Wednesday, June 28, 2006
price is right song
Augh, lost my original post. Ah, well, there wasn't much content here anyway. I finished off yesterday's post. It's an abrupt ending, and I could probably flesh out the rest of it, but this is mostly just a daily brain dump anyway. I also observed that this blog is severely lacking in pictures--no one reads the actual text in these things, right? So here you go:
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
John started awake, his head snapping forward as he shook off the feeling of vertigo. It wasn't like him to fall asleep at his desk, and now he had a crick in his neck. He massaged the back of his neck with one hand and peered up over his cubicle wall, hoping no one had caught him asleep. No one was around, fortunately. He sunk back down and stared at his computer screen, bleary eyed. He jumped again, startled as his phone rang. He put the receiver to his ear and rambled off his standard Monday morning greeting, the one that sounded like one long word. "'GmorningprocessinJohnspeakingcanIhelpyou".
The line was dead. He opened his mouth to inquire hello and winced, as a burst of static exploded in his ear. He pulled the receiver away and glared at it, then slammed it down, annoyed. He paused for a second--it was deathly silent in the cube farm. No typing, no quiet drumbeats tapping from headphones somewhere. The watercooler was usually the center of traffic at this point in the day. He shivered involuntarily. Listening to his own breathing for several seconds, he strained to pick out the sound of rustling paper or background phone conversations--nothing. His phone shattered the stillness, the ring causing him to jump again. He picked up the phone, waited a full breath-- "Hello?" Static again, scratchy and harsh. Slamming the phone down he jumped to his feet, peering around. Nothing.
He took several tenative steps into the cube farm, looking at his neighbors desk. Outlook was up on the screen, coffee was steaming in the #1 Dad mug on the desk, but Bill wasn't there. He looked around again and opened his mouth to call out when Bill's phone began to shrill, high-pitched and insistent. John lifted the receiver off the cradle, "Bill's desk, John speak-" The crash of static assaulted his ear. His head swam. He slammed the phone down, started down the aisle somewhat panicked now, calling out: "Hello! Anyone there? Hello!" At each desk in turn, as he passed, the phone began to ring. He dropped into a dead run as each phone lit up behind him, a cacophony of simultaneous rings, the decible level increasing as every phone in the room lit up. It became almost unbearable as he reached the hallway. As he was about to cross the threshold, the phones cut out. Dead silence reigned again. Mid-stride he paused, turning to look over his shoulder.
Every single monitor in the room simultaneously dropped into a static pattern. He almost anticipated what happened next: Grating static from every single speaker. He covered his ears with both hands and bolted.
He was halfway through the building before he realized he was screaming with the voices that began to emerge in the static patterns--wailing painful cries. He heard "No, please--don't come any closer!" from Sales, sickeninig thuds and pops from Marketing. He reached the foyer in a desperate bid to flee the building and the escalating sounds of horror.
Bursting through the heavy glass doors of the building's main entrance, he had only a moment to register the truck before it smashed into him, sending him through the air to crash into the pavement. The employees emerging from the new conference room were shocked to discover that John had ran out into traffic rather than the conference room, where his surprise birthday party had been set up.
The line was dead. He opened his mouth to inquire hello and winced, as a burst of static exploded in his ear. He pulled the receiver away and glared at it, then slammed it down, annoyed. He paused for a second--it was deathly silent in the cube farm. No typing, no quiet drumbeats tapping from headphones somewhere. The watercooler was usually the center of traffic at this point in the day. He shivered involuntarily. Listening to his own breathing for several seconds, he strained to pick out the sound of rustling paper or background phone conversations--nothing. His phone shattered the stillness, the ring causing him to jump again. He picked up the phone, waited a full breath-- "Hello?" Static again, scratchy and harsh. Slamming the phone down he jumped to his feet, peering around. Nothing.
He took several tenative steps into the cube farm, looking at his neighbors desk. Outlook was up on the screen, coffee was steaming in the #1 Dad mug on the desk, but Bill wasn't there. He looked around again and opened his mouth to call out when Bill's phone began to shrill, high-pitched and insistent. John lifted the receiver off the cradle, "Bill's desk, John speak-" The crash of static assaulted his ear. His head swam. He slammed the phone down, started down the aisle somewhat panicked now, calling out: "Hello! Anyone there? Hello!" At each desk in turn, as he passed, the phone began to ring. He dropped into a dead run as each phone lit up behind him, a cacophony of simultaneous rings, the decible level increasing as every phone in the room lit up. It became almost unbearable as he reached the hallway. As he was about to cross the threshold, the phones cut out. Dead silence reigned again. Mid-stride he paused, turning to look over his shoulder.
Every single monitor in the room simultaneously dropped into a static pattern. He almost anticipated what happened next: Grating static from every single speaker. He covered his ears with both hands and bolted.
He was halfway through the building before he realized he was screaming with the voices that began to emerge in the static patterns--wailing painful cries. He heard "No, please--don't come any closer!" from Sales, sickeninig thuds and pops from Marketing. He reached the foyer in a desperate bid to flee the building and the escalating sounds of horror.
Bursting through the heavy glass doors of the building's main entrance, he had only a moment to register the truck before it smashed into him, sending him through the air to crash into the pavement. The employees emerging from the new conference room were shocked to discover that John had ran out into traffic rather than the conference room, where his surprise birthday party had been set up.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Ethanoloholic.
