucco. Morse code. Bang. Bang bang. BANG BANG BANG.

Morse code of death.

The camera is a bit shaky. It pans up... Sky. Only sky. Then the briefest shot of planes. F-16s. Or maybe not. All fast-flying military planes are F-16s to me. Unless they are stealth bombers. Who knows? Panning back down, we see a shot of some wrinkled old woman in a head-scarf, crying and throwing her arms up in the air repeatedly, as if beseeching some deaf god for mercy.

There are not enough tears to mourn the dead. Not enough grief. Some have nobody left to care that they are gone. And maybe it's better that way. I don't know. I have no answers, no insight, no way to assuage the suffering of these people...or any people.

As I frown, my teacup clanks against the saucer a little too loudly. I look down to find that I've chipped the cup in my thoughtlessness. Ah well, everything breaks. News breaks. Bones break. Teacups...break.

Harold comes tromping through the living-room, shirtless, but with a towel on his head. "Why do you even watch, if it makes you so miserable?" He roots through the cabinets, steals -my- Cheez Nips, and heads for the back door without waiting for an answer. It's not like I would answer him anyway. I'm currently on my record for not-speaking. Fourteen days, six hours, and some-odd minutes.

"And you need to call the plumber!" The extra-sharp sssshhhhrrring of the glass door sliding closed does not escape my notice. Nonetheless, I merely lift up my cup and examine the bottom of it. No, no it's not at all in danger of leaking.

I suppose I should call the plumber. Especially if I want Harold to stop barging in here to bathe and use the toilet. To tell the truth, I sort of like the company. A little... Only a little.

World-Building For Steampunky Thing

2008-04-17T15:15:05Z

It's nice to talk to people who give you encouragement, sometimes. Usually, I distrust praise and compliments. But, it was somehow nice to hear that jathomas thought highly of my writing. Especially when I think so very highly of his. It really gave me a wish to continue working on writing, instead of the usual thing I do...which is get interested in something else whenever a story becomes difficult. I need to try much harder than I have been trying, if ever I want to finish something again.

So anyway, Steampunky Thing. I thought I would scribble down some notes that have been floating in my brain.

Characters:

Ninava Prescott-Maple, aka Nine P.M. -- Afflicted from childhood with a disease similar to polio, she is now mostly confined to a wheelchair, though can walk with braces for short periods of time. Her rich parents are largely indulgent of her whims, causing her to grow up somewhat selfish and bossy. However, she also has a good side, in that she's very clever and wants to become a famous inventor like her father. She's sort of an anti-Nancy Drew type.

Emily Prescott-Maple -- Ninava's mother. A politician.

George Prescott-Maple -- Ninava's father. A famous inventor.

Roan Bells -- A refugee boy who managed to get the position of Ninava's caretaker by dressing up as a young woman. He's quite strong and idealistic, but somewhat uncultured and uneducated.

Trini -- Ninava's chauffeur and mechanic. From the mysterious "West Isles". She's in the "middle class' and is the only friend Ninava has ever really had. Wants to someday build luxury zeppelins. Kleptomaniac and easily star-struck.

James "Jimmy" Prescott aka Azaphael -- One of Ninava's cousins. Sort of a spooky-kid who believes in seances and ghosts and whatnot. A bit of a weakling and a "pansy", but very kind-hearted in his own way. Main hobby -- sewing.

Sebastian Haight -- Son of the Prescott-Maple neighbors. Sort of a womanizer and playboy, but that's just a cover for his boredom with society. He and Ninava are like sharp-clawed cats at each other. Flirts often with Roan to make Ninava jealous.

Alexander Haight -- Sebastian's chilly, anti-social, and reclusive twin-brother.

World:

The planet, Thera, holds three continents and a chain of island. One of the continents is a frozen wasteland. The other two continents are mostly at war with each other after continent A established a "homeland" for the Vannu on continent B. (Think Israel.) The Vannu worship Deius, the sky god. Continent A worships Oliran, the son of the sky god, associated with the soil. And Continent B worships Neris, the prophetess of the sky god, associated with water. The people of the West Isles have a religion somewhere between Buddhism and Animism.

Technology is highly prized as a pursuit, especially things which can be applied to the war effort. However, a focus on the war front has caused cities to become very London 1890s...polluted and filled with refugees, many of whom become sick off of the toxins in the factories or because of polluted water. There is also a high level of insanity, and many who come back from the war have to be put in asylums. Orphans abound and crime is rampant in most areas.

However, there are some good things. The government has made a special effort to put a radio in every home, even the poorest. Radio dramas are huge and provide inspiration to the masses. Basic education is free to all. And there are rumors that some of the new inventions, particularly those of George Prescott-Maple, may soon put an end to the war once and for all.

Anyway, that's all I've got for now. Should be fun to work on, I hope.

Writing.

2008-04-16T14:32:31Z

I wrote a bit yesterday, and while it wasn't remarkable, it wasn't completely horrible, either. I've been thinking in a steampunk direction. Some sort of collision of The Golden Compass, little Orphan Annie, and the Eyre Affair. With theme-elements from the Depression Era / WWII morphed with current events of Christians vs. Jews vs. Muslims. I suppose that's a lot of elements to mix, but there you go... There's no need to be ashamed of being inspired by this and that, as far as I can tell... We're all just giant pools, filled with the stories we have experienced. It's only natural to draw water from the nearest well.

On the Discovery Channel (or maybe it was History), they showed a program of what would happen if humans suddenly disappeared off of the planet. You know, that is so interesting. Within 10,000 years, there would be almost no trace of us. A few things would survive. The Pyramids, for example, will survive but will be buried under the dunes of the desert. It's somehow comforting to me that within such a short period of time, so very little could be left of what has been done here. Perhaps because it just goes to prove the futility of any biological imperatives, any creative whims whatsoever... Why do we have such a deep desire to leave our mark upon this world? Why do we strive and crave and search for some sort of cohesive "meaning" to our lives?

Anyway, I think I will write more on the steampunky thing today. It's about a working-class boy (who really is a girl) who gets a job as the caretaker of a spoiled, invalid girl (who happens to also be an aspiring inventor), and their friends and adventures in a war-torn land.

Story Idea:

2008-04-04T16:01:53Z

This was a story idea, though I also thought it would make a really good TV show. Okay, so...

At some unspecified time in the future, a girl wakes up to find that she's in a massive underground bunker with futuristic "pods" containing cryogenically frozen people. She has no idea who she is, or how she got there, but she manages to find instructions for waking the people up. One by one, she brings them out of stasis, but finds that many of them won't actually revive. Only about a dozen "wake-ups" are successful.

The people that are re-awoken are from different time periods starting from when cryogenics began and ranging 100 years in the future. Some of them immediately remember who they are. Others appear to have been struck with some sort of "thawing amnesia" which wears off slowly as time passes. Since they have little-to-no food, and the power appears to be rapidly failing, they decide to leave the bunker and begin to search for a way out.

The people encounter a large blast door with a timer on it. The timer seems to indicate that the door will open in 48 hours. The people use this time to explore the bunker for more food or indication of where/when they are. Some of them think that this might be far in the future, and are afraid of the door-opening because perhaps some terrible calamity has occured outside, like nuclear holocast or disease. Others hope that they will encounter a utopia on the outside or maybe aliens. Etc, etc.

When the door opens, the people find that they are in the wilderness, surrounded by mountains. There's a dirt road leading up into the mountains, but no vehicles, so they decide to hoof-it. The rest of the story is about their journey to find other humans and what has happened since they have been frozen.

Here are some potential characters:

1) The original girl who woke up. Perhaps she is some sort of android programmed to awaken when the fuel is running low in the bunker and wake everyone up. Except she doesn't -know- she's a computer, in that very Cylon sort of way.

2) An older couple who froze themselves while still alive. Maybe the woman had terminal cancer and the man didn't want to live without her, so they decided to both freeze themselves until science found a cure.

3) A religious fellow who was frozen by his family even though it was against his religion. (Perhaps he follows some interesting "future religion".)

4) Some sort of naturally-evolved human telepath who was frozen by scientists as a sort of "specimen".

5) Someone who looks very freaky, even alien-like, but has no recollection of who they are or why they look this way.

6) A person with schizophrenia or some other major psychosis.

7) A national hero or majorly famous person who is not remembered by anyone else in the group.

8) Someone mute and/or deaf who is like a bad-ass ninja-assassin type.

9) A housewife who dedicated her life to her family. But, not the family.

10) A science-type-nerd who is just WAY too positive about the situation, and very useful in coming up with solutions, but falls in love with #9 or perhaps #6 and is easily manipulated by them.

Anyway, that's the general idea. I think it would work good as a TV series. Sort of...Lost meets Futurama meets BSG. You know?

Digital Noir.