I read an article on CNN this morning that said the frequency of negative posts made by bloggers regarding gas prices is up. Well, dur. A full tank of gas has more than doubled in an extremely short time, of course there's going to be a lot of negativity about it. The article then proceeds to break down by demograph who is upset about said gas prices. It's impacted everyone, fresh out of college grad and Fifty-something alike; obviously the younger crowd is hit harder, as we have to cut costs in critical places to eat the higher prices. I find it amusing that the government proposed 100 dollar rebate vouchers for gas. Big deal, I blow through that in a week and a half in my Accord, which gets very good gas mileage. Decide whether the vastly inflated price is justified under free market, or regulate it--either way, Americans will cope without a useless government rebate. The optimist in me wonders if a mass boycott of gas for several days would have any affect at all on prices. I bet it would.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
tumbleweed
WC games
So I've caught a couple World Cup games this past week-- US and Italy, and Brazil and Australia. Pretty cool. I'm actually looking forward to zipping out of here at 9 to catch the games at 10. As we speak, beer is chilling in the fridge in preparation. I wish soccer had more of a following here in the states, or at least more television airtime. It's a nice change of pace from the typical Baseball/Football fare, and I don't agree with the 'long uneventful periods' sentiment. It can get a bit slow when things are being played defensively, i.e lots of midfield passing, but what sport doesn't have its slow periods or downtimes? Baseball has plenty of pitchings-around the batter, posturings and constant pick-off attempts to first; Football can degrade into a back-and-forth punting competition in the middle of the field.
Hopefully the US does well today and Italy kicks butt--maybe all we need is a little hype and exposure to generate more of an interest in professional soccer in this country
I was looking at 1up.com today. They have a bunch of user blogs there, one of which caught my eye. The writer had been fired from his job for showing up to work an hour late. That's pretty harsh--I wonder what line of work he was in? It makes me even more grateful for the relaxed atmosphere here at my job.
I'd also like to plug the 1upshow. I've been watching it regularly every week, its got good content and is entertaining.
I don't think I'll be writing anything creatively this week. There's no spark today.
So I've caught a couple World Cup games this past week-- US and Italy, and Brazil and Australia. Pretty cool. I'm actually looking forward to zipping out of here at 9 to catch the games at 10. As we speak, beer is chilling in the fridge in preparation. I wish soccer had more of a following here in the states, or at least more television airtime. It's a nice change of pace from the typical Baseball/Football fare, and I don't agree with the 'long uneventful periods' sentiment. It can get a bit slow when things are being played defensively, i.e lots of midfield passing, but what sport doesn't have its slow periods or downtimes? Baseball has plenty of pitchings-around the batter, posturings and constant pick-off attempts to first; Football can degrade into a back-and-forth punting competition in the middle of the field.
Hopefully the US does well today and Italy kicks butt--maybe all we need is a little hype and exposure to generate more of an interest in professional soccer in this country
I was looking at 1up.com today. They have a bunch of user blogs there, one of which caught my eye. The writer had been fired from his job for showing up to work an hour late. That's pretty harsh--I wonder what line of work he was in? It makes me even more grateful for the relaxed atmosphere here at my job.
I'd also like to plug the 1upshow. I've been watching it regularly every week, its got good content and is entertaining.
I don't think I'll be writing anything creatively this week. There's no spark today.
Friday, June 09, 2006
stream of consciousness day (i've been slacking)
characteristics of the w/land
unkempt unrenowned
push daisies beyond the aether
approximate estimations incinerate
fabricated facsimiles
perpetrated by pernicious philanthropists
surreptitiously soliciting
voraciously insatiable aspirations
unkempt unrenowned
push daisies beyond the aether
approximate estimations incinerate
fabricated facsimiles
perpetrated by pernicious philanthropists
surreptitiously soliciting
voraciously insatiable aspirations
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Antisocial.
Bleugh. I wonder what's with not wanting to talk lately. I'm content lately to just hide in the corner and not be bothered.
Sharp, stabbing pain in his side. Every day for the past two weeks now, he'd been elbowed, shoved, stepped on by the asshole of the lunch table, Barry. It wasn't enough he only knew one person in the whole room of two hundered kids, and sat there trying to look inconspicuous and fit in. Now the big tough guy of the table had to start picking on him every single day. Tom pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and frowed at his tuna fish. There was a note from Mom--probably a 'I love you have a good day' deal she embarassed him with on a monthly basis. He quickly covered it with the baggie of Oreo's in his lunch and hoped no one had noticed.
Barry started talking loudly at the far end of the table, taking great care to ensure the adjoing lunchers heard how he had banged Stacey Watson this past weekend, how she had moaned how much bigger his cock was than her football-captain boyfriend. Tom winced again and tried to focus on his sandwich. At the edge of peripheral vision he noticed Barry stretch and start to get up, announcing he had to choke the one eyed snake. Tom braced for the blow he knew was coming in the form of a feigned stumble or trip, a calculated fist or elbow just accidentally happing to jab him in the kidneys. This time was gonna be different, Tom was ready for it this time. The blow came, sudden and low, Barrys balled fist about to strike in the predicted spot--until Tom shifted in his seat, deflecting the fist down and away with his elbow. Tom stood up sharply and struck underneath Barrys chin with an open palm, snapping his neck back and sending him toppling over backwards, crashing into the table behind sending some poor kids mashed potatoes everywhere.
>.< argh, gotta go.. maybe finished later.
Sharp, stabbing pain in his side. Every day for the past two weeks now, he'd been elbowed, shoved, stepped on by the asshole of the lunch table, Barry. It wasn't enough he only knew one person in the whole room of two hundered kids, and sat there trying to look inconspicuous and fit in. Now the big tough guy of the table had to start picking on him every single day. Tom pushed his glasses back up onto his nose and frowed at his tuna fish. There was a note from Mom--probably a 'I love you have a good day' deal she embarassed him with on a monthly basis. He quickly covered it with the baggie of Oreo's in his lunch and hoped no one had noticed.