2008-03-06T16:43:58Z

Mint-colored clouds hung in the digital sky the day Juniper Jones walked into my office. I'd been doing no more than watching them morph gently across the sky, chewing a two-day-old wad of nanite gum (which had turned to a tepid watermelon flavor within the last few hours), and occasionally helping Pepper with her crossword puzzles. The constant hum of clacking from the Telepathic Yoga Studio next door intertwined with the dusty old ceiling fan to lull me into a half-sleep. Maybe that's why I didn't immediately recognize her when she walked into the office. Or, maybe it was the fact that she was so wrapped up in white furs, I mistook her for a polar bear.

She shed her coat like a rattlesnake on meth slips it's skin, leaving a big white pile of fluff at her feet. Only then did I recognize her, and I'm guessing Pepper did as well, since she folded her newspaper in half and skeedadled for the exit. "Gotta check the scores. Get ya coffee, boss," she called before the door clicked shut.

"Name's Juniper," the dame murmured in that low, husky, famous voice of hers, as soon as Pepper was gone. She was wearing something slinky and blue -- could have been made out of some other digital reality's sky. She had the money for it, surely. And her hair was the color of the 2014 Eastern Seaboard blackout, and just as chaotic. She made me want to riot, loot, and light a candle all at the same time.

"Yes ma'am, I know who you are."

"Men usually do. Mind?" She glanced at the chair in front of my desk, and sat down before I could give her permission. Not that I would have denied her the priviledge. It suddenly made so much sense why so many perverts chose chairs as avatars. "I know you, too."

"That's...surprising." My nanite gum was suddenly coffee flavored, and ridiculously hot. I coughed, and the entire glob dropped onto my desk. "Shit..." I tried to grab it, but it was already sticking to a pile of bills.

"That's the quickest I've ever made a man lose his wad." She didn't even smirk as she said it. In fact, she seemed a bit nervous, her gaze fixed on the yellowed blinds, or perhaps the minty sky beyond.

(To be continued!)

Story Idea

2008-01-25T20:32:25Z

While going through old URLs and notes, I found the following cryptically scribbled:

Write a story about Hell's bartender.

Intriguing.

Pawn Shop

2008-01-01T20:04:55Z

Title: Pawn Shop
Type: Short fiction.
Genre:Modern
Edits: First draft. Read-through edit. No spelling edit.

Pawn Shop

Janice Potts had her bare foot propped up on the counter when the door opened. It was a slender foot, with wonderfully shaped toes (except for the smallest one, which was a bit crooked-looking). And that pretty much described the rest of Janice, as well. Slender. Wonderfully shaped. And as morally crooked as a straight line drawn by an epileptic.

It was two-thirteen in the p.m., then. And two o'clock being the usual time for Janice to paint her toenails, she'd selected Maybelline's "Kissed Petal" and set to work. If she stretched it by reading ancient copies of Reader's Digest in between coats, this activity could last until her three o'clock smoke break.

Unless she had a customer, which was as rare an event as spotting an atheist in Buck Stop, Texas. But, in fact, Highway 17 Pawn was located only three miles north of that particular town. And, as far as Janice could tell, the man who had just walked into her store was no God-fearing Christian by any stretch of the imagination.

But, that was okay by Janice. Sure, she went to church in a quite regular fashion, but she hadn't done much fearing-of-God since the long before the Pastor knocked up little Sheila Anne Bardwell, and made the girl pay to "get rid of the problem" on her own. Which, of course, Janice knew all about since Shiela pawned her grandmother's silverware for the money.

The man stood almost at six feet, if the weathered height strip near the door was any indication. Hominy colored hair, with highlights that were just a smidgen too shiny. Despite the obscenely skimpy denim shorts, the man wore a thin windbreaker over a filmy-thin green shirt. Plus, he was wearing sandals. Janice didn't know too many men from Buck Stop who wore sandals, except for old Mr. Johnson, who tended to wear them over white socks whilst puttering around his garden.

As she stared, glob of color dripped off of the fingernail polish brush and onto the top of Janice's left foot. With a hiss, she dropped the brush back into the small bottle, twisted it shut, and hobbled off to the back to search for a rag or napkin. "I'll be right back. Have yourself a good look-see at what we got."

Janice muttered to herself as she limped over to the break table and grabbed several leftover Wendy's napkins. For once, something good actually came out of all of the crap Ted was always leaving on the table. She repeatedly swore that he was born in a barn built entirely out of cockroach dung. What a loser.