Barry started talking loudly at the far end of the table, taking great care to ensure the adjoing lunchers heard how he had banged Stacey Watson this past weekend, how she had moaned how much bigger his cock was than her football-captain boyfriend. Tom winced again and tried to focus on his sandwich. At the edge of peripheral vision he noticed Barry stretch and start to get up, announcing he had to choke the one eyed snake. Tom braced for the blow he knew was coming in the form of a feigned stumble or trip, a calculated fist or elbow just accidentally happing to jab him in the kidneys. This time was gonna be different, Tom was ready for it this time. The blow came, sudden and low, Barrys balled fist about to strike in the predicted spot--until Tom shifted in his seat, deflecting the fist down and away with his elbow. Tom stood up sharply and struck underneath Barrys chin with an open palm, snapping his neck back and sending him toppling over backwards, crashing into the table behind sending some poor kids mashed potatoes everywhere.
>.< argh, gotta go.. maybe finished later.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Alone.
It's another tough day to squeeze a post in. Sitting at the open desk where you're in full view requires some artful window re-sizing. Anyway, I've run out of steam (har har) as far as yesterday's post goes. Ideas for continuing haven't been forthcoming, so I've been sitting here attempting to come up with something new.
Some type of prompt would be marvelous.
The brittle, hacking cough reverberated between the two tall brick buildings. Shuffling through the trash strewn alley, the ragged homeless man paused briefly again, coughing to the point of convulsions; he retched up the evening's liquid breakfast, spattering another layer of filth onto a grimy dumpster. Clutching his stomach, he staggered out into the pre-dawn murk, lurching in fits and starts to the closest city bus stop. He claimed the single bench as his own, stretching out with a shuddering moan. The clock rolled over to the daily commute hour, summoning the city's denizens to work. As they surged around him he stretched out a single hand, palm up in mute petition, seeking help that would never arrive. The milling flow of human traffic ignored his plight, their eyes sliding over his supine form, noses raised or pinched in distaste, gaits sped up to bypass the wasted form.
He expired there on the scuffed plastic bench. Frozen in silent plea, arm raised--the day wore on. Municpial workers eventually arrived and gathered up his rigid form once the smell became too great. No footnote in the obituaries was logged that evening or the next, no blurb on the six o clock news--just a splattered crust of vomit on a dumpster marked his passing.
Some type of prompt would be marvelous.
The brittle, hacking cough reverberated between the two tall brick buildings. Shuffling through the trash strewn alley, the ragged homeless man paused briefly again, coughing to the point of convulsions; he retched up the evening's liquid breakfast, spattering another layer of filth onto a grimy dumpster. Clutching his stomach, he staggered out into the pre-dawn murk, lurching in fits and starts to the closest city bus stop. He claimed the single bench as his own, stretching out with a shuddering moan. The clock rolled over to the daily commute hour, summoning the city's denizens to work. As they surged around him he stretched out a single hand, palm up in mute petition, seeking help that would never arrive. The milling flow of human traffic ignored his plight, their eyes sliding over his supine form, noses raised or pinched in distaste, gaits sped up to bypass the wasted form.
He expired there on the scuffed plastic bench. Frozen in silent plea, arm raised--the day wore on. Municpial workers eventually arrived and gathered up his rigid form once the smell became too great. No footnote in the obituaries was logged that evening or the next, no blurb on the six o clock news--just a splattered crust of vomit on a dumpster marked his passing.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Hoo-ah..
So, here it is Monday (er..tuesday) morning, and I'm ready to quit posting. I think I have a three day expiration. Insert one day to slack or a weekend, and I'll never look back.
Speaking of the weekend, all I did was play WoW. I was initially going to call the 'rents and spend Sunday there, but after I woke up on Sunday I felt blah. Its funny--it wasn't all that long ago that having to stay at home all weekend with my parents was the worst thing in the world. Now its something to look forward to. It doesn't help that all my old friends are either a)Pretending they're still sixteen and are, therefore, total assholes or b) have fled the state.
Anyway, I need some sort of writing excercise.
Also I need to link this vid site, it's got some funny stuff on there. Tomorrow most likely, I'm not on the correct computer.
It's pretty tough to write in here today. Lots of traffic. Hoo, lotta traffic. Arr.
I suppose I can look busy just typing. Typing away, typing away. Laa dee daa. Hmm, steampunk. I love steampunk.
Boiling to the point of violence, the water in the metal bladder erupted in gout of shrieking steam, which billowed into the catch as the freshly oiled gears began turning. Gideon wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his arm, unknowingly leaving a smear of black grease. He dropped the heavy iron wrench and it clanged loudly as it bounced once off the metal grating. Rocking back on his heels, he cast an expert’s eye over the intricate construction--levers primed and operating, steam valves exhaling pressure, various gauges showing optimal operating temperatures and calibrations.
More later..
Rubbing his hands in anticipation, he adjusted an oscillator here, a tension regulator (condensor) there. Like a father doting over a newborn, his ministrations were gentle and caring, careful not to harm the construct yet performing the necessary minutiae and adjustments to ensure its functionality. Again the exhaust port of the hulking iron and copper behemoth rattled, then erupted in a gout of steam, the catch absorbing the majority of the moisture and returning it to the boiler. Oscillators spun faster and faster and the giant coiled springs on the constructs arms tightened and pulled back. Twin lamps in the sockets winked on and the huge tesla coils emerging from its shoulders began to crackle and spark, arcs of electrical energy leaping across and charging the air.
The hairs on Gideon’s arms stood on end as the mechanical man came to life, servos and actuators propelling it to its feet. It stood there, a thing of burnished metal beauty, alive and functioning--breathing even, the bellows in its chest pumping its steam lifeblood throughout the inner workings of its frame.
A week ago the prospect of this creature standing on its own was unfathomable. Constantly feeding it coal to keep the fires burning was a logistical nightmare in itself, never mind positioning it to keep the water in the boiler hot enough to produce steam. Musings and documentation of the inventor Tesla had come in via the Post, and it wasn't long before Gideon had a working copy of his coils and condenser storage apparatus.
Gideon had programmed a series of punch cards that delivered certain generic instructions to the mechanical man. These were simple follow, defend, lift and carry commands for menial tasks. However, this would be invaluable—the construct would not get tired, for it possessed great strength and fortitude. He possessed amazing potential to serve the greater good, this mechanical man of his.
Heh, mechanical man. He would have to come up with a suitable name for the hulking behemoth. He scratched the unshaven stubble at his jaw, musing on a name. It would have to be something dignified of course—his construct was of course the quintessential gentleman, stove pipe hat, monocle, and waistcoat. Perhaps Thaddeus? Thaddeus Moebius Boilerplate.
“Splendid, Mr. Thaddeus. You are looking rather splendid this morning. Let’s take a short stroll around the villa, give our legs a bit of a stretch.”
He inserted the rolodex of punch cards into the constructs frame, delivering the basic instructions and command set to ‘follow’.
Gideon stepped out of the barn his workshop was contained in, into the bright morning sunlight. He turned and squinted into the murky shadows of the barn; eyes already adjusted to the light, and raised his goggles up onto his forehead.
With a whirr and a hiss, Thaddeus ambled into the daylight, his cheerful grin permanently affixed to his metal face. He seemed almost alive, this creation of his; but then the sun struck his burnished black and copper frame and all illusions caused by shadows dissipated.
They strolled down the road, early summer in evidence. Butterflies and honeybees flitted amongst the tall grasses and wildflowers along the road, a warm breeze stirring the leaves of a single tree. He wished he could follow the construct to observe it—as it was he kept casting glances over his shoulder in unbelief.
They came to the end of his drive, and turned onto the street proper. How would people react?
Hmm, not bad. Only 700 or so words, but not bad for warmups I suppose. I have only a vague idea where to go with it.
Speaking of the weekend, all I did was play WoW. I was initially going to call the 'rents and spend Sunday there, but after I woke up on Sunday I felt blah. Its funny--it wasn't all that long ago that having to stay at home all weekend with my parents was the worst thing in the world. Now its something to look forward to. It doesn't help that all my old friends are either a)Pretending they're still sixteen and are, therefore, total assholes or b) have fled the state.
Anyway, I need some sort of writing excercise.
Also I need to link this vid site, it's got some funny stuff on there. Tomorrow most likely, I'm not on the correct computer.
It's pretty tough to write in here today. Lots of traffic. Hoo, lotta traffic. Arr.
I suppose I can look busy just typing. Typing away, typing away. Laa dee daa. Hmm, steampunk. I love steampunk.
Boiling to the point of violence, the water in the metal bladder erupted in gout of shrieking steam, which billowed into the catch as the freshly oiled gears began turning. Gideon wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his arm, unknowingly leaving a smear of black grease. He dropped the heavy iron wrench and it clanged loudly as it bounced once off the metal grating. Rocking back on his heels, he cast an expert’s eye over the intricate construction--levers primed and operating, steam valves exhaling pressure, various gauges showing optimal operating temperatures and calibrations.
More later..
Rubbing his hands in anticipation, he adjusted an oscillator here, a tension regulator (condensor) there. Like a father doting over a newborn, his ministrations were gentle and caring, careful not to harm the construct yet performing the necessary minutiae and adjustments to ensure its functionality. Again the exhaust port of the hulking iron and copper behemoth rattled, then erupted in a gout of steam, the catch absorbing the majority of the moisture and returning it to the boiler. Oscillators spun faster and faster and the giant coiled springs on the constructs arms tightened and pulled back. Twin lamps in the sockets winked on and the huge tesla coils emerging from its shoulders began to crackle and spark, arcs of electrical energy leaping across and charging the air.
The hairs on Gideon’s arms stood on end as the mechanical man came to life, servos and actuators propelling it to its feet. It stood there, a thing of burnished metal beauty, alive and functioning--breathing even, the bellows in its chest pumping its steam lifeblood throughout the inner workings of its frame.
A week ago the prospect of this creature standing on its own was unfathomable. Constantly feeding it coal to keep the fires burning was a logistical nightmare in itself, never mind positioning it to keep the water in the boiler hot enough to produce steam. Musings and documentation of the inventor Tesla had come in via the Post, and it wasn't long before Gideon had a working copy of his coils and condenser storage apparatus.
Gideon had programmed a series of punch cards that delivered certain generic instructions to the mechanical man. These were simple follow, defend, lift and carry commands for menial tasks. However, this would be invaluable—the construct would not get tired, for it possessed great strength and fortitude. He possessed amazing potential to serve the greater good, this mechanical man of his.
Heh, mechanical man. He would have to come up with a suitable name for the hulking behemoth. He scratched the unshaven stubble at his jaw, musing on a name. It would have to be something dignified of course—his construct was of course the quintessential gentleman, stove pipe hat, monocle, and waistcoat. Perhaps Thaddeus? Thaddeus Moebius Boilerplate.
“Splendid, Mr. Thaddeus. You are looking rather splendid this morning. Let’s take a short stroll around the villa, give our legs a bit of a stretch.”
He inserted the rolodex of punch cards into the constructs frame, delivering the basic instructions and command set to ‘follow’.
Gideon stepped out of the barn his workshop was contained in, into the bright morning sunlight. He turned and squinted into the murky shadows of the barn; eyes already adjusted to the light, and raised his goggles up onto his forehead.
With a whirr and a hiss, Thaddeus ambled into the daylight, his cheerful grin permanently affixed to his metal face. He seemed almost alive, this creation of his; but then the sun struck his burnished black and copper frame and all illusions caused by shadows dissipated.
They strolled down the road, early summer in evidence. Butterflies and honeybees flitted amongst the tall grasses and wildflowers along the road, a warm breeze stirring the leaves of a single tree. He wished he could follow the construct to observe it—as it was he kept casting glances over his shoulder in unbelief.
They came to the end of his drive, and turned onto the street proper. How would people react?