The bulk of the paint glob came up without much of a fight, but a resilient residue was left behind -- a blotchy miscolored patch on her otherwise lovely foot. With a scowl, Janice tossed the crumpled napkins onto the table, slipped her foot into the ten dollar flip-flops with the silk daisies on the straps, and made her way back to the front of the pawn shop. She'd take some polish remover after that splotchy section later.

Janice pushed aside the bead curtain between the front of the store and the back, but only by a few inches. Not quite enough to make the sort of jingling clickity-clackity noise which would announce her return. She spent a moment sizing up her customer. Beyond "not from around here", it was difficult to really tell much about him. And with the shades down, she couldn't get a good enough peek at his car. Somehow, she doubted he drove a jalopy.

He was bent over the glass display at the front, looking at the jewelry and perfumes. Most of the perfumes were just cheap ones, like Coty's "Sand and Sable" or Revlon's "Enjoli", poured out into prettier bottles that Janice picked up on eBay. She was constantly conning men into believing that stuff was European and high-class, a wonderful birthday present for their frumpy wives.

But, this guy... Didn't look like the sort of fellow with a ruddy-cheeked hausfrau waiting for him at home.

Unless... Maybe he wanted some perfume for himself?

Janice slid back onto her old wooden barstool, and re-adjusted the grimy plastic-bladed oscillating fan so that it was no longer blowing towards the counter. (She'd been using it to assist in quick-drying her toenails.)

"You lookin' for anything in particular?"

The man glanced up, but only for a second. He had shockingly blue eyes, Janice noticed, the kind of color you can only get artificially from contacts. She placed him in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, as the only real imperfections on his lightly tanned face were a half-inch scar to the side of his right eyebrow, and a pair of small moles about an inch apart on his left cheek.

"No, I'm just looking."

Janice somehow doubted it. Only Buck Stop townies ever came by just to browse. She affected a wan smile and cooed back a practiced and overly-Southern, "Well, you just let me know, darlin'."

She let her eyes drift back to the television at the end of the counter, where Dr. Phil was silently going through all of the motions of telling others how to fix their lives. Ted never did get around to fixing the sound on that one. For some reason it would bounce back and forth between volume zero and volume twenty. So, they kept the thing permanently on mute.

Janice actually liked working alone a lot more than having Ted around. When her husband, Bert Potts, died of a heart-attack in oh-three, leaving her as the owner of Highway 17 Pawn, she'd considered getting rid of Ted. Hire someone a little less...socially awkward. Someone who could help her make sales, or cover for her if she wanted to go down to Austin for an auction. Unfortunately, Ted was a whiz with just about anything broken. She knew she'd never be able to manage to sell anything if Ted didn't fix the busted crap people sold. So, she kept him around, even if he did (she swore) make eyes at her whenever she bent over the counter.

At least he was a decently hard worker. Always on time, and he hardly ever asked for an extra day off unless he was sick. Janice actually wished he'd take more time off. But, apparently, Ted didn't have much of a social life beyond online games and chat forums.

"Do you have any other rings? Besides the ones you've got here?"

"Sure," Janice replied, "I've got a few. Lemme go get them."

She always kept some of the jewelry in the safe, both because someone might try to rob the place, one of these days, and because people liked being brought stuff to look at "from the back". It made them feel important.

Janice went to the business office, and shuffled around her husband's old desk to get at the small safe he'd had bolted to the floor back in ninety-three. Careful so as not to chip a nail, she opened it and pulled out the tray of rings. The safe door was closed again with a nudge from Janice's foot, and then she made her way back out to the shop proper.

"Here you go, honey. You know what size you're looking for?"

"Eleven and a half..." The rest came out as an afterthought, blurted just a little too loudly to be comfortable. "...men's."

"A little skinny thing like you?" Janice placed the tray of rings on the counter, and then leaned over a bit, trying to get a better look at the man's hands. "Now, that can't be right, can it?"

For a moment, he looked as if his blood had suddenly coagulated into wood, and if not for the noise of the oscillating fan, Janice believed she might have heard his teeth clench together. "It's not for me," he finally replied, "It's for..."

Janice figured she had to prompt him, if she was going to get anywhere. "For?"

The man shook his head and tapped his index finger against the tray. "A man. I think I'm in love with him. I drove all the way out here from San Diego to tell him, but..."

It took Janice a moment to remember to prompt him again. She was just so astonished by the admission, that she'd taken up staring at the man as if he was a polka-dotted zebra. "But?"

"But, now that I'm looking at these rings, I sort of realize how ridiculous it is. I mean, this isn't like in the movies. Maybe he doesn't feel the same way about me. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who doesn't do the whole commitment thing. Just, you know," the man glanced up at Janice and had the decency to mutter the final word under his breath. "...sex."

Janice had to mull all of this over, and while she did, she shifted her weight and looked at the door. If another customer came in right now, or if Ted suddenly showed up for work, that would certainly spell the end of this conversation.

Now, it wasn't like Janice detested the gays. She didn't have much of a problem with it. When Bert used to tell her about "them faggots" he saw parading around Sixth Street in Austin, or complain about how "them homos" were "takin' over decent television", she mostly rolled her eyes and then proceeded to ignore him in favor of her Reader's Digest. She even had a
cousin, Freddy, who was a bit of a nancy-boy. Though, he was still a teenager, so there was no telling how he'd turn out in the end.

But, you just didn't get much of that around Buck Stop. Sure, there were rumors about some of the truckers that passed through. About how they'd pull over at the rest stops on the highway and do disgusting stuff to one another in the men's toilet or back out behind a tree, or whatever. But, that was just loneliness and the male condition, and had nothing at all to do with what this man was proposing -- an honest to goodness gay-ified romance.

Complete with a ring, if he had his dithers.

Of course, Janice did her best to take this all in stride. She forced a tiny smile, and reached up to sweep her immaculately-styled iron-straightened blonde bangs to the side. She'd always believed that there were three people in a town who knew everybody's business. The pastor, the bartender, and the pawnbroker. In just a few years, she'd heard just about every reason possible to sell off one's precious items for a bit of cash. Everything from "sick relative" to "broken truck" to "bail money". And they'd bought things for every reason under the sun, too. Birthdays and anniversaries, sure. But, Mrs. Helen Cooper once bought a pawned shotgun in order to shoot Mr. Cooper. Though, who could blame her? He had been cheating with that little tart of a secretary...

But, this story... The lovelorn gay man from San Diego, mulling over the possibility of rejection while poking at her rings with his perfectly manicured fingertips... This story was definitely beyond Janice's usual fare.

"I see," Janice replied slowly, as if she were talking to an emotionally fragile child. "Well, honey, that's just somethin' else."

The look the man gave her was slightly accusational, and definitely wary. "Let me guess," he murmured sourly, "I'm going to hell for wickedness, debauchery, perversion, sodomy..."

"That might right well be. It might be. But, I can't see as how where you spend your afterlife is any of my nevermind." Janice shrugged, and then crossed her arms over her chest. "Say, what's your name, hon?"

"Cole."

"Cole as in coleslaw? Or coal like a thing you burn for fuel?"

Cole frowned, the annoyance evident on his face. "The first one."

"Now that's right pretty. Cole." That was a lie, of course. Janice hated one-syllable names. They sounded too simple. Too blunt. That's why she always called her late husband "Berty". Ted, however, remained just "Ted". Simple and blunt suited that dork just fine, in Janice's opinion. "Ain't really my call to cast judgment on anybody. I'm just here to make money."

A minute amount of tension appeared to dissolve from Cole's shoulders, along with the defensive hostility that had cropped up in response to Janice's less-than-enthusiastic acceptance of Cole's revelation. Seeing this, Janice shifted to the side, putting herself more squarely in front of Cole. Behind him, the afternoon sun managed to cast long lines of gold through the slatted wooden blinds, leaving a square swath of stripes across not only the bicycle rack, but also a pair of barely-functional lawnmowers. The ambient dust in the pawn shop almost sparkled in the light, swished around not only by the oscillating fan on the desk, but also the crotchety old air-conditioning unit which sputtered like a smoker coughing every time it kicked on.

Cole returned to looking at the rings with interest, but Janice could tell from the little shift in his weight that she was losing his interest, probably not so much from the wares as from the unpredictability of his relationship's status. She needed to catch him. To somehow trap him into the purchase. A sale like this, and she might even treat herself to a new hairdo tomorrow.

"Now this one is right pretty," Janice murmured, pointing at a gold band with a hatch pattern on the edges with her pinky finger. "It's a little big, but you can always get it sized smaller by a jeweler."

"It looks a little too, you know..." Cole's voice was huffy, tinged with a bit of gruffness, "...too like a wedding band."