Hmm, not bad. Only 700 or so words, but not bad for warmups I suppose. I have only a vague idea where to go with it.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Insert apathetic noise: [Here]
Blugh. I wrote this for the 'Drabbles' thread over at www.evilavatar.com in the writing forum, but I think its a little too personal for posting there. Personal as in autobiographical. Plus, it blows. It's also supposed to be 100 words, but I've hit 106 and don't feel like cutting anything. EDIT: I trimmed it down to 100, and I think it may actually be better for it. Huzzah.
---------------------------------------------------
When I'm out of here, I'm heading straight to the gym. All this sitting around drinking coke and pushing papers is playing havoc on my body--I swear I've gained twenty pounds in the last six weeks.Afterwards, my mechanic’s giving my Honda an enema; it drives like pure, unadulterated shit lately. I tick through my mental chore list: haircut, pile of bills on the coffee table, backed up toilet in the half-bath.
My will falters as I walk through the door and slump in my computer chair.
Tomorrow is going to be different.
-------------------------------------------------------
I guess I'll let it percolate a bit more. If I still don't want to gouge my eyes out after reading it tomorrow, maybe I'll deign to grace their forums with my amazing wit and literary prowess.
Get it? Tomorrow? Hah.
Riiiiight.
---------------------------------------------------
When I'm out of here, I'm heading straight to the gym. All this sitting around drinking coke and pushing papers is playing havoc on my body--I swear I've gained twenty pounds in the last six weeks.Afterwards, my mechanic’s giving my Honda an enema; it drives like pure, unadulterated shit lately. I tick through my mental chore list: haircut, pile of bills on the coffee table, backed up toilet in the half-bath.
My will falters as I walk through the door and slump in my computer chair.
Tomorrow is going to be different.
-------------------------------------------------------
I guess I'll let it percolate a bit more. If I still don't want to gouge my eyes out after reading it tomorrow, maybe I'll deign to grace their forums with my amazing wit and literary prowess.
Get it? Tomorrow? Hah.
Riiiiight.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Woah..no posts since October? That was eight months ago. Scary. WoW needs a disclaimer on it: worse for you then heroin. You quite literally lose months of your life at a time. Let's measure my free time in virtual accomplishments, shall we? 60 NE Rogue, PvP Rank 9 on Dark Iron. 180 Fire Resist. Three piece NS set bonus, Perdition's Blade and Scarlet Kris, +5 damage and +15 Agi enchants, respectively. Full profile is here: http://ctprofiles.net/489119
More to follow tomorrow. There really isn't any excuse for me to neglect some semblance of a daily writing excercise, and I figure this is as good attempt as any to grease the ol' wheels up again. Perhaps I can even post here with impunity, since I'm sure no one reads this anyway.
More to follow tomorrow. There really isn't any excuse for me to neglect some semblance of a daily writing excercise, and I figure this is as good attempt as any to grease the ol' wheels up again. Perhaps I can even post here with impunity, since I'm sure no one reads this anyway.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Er..hm
Still here! Playing teh WoWzors again. (insert cry for help) I plan on writing a bit at some point. Honest. No really, I am this time... Stay tuned.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
I like to read the pictures.
This is either pure genius or sheer lunacy. However, everyone thought the DS was a joke at first too, so they may actually be onto something here. With that said, this is hilarious if a bit extreme.They've said that old NES games will be available, and if you rotate the controller it becomes an old school NES pad. My old Nintendo is lost somewhere in the bowels of my parents home, so this is a feature I'd be interested in. I still have yet to introduce Super Mario Bros. to my daughter; this looks a lot less frustrating than Ebaying a Nintendo and reliving the nightmare of blowing in the cart, then carefully aligning it in the deck to obtain the mythical position the game will actually run in.
It's time for a bit of WoW now I think. The random plot generated story wasn't all that great anyway. OMG BUGZ!!!!!!!!!!!11111111111111111oneoneoneo!1
Monday, September 19, 2005
Yarr, there be insects here.
Let’s give the interactive random plot generator a whirl.
Ira pulled his collar up against the bitter wind gusting through the empty streets of the city. The air carried the scent of a faint salt tang with it, prompting Ira to recall the long journey across the ocean to the unfamiliar land. His small ship had wrecked on a reef in the unfamiliar waters, spilling its contents and his companions of many years into the roiling depths.
He pushed the pain of loss to the back of his mind and focused instead on his surroundings, the mysteriously vacant city. Apparently once a bustling and prosperous burg, a cursory inspection had revealed long vacated homes and storefronts, occupants and belongings packed and shuffled away as if in anticipation of some incoming crisis.
All he had was the clothes on his back and a will to survive. The sun was rapidly sinking in the sky, and his main thought was to find food and shelter for the night until he could locate other members of his crew—if they were still alive.
Stopping at the street corner Ira gazed up at a crumbling skyscraper, odd perforations decorating its face. The holes were ragged and gaping, as if a giant fist had punched at random, tearing the innards out of the building. He shivered and took a couple steps sparing another glance over his shoulder at the desiccated building.
His toe caught on something and he pitched forward, barely regaining his balance. In the middle of the street was a gaping hole, the ground erupted and round. Marveling at the size and destruction, he gingerly stepped over slabs of concrete and asphalt, circumventing the chasm and wondering what could cause such destruction. His pulse quickened and he began to hurry, casting about for signs of possible refuge as the darkness grew greater and greater.
The ground began to vibrate, so subtle that Ira barely even noticed it at first. The tremors grew in strength until the ground was shaking and he had trouble keeping his footing. Barely able to see his hand in front of his face, he gave up on shelter or even escaping and plunged into the closest domicile. Tripping over something lying in the doorway in his haste, he recoiled in horror as the faint white glow of bone came into view in the dying light. It was a skeleton, picked clean and rattling slightly from the shaking ground, the shadowy lump of a pack nearby. Ira edges around the body and picks up the bag, recognizing it as part of the camping gear of one of his expedition. Someone had escaped the wreck! There’s a flashlight, and he turns on the beam, panning it around the room and finally out the window. It reflects off a pulsating white albino mass, a huge wormlike creature edging slowly down the street, each rhythmic pulsation causing the ground to shake.