"That's not what you want?" Crap. She had guessed wrong. But, weren't they always having things on the TV about the gays trying to get themselves the right to marry one another? And from what Cole had said before, she had assumed he was looking for that sort of commitment. Janice had to stifle a giggle by biting the inside of her cheek. It really was just too funny to think about two men getting married. Which one would wear the dress and throw the bouquet? And how confusing it would be for the ushers... Having to ask if the guests were "a friend of the groom" or a "friend of the groom".

"No, I don't think we're quite ready..."

He didn't even get the rest of the statement out. Janice trod all over it by quickly switching her suggestion. "Oh! How about this one? Now isn't that subtle, but surprisin'ly elegant?" The silver ring had a thickness to it that only men's rings could have, making it all the more impressive. The center bore a square of onyx with the edges rounded off to give it a less brutal appearance. Janice tried to remember who had pawned it, but couldn't come up with an answer. Berty might have had it since before she met him.

"That one isn't bad, really," Cole replied, albeit a bit hesitantly.

Janice plucked the ring out of the black foam holder, along with the price tag attached to a bit of string, and handed it over to Cole. "You need some better light to look at it, honey? I got a lamp..." Now where had that lamp gone? Janice swore that if Ted stole it again for one of his little projects, she was gonna... Well, she was gonna give him a damn big piece of her mind.

"No, I don't need any extra light, really." He held it up to one of the sunbeams streaking through the ancient blinds, giving the silver a faintly yellowish tinge. "It's got some little scratches on it, though."

"Oh, I'll polish it up real nice for ya. 'Sides, who wants pristine jewelry? Somethin' with character, with history..." Even if she couldn't quite recall the history of this particular piece. If pressed, Janice could certaily make up something suitable (and believable). "...anybody can just spend money willy-nilly. But, it takes a real thoughtful person to find the gift that suits another person perfectly."

Or some Hallmark crap like that. Mostly that was nonsense, and Janice knew it. People wanted expensive gifts. Brand new things like them "iPods" or whatever. And diamonds. And Italian gloves. Only a real schmuck would stop at a pawn shop and buy a ring for his long-distance gay lover, Janice decided.

Cole turned over the ring, and flipped the little tag attached to it in the process. She could tell he was eyeballing the price. But, a mere eighty dollars?

"Oh, honey. That price ain't relevant to today's silver market. It's gonna be two hundred fifty."

Cole's eyes narrowed, and he flipped the tag towards Janice. "It says eighty dollars on the tag."

"Yes, well..." Janice spoke slowly again, infusing every word with just a little too much Southern effervescence. "That tag is real old, see? Faded and such? I gotta charge what the market will hold. And besides..."

Cole's eyebrows slowly raised in indignance at the meaningful "look" Janice was giving him. "Besides?"

"Well, you know. I can't just go sellin' rings at low prices to the gays. My shop might get a reputation. And now, while I ain't got nothin' against fags, some people 'round these parts ain't as educated and tolerant as the rest of us. You see?"

"What? You're raising the price because I'm gay? That's ridiculous!" His voice became increasingly strained with every word, and Janice swore she could see a bit of pink rising in his face. She wasn't worried, though. She had a shotgun under the counter, and even without it, Janice felt fairly sure she could hog tie this string-bean of a man in under a minute.

"Now, now... I just don't want other gays comin' in here, looking for rings. You know? What if this place gets known as some sort of fag store? And I end up havin' to put rainbow flags out in the window. Well, that'll warn off all of my god-fearin' Church-goin' customers, won't it? I can't very well make a livin' like that."

"You're... That's absurd. Do people really still think like that here?"

Janice watched his hands. Despite the fact that he was upset, Cole was holding onto that ring more tightly than ever. She even put her hand out, to see if he'd give it back. No. No, now he wanted the ring. Even moreso than ever. People were funny like that. Always wanting what they were told they couldn't have.

"I'm not paying two hundred and fifty dollars for this ring!"

"Hell, it's no skin off my back if you don't want it, honey. That's what I'm saying. Surely someone'll come along, sometime or other, lookin' to buy that exact thing."

"But, it's been in storage for years! The tag is faded. You said so, yourself."

"Yeah, well," Janice shrugged slightly, and leaned back, crossing her arms over her rather abundant chest. "I'm patient. Yup. We're real patient people round these parts."

Cole slammed the ring down on the counter, though not with anywhere near enough force to break the display glass. "Forget it! I'm reporting you to...to the Better Business Bureau. And..."

"You go right ahead and do what you gotta do, honey."