Suddenly there’s a low thrumming buzz. Ira strains his ears and wildly flicks the light around, panicked now. There’s a bird in the room, then another. Almost instantly there are hundreds of the creatures, revealed in the light as huge grotesque insects, which violently swarm away from the light whenever the beam touches them. He can feel them around him now, beating their iridescent wings. Panicked, he starts to crawl for the exit in an attempt to get away from the huge bugs. Suddenly one slams into his chest, knocking him back and the flashlight away, drawing blood. Desperately he pulls himself towards the light, his only defense against the bugs, one arm attempting to fend off the swarming, stabbing insects. His last sight is the shadow cast on the wall of the largest of the monstrous, mutated insects before it plunges its mandibles into his eyes. The thrashing and flailing of his body quickly subsides as the sightless insects finish devouring his flesh and wing back out into the night, searching for more prey.
==============================================
Yeah, I sort of ran out of ideas where to go, so I killed him. This is my little brainstorm of what he couldn’t get away from. I think it would’ve been more fun to have Godzilla stomping through the city and shrieking, though.
WHAT CAN'T HE ESCAPE:
Zombies
Natives
Ghosts
GODZILLA
Giant hungry bugs!
“a city across the sea”
“an explorer”
“your character can’t escape”
“an explorer”
“your character can’t escape”
Ira pulled his collar up against the bitter wind gusting through the empty streets of the city. The air carried the scent of a faint salt tang with it, prompting Ira to recall the long journey across the ocean to the unfamiliar land. His small ship had wrecked on a reef in the unfamiliar waters, spilling its contents and his companions of many years into the roiling depths.
He pushed the pain of loss to the back of his mind and focused instead on his surroundings, the mysteriously vacant city. Apparently once a bustling and prosperous burg, a cursory inspection had revealed long vacated homes and storefronts, occupants and belongings packed and shuffled away as if in anticipation of some incoming crisis.
All he had was the clothes on his back and a will to survive. The sun was rapidly sinking in the sky, and his main thought was to find food and shelter for the night until he could locate other members of his crew—if they were still alive.
Stopping at the street corner Ira gazed up at a crumbling skyscraper, odd perforations decorating its face. The holes were ragged and gaping, as if a giant fist had punched at random, tearing the innards out of the building. He shivered and took a couple steps sparing another glance over his shoulder at the desiccated building.
His toe caught on something and he pitched forward, barely regaining his balance. In the middle of the street was a gaping hole, the ground erupted and round. Marveling at the size and destruction, he gingerly stepped over slabs of concrete and asphalt, circumventing the chasm and wondering what could cause such destruction. His pulse quickened and he began to hurry, casting about for signs of possible refuge as the darkness grew greater and greater.
The ground began to vibrate, so subtle that Ira barely even noticed it at first. The tremors grew in strength until the ground was shaking and he had trouble keeping his footing. Barely able to see his hand in front of his face, he gave up on shelter or even escaping and plunged into the closest domicile. Tripping over something lying in the doorway in his haste, he recoiled in horror as the faint white glow of bone came into view in the dying light. It was a skeleton, picked clean and rattling slightly from the shaking ground, the shadowy lump of a pack nearby. Ira edges around the body and picks up the bag, recognizing it as part of the camping gear of one of his expedition. Someone had escaped the wreck! There’s a flashlight, and he turns on the beam, panning it around the room and finally out the window. It reflects off a pulsating white albino mass, a huge wormlike creature edging slowly down the street, each rhythmic pulsation causing the ground to shake.
Suddenly there’s a low thrumming buzz. Ira strains his ears and wildly flicks the light around, panicked now. There’s a bird in the room, then another. Almost instantly there are hundreds of the creatures, revealed in the light as huge grotesque insects, which violently swarm away from the light whenever the beam touches them. He can feel them around him now, beating their iridescent wings. Panicked, he starts to crawl for the exit in an attempt to get away from the huge bugs. Suddenly one slams into his chest, knocking him back and the flashlight away, drawing blood. Desperately he pulls himself towards the light, his only defense against the bugs, one arm attempting to fend off the swarming, stabbing insects. His last sight is the shadow cast on the wall of the largest of the monstrous, mutated insects before it plunges its mandibles into his eyes. The thrashing and flailing of his body quickly subsides as the sightless insects finish devouring his flesh and wing back out into the night, searching for more prey.
==============================================
Yeah, I sort of ran out of ideas where to go, so I killed him. This is my little brainstorm of what he couldn’t get away from. I think it would’ve been more fun to have Godzilla stomping through the city and shrieking, though.
WHAT CAN'T HE ESCAPE:
Zombies
Natives
Ghosts
GODZILLA
Giant hungry bugs!
Tune in tomorrow for: Apple Core Man--Revenge of the Cider!
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Arrr, it's official matey!
Today is Talk Like A Pirate day. Keels will be hauled, poop decks will be scrubbed, and many a buckle will be swashed!
My walk to work soundtrack today is Talib Kweli & Hi Tek -- Reflection Eternal / Train of thought. I'm typically very choosy about Rap, and there's something about this artist that resonates with me. It's something more relatable than 'Yo yo Fiddy shot em'. This is replacing the former tracks of The Futureheads (awesome) and 14 Year Old Girls (c'mon--nintendo punk pwns!).
Whoo, the rust. I mean, Arrrrrr.
Tomorrow I might actually try to find my password for the Nano forums and get started on some writing exercises. Or not.
The suspence!
I'm Back Baby!