His gaze kept faltering, kept shifting away from her eyes and back toward the ring. Something kept him from storming out of the pawn shop. Janice just didn't know if it was the ring, or the insult of raising the price due to him being a queer.

Seconds passed in tense silence. Janice barely moved, but Cole kept shifting his weight and scrunching up his nose as if he smelled someone's garlic breath. A sputtering cough signaled the activation of the air conditioning unit, and the subsequent rush of cool air ruffled Cole's overly-styled hair. Janice forced her gaze to remain level, despite the fact that she truly would have preferred to spend the time watching Dr. Phil. Showdowns of will were boring, if the other combatant was a ninny.

"Fine." The word came out breathy, part of an exhalation that seemed to deflate the man. "I'll give you two hundred for it. Not a penny more."

"Deal!" Janice hopped off the stool and grabbed the ring from the table. "I'll go polish it up and find you a right nice ring box."

It wasn't difficult to find the silver polish. She kept it handy for the silverware sets as well as the jewelry. The ring box took a bit more time. Even though Janice kept them on stock, she hadn't sold a ring in so long, that they'd been put up for storage. She ended up using a velveteen necklace box, instead, and hoped Cole wouldn't care.

When she came back, Cole was tapping a thin stack of twenties on the counter, looking pleased with himself for having won the battle of wills. Janice figured every gay from here to San Diego would know about her shop before too long. But, that was fine with her, despite her earlier vocal protests. Money was money, and customers were customers. The people of Buck Stop weren't going to stop pawning their valuables for cash just because a few queers had wandered through the place.

"Now, here you go, hon." As she rang him up and wrote out the carbon-copy receipt, Cole took the small necklace box and pried it open. The thing made a creaking groan of protest, but Cole didn't appear to notice. He only smiled faintly at the ring, and at his triumph.

"He's going to love it," Cole said, less to Janice than to himself. "Ted's always telling me how he loves pawn shops and antique stores."

Janice glanced up from her writing, but bit her tongue so as not to echo the name. Ted. Ted? No, it couldn't be -that- Ted. Not the same dorky, overweight, googly-eyed Ted who lumbered into work each morning smelling of pizza-breath. Not Ted, with his greasy hair and his penchant for rambling about video games and action movies.

How could Ted be gay? But, more than that, how could anyone fall in love with that dork? It must be a different Ted.

Seconds later, the door chime ringed again, as Cole disappeared out into the hot Texas afternoon with his purchase and the receipt. Janice could only stare at the spot where he had once stood. Confusion reigned, but she considered the possibility. Ted? But, the way he ogled her... The way he stumbled over words when talking to her...

Not Ted.

The next morning, Janice found that her bumbling employee now smelled of cinnamon and apples. His greasy hair had been styled into something approaching civilized. On his hand was a large silver and onyx ring.

And Ted looked happier than Janice had ever seen.

Editing Note: Put in more descriptions of the pawn shop itself, and give the reader a better view of Janice. Find a place to insert the fact that Ted called in sick. Fix the ending to have a slower tempo so it doesn't feel so rushed.

Story Ideas.

2007-12-23T00:34:26Z

1) A story about a group of "whitewashers". The sort of people who are hired out to clean up someone's internet image. Be it a person, or a corporation, or politician... They change wiki entries, create false forum posts, make blogs...whatever is necessary to fix a scandalous reputation.

2) A story about a hardcore childfree person who is is constantly pestered by some bratty child in their neighborhood. They later see that child doing something highly dangerous, perhaps drowning or something? And since there is nobody around, they have a choice as to save the kid or not. Do they?

Short Story Idea.

2007-12-22T16:55:39Z

A private detective who makes money investigating online affairs, etc, in MMORPGs. A whole...virtual Sam Spade thing. Gibson-style.

W00t!

2007-12-13T17:28:03Z

"w00t" crowned word of year by U.S. dictionary:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20071212/od_nm/language_dc

Interesting.

2007-11-30T20:00:21Z

I had some ideas I've been swishing around, but...

This person wrote them, and more cleverly than I could ever attempt.

Some Questionable Etymology.

2007-11-23T20:31:47Z

Horrid words named after people.

Fashion In The Future.

2007-11-16T19:30:50Z

1) Haute Couture Fashion Designers will begin offering lines of prosthetic limbs and replacement organs. This will lead to an era of chic limbless models and a propensity for young girls to idolize "sawing". The queen of the fashion models will be a quadruple amputee from Brazil named "Jatoba" who drives Chanel's line of "lacy tentacle arms".