Oh look..I reset my password! Hooray for me. Perhaps I'll start updating again. Hmmmmmm...
Here's where I've been these last, oh, ten months.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Nano:Day 8 -- Yes, I'm still here
A funny thing happened Friday night. I smashed my finger in a door, causing it to become completely useless for typing. I didn't do it on purpose. Honest. That said, I haven't written for the last two days, and am way behind in my word count. Its a bit better right now, so I'm going to gun for a couple thousand words tonight. I'll post a bit from last weeks writing in the interim. By the way, blogger does strange things to the text when I cut and paste from word. Hmm.
-----------------
Run down buildings and hovels badly in need of paint lined the streets of the poor quarter, housing that only the downtrodden or those down on their luck would care to afford. While the section wasn’t very large--owing to the citys prosperity--it did have a sharp edge to it. Children played in the dirt or ran screaming through the trash littered streets; older males peered at them with unfriendly eyes on stoops or from front yards. Fred and Dundee felt conspicuously out of place, Fred in his pin striped suit and greatcoat, Dundee in his leather and crocodile skin.
Fred stopped outside a pawn shop, approximating the location that the aforementioned thief had requested directions leading to. Nodding to Dundee, Fred entered the shop as the Treasure Hunter moved out according to plan: Fred’s role spending time inconspiculously in the business while Dundee scouted the surrounding alleyway and reported back.
The inside of the shop was dingy, the smeared windows letting in little of the late afternoon sun as Fred hesitated in the doorway for a moment, his eyes quickly adjusting to the low light. Hanging above the door was a bell that had rung shrilly as Fred pushed open and closed the door. The proprietor noisily cleared his throat, acknowledging Fredericks presencse.
Avoiding his gaze for the moment, Fred decided to make a show of browsing about. Taking a tentative step forward onto a dingy, almost threadbare throw rug, he scanned the interior layout of the shop. Almost jungle-like in appearance, there were three clear paths, two hugging the walls on either side of the room and one bisecting the center. Wall and celing decorations seemed to drape over the room like foliage, and assorted tropical and deciduous plantlife lent to the look of overgrown forest.
Where he stood the fibers of the rug were worn down to the lining, presumably from the countless other feet that had stood here and made the same observations he had. There were various assorted items adorning the entire store, hung from ceiling and wall, heaped up on tables and floor. All available space was filled with some oddity or other, and most of it looked cheap to his critical eye. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell and thick, filthy scent of old cigar smoke permeating the establishment. A shiny object caught his eye and he turned his head, slowly leaving the carpet at the entrance and following a faint path that disappeared as he began treading on a different specimen of carpet, leaving a few footprints behind from the dust and dirt of the street. This particular rug was decorated with an elaborate oriental pattern, strange swirls and foreign runes decorating its brightly hued colors.
On the table in front of him were various knickknacks and assorted useless ceramics, the kind that would decorate the lobby of a cheap hotel or the souvenier case of a home. Lining the near wall was unfinished or marked and beaten up furniture—mostly chairs--that were all labeled with a crudely hand lettered sign, “antiques.” Brushing his hand against a collection of chimes hanging from the celing, Fred made his way over to a pile of battered, rusty chests and cases in the southwest corner as the faint tinkling of the chimes followed him. As he tested the lock on one particular weather battered trunk, the proprietor broke the tomblike stuffy silence of the store.
“It’s locked. They all are.”
Fred nodded absently and continued to browse, sparing a quick glance over in the direction of the pawn shop owner. Sitting behind a screened in desk, the man was disgustingly wide and filled out the area admirably, his white tank top smeared with stains from, Fred presumed, lunch a few hours ago. Most of his hair covered his arms and chest, his bald pate dull with sweat in the stuffy room. He cleared his throat again—a harsh, disgusting rolling sound, like a stick being pulled out of mud-- and, as if on cue, began rummaging in a drawer next to his desk, pulling out a fat silver foil wrapped cigar and green glass ashtray. Turning his attention back to a particularly awful painting by some unknown artist, Fred cocked his head sideways to match the skewed angle it hung at and attempted to decipher what, precisely, a thick curly black squiggle was doing in the middle of a river. At least, he thought it was a river. It could also be the sky inverted. Maybe it wasn’t the sky at all, but a pack of badgers parachuting into a hot spring. The sound of a flame flared up and died, and the big man began puffing on the stogie.
“Hey you. C’mere,” he growled around the thick cigar.
Fred carefully picked his way over, stepping over a wilting poinsettia and ducking under a gaudy pink chandelier which hung very low from the ceiling. A hanging tassel caught in his face and he spluttered it out, picking out the strands and dust that caught in his teeth.
“You gonna muck around all day, or are ya gonna pawn something?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was a rush. By all means, let your other patrons go first.”
Baldy flicked grey ash from the end of the cigar and stuck it back in the corner of his mouth.
“Smartass. There ain’t no hurry. But you’s looking like you’s a seller, not a buyer. I gotta strict no loitering policy, see?” He gestured forward over the counter at the misspelled “NO LOITURING” sign that hung tacked onto the wooden desk.
“Fair enough,” Fred relented, searching through his pockets for something to play at pawning with.
“How’s this?” He said, solemnly placing the gold pocket watch on the counter. Baldy cracked his knuckles loudly and smirked, depreciatingly.
“It’s crap.”
Fred looked appalled. “This is an antique! More so than that garbage over there,” he said, gesturing at the antiques sign and the various junk oddities it labeled.
Loudly snorting the mucous out of his nose and into the back of his throat, Baldy leaned closer, squinting at the watch. His breath smelled like rotten fish and he whistled loudly through his nostrils as he inhaled, his lungs working laboriously around his generous bulk.
“I’ll give you 3 for it.”
Fred guffawed, beginning to warm up to the bartering.
“It’s worth 10 times that. No deal.” He extended his arm as if to take the watch back off the desk and return it to his pocket.