2) All clothing will be flame-retardant, function as a floation device, consumable, self-repairing, will create and dispense whatever medications you've been prescribed (leaking them directly into your skin), and will have a genetic code which can be scanned in place of a credit card. Clothing will be grown from seed packets in a small device that looks a little like a microwave. Eventually, clothing will become sentient and go on strike, leaving millions nude.

3) Humans will continue a trend towards hairlessness as Global Warming continues. Most people will begin putting solar collector cells on their bald heads and shoulders to power their iPods, cellphones, censortrons* and personal space indicators.

* A censortron is obviously a headband which will cause holographic black bars to appear over anything the viewer would find inappropriate, and will mute any dialog/sounds the user would find offensive. These "reality modifications" would only be apparent to the wearer of the censortron, who can program their preferences using their computer at home.

What if?

2007-11-12T16:54:38Z

What if reincarnation is Universal...and there are aliens?

It could mean that previous lives took place elsewhere...other solar systems, other planets. What if scientific advancement, or medical calamity, caused people to suddenly be able to access those former lives...what would come of it?

What if people started remembering how they farmed giant turnips on planet Vytkwik, scientific advancements from planet O17HFY, or the culture and philosophy of planet Turducken? What if people started killing themselves in order to space-travel...committing suicide on the chance that they'd be reincarnated on another planet?

And what about people who have never, just by chance, reincarnated from another planet? They've only ever lived on Earth, even in their past lives. Would they form some sort of highly-elitist hate-society?

Hmmmmmmmmm.

Yet another story idea.

Extremely Overdone Sci-Fi Idea.

2007-11-06T19:42:22Z

Three years after the Global Warming Apocalypse, humanity's rescuers arrive in the form of aliens with FUTURE-AWESOME TECHNOLOGY. They agree to install Atmospheric Stabilizers, but only if every human being they rescue from the post-apocalyptic wasteland donates a pint of blood to them, every month. The aliens are blood-drinkers, you see. But, they're benevolent blood-drinkers. Humans who choose not to participate get to continue to live in sections of the earth which are still wasteland. Some sections of the story could include:

1) A rogue alien that doesn't wait his turn for his blood ration. No, he just goes crazy and starts eating people.

2) Sick humans, and whether or not they get to participate. Perhaps blood diseases are cultivated as "especially tasty"? Or maybe they're considered an impurity. Or both. Maybe some of the aliens are "religious" and won't eat anything diseased, even if it is "especially tasty".

3) The measures the aliens take to keep the ratio of aliens-to-humans low enough so that everyone has food.

4) What happens when the constantly-humming atmospheric-stabilizers jack with the humans so that they start drinking blood, too?

Endless possibilities.

Concept.

2007-11-03T00:26:25Z

Write a series of short stories themed after spam subjects. For instance, if the subject of a spam was "WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?" then that would be the title/subject of your story.

Story Opening.

2007-11-01T23:54:03Z

Janice Potts had her bare foot propped up on the counter when the door opened. It was a slender foot, with wonderfully shaped toes (except for the smallest one, which was a bit crooked-looking). And that pretty much described the rest Janice, as well. Slender. Wonderfully shaped. And as morally crooked a straight line drawn by an epileptic.

NaNoWriMo -- Or, Rather NaAnWriMo.

2007-10-31T22:16:04Z

I think I am going to participate this year. Except, I'm not going to join any communities about it. Nor am I going to write a novel. I think, instead, I'm going to see how many short stories I can come up with in thirty days. I think if I can manage ten stories, I should have enough to put together with stories I've already written to pad out a decent anthology of around sixteen stories of 8-15 pages each.

I have so much energy right now, I could probably actually do it.

But, anyway...if I seem scarce in the next month, I'm probably just off writing stuff. Whee.

Halloween Poem

2007-10-31T01:21:49Z

Twisted like a cripple.

Misshapen.
...Desiccated.

Veins protruding grotesquely.

As lifeless a husk as
the lumbering, moaning mummy.

It scrapes along the sidewalk...

"Tsszzt. Tsssszzzt-t-t."

Ever closer to my door!

(As I'm peering
       wide-eyed
            through the peephole,
                  expecting strange and inhuman visitors.)

But, I never see it coming...

This solitary
       rust-colored
            dead autumn leaf.

                        Dry and discarded.
                        Scraping on concrete.
                        Blown by the wind.

Crushed underfoot.
By my small (gleeful) guests.