Scratching at his left nostril with a dirty fingernail, Baldy made a noise of dissent.
“Make me an offer.”
-----------------
Run down buildings and hovels badly in need of paint lined the streets of the poor quarter, housing that only the downtrodden or those down on their luck would care to afford. While the section wasn’t very large--owing to the citys prosperity--it did have a sharp edge to it. Children played in the dirt or ran screaming through the trash littered streets; older males peered at them with unfriendly eyes on stoops or from front yards. Fred and Dundee felt conspicuously out of place, Fred in his pin striped suit and greatcoat, Dundee in his leather and crocodile skin.
Fred stopped outside a pawn shop, approximating the location that the aforementioned thief had requested directions leading to. Nodding to Dundee, Fred entered the shop as the Treasure Hunter moved out according to plan: Fred’s role spending time inconspiculously in the business while Dundee scouted the surrounding alleyway and reported back.
The inside of the shop was dingy, the smeared windows letting in little of the late afternoon sun as Fred hesitated in the doorway for a moment, his eyes quickly adjusting to the low light. Hanging above the door was a bell that had rung shrilly as Fred pushed open and closed the door. The proprietor noisily cleared his throat, acknowledging Fredericks presencse.
Avoiding his gaze for the moment, Fred decided to make a show of browsing about. Taking a tentative step forward onto a dingy, almost threadbare throw rug, he scanned the interior layout of the shop. Almost jungle-like in appearance, there were three clear paths, two hugging the walls on either side of the room and one bisecting the center. Wall and celing decorations seemed to drape over the room like foliage, and assorted tropical and deciduous plantlife lent to the look of overgrown forest.
Where he stood the fibers of the rug were worn down to the lining, presumably from the countless other feet that had stood here and made the same observations he had. There were various assorted items adorning the entire store, hung from ceiling and wall, heaped up on tables and floor. All available space was filled with some oddity or other, and most of it looked cheap to his critical eye. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell and thick, filthy scent of old cigar smoke permeating the establishment. A shiny object caught his eye and he turned his head, slowly leaving the carpet at the entrance and following a faint path that disappeared as he began treading on a different specimen of carpet, leaving a few footprints behind from the dust and dirt of the street. This particular rug was decorated with an elaborate oriental pattern, strange swirls and foreign runes decorating its brightly hued colors.
On the table in front of him were various knickknacks and assorted useless ceramics, the kind that would decorate the lobby of a cheap hotel or the souvenier case of a home. Lining the near wall was unfinished or marked and beaten up furniture—mostly chairs--that were all labeled with a crudely hand lettered sign, “antiques.” Brushing his hand against a collection of chimes hanging from the celing, Fred made his way over to a pile of battered, rusty chests and cases in the southwest corner as the faint tinkling of the chimes followed him. As he tested the lock on one particular weather battered trunk, the proprietor broke the tomblike stuffy silence of the store.
“It’s locked. They all are.”
Fred nodded absently and continued to browse, sparing a quick glance over in the direction of the pawn shop owner. Sitting behind a screened in desk, the man was disgustingly wide and filled out the area admirably, his white tank top smeared with stains from, Fred presumed, lunch a few hours ago. Most of his hair covered his arms and chest, his bald pate dull with sweat in the stuffy room. He cleared his throat again—a harsh, disgusting rolling sound, like a stick being pulled out of mud-- and, as if on cue, began rummaging in a drawer next to his desk, pulling out a fat silver foil wrapped cigar and green glass ashtray. Turning his attention back to a particularly awful painting by some unknown artist, Fred cocked his head sideways to match the skewed angle it hung at and attempted to decipher what, precisely, a thick curly black squiggle was doing in the middle of a river. At least, he thought it was a river. It could also be the sky inverted. Maybe it wasn’t the sky at all, but a pack of badgers parachuting into a hot spring. The sound of a flame flared up and died, and the big man began puffing on the stogie.
“Hey you. C’mere,” he growled around the thick cigar.
Fred carefully picked his way over, stepping over a wilting poinsettia and ducking under a gaudy pink chandelier which hung very low from the ceiling. A hanging tassel caught in his face and he spluttered it out, picking out the strands and dust that caught in his teeth.
“You gonna muck around all day, or are ya gonna pawn something?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize there was a rush. By all means, let your other patrons go first.”
Baldy flicked grey ash from the end of the cigar and stuck it back in the corner of his mouth.
“Smartass. There ain’t no hurry. But you’s looking like you’s a seller, not a buyer. I gotta strict no loitering policy, see?” He gestured forward over the counter at the misspelled “NO LOITURING” sign that hung tacked onto the wooden desk.
“Fair enough,” Fred relented, searching through his pockets for something to play at pawning with.
“How’s this?” He said, solemnly placing the gold pocket watch on the counter. Baldy cracked his knuckles loudly and smirked, depreciatingly.
“It’s crap.”
Fred looked appalled. “This is an antique! More so than that garbage over there,” he said, gesturing at the antiques sign and the various junk oddities it labeled.
Loudly snorting the mucous out of his nose and into the back of his throat, Baldy leaned closer, squinting at the watch. His breath smelled like rotten fish and he whistled loudly through his nostrils as he inhaled, his lungs working laboriously around his generous bulk.
“I’ll give you 3 for it.”
Fred guffawed, beginning to warm up to the bartering.
“It’s worth 10 times that. No deal.” He extended his arm as if to take the watch back off the desk and return it to his pocket.
Scratching at his left nostril with a dirty fingernail, Baldy made a noise of dissent.
“Make me an offer.”
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
NaNo Day 2 1/2 -- Yarr!
After having a great start Monday, yesterday was a wake-up call. I had a really tough time writing, and got stuck a number of times far short of my writing goal. The election didn't help much either. But, I did manage to hit my goal and am plodding along towards another 2k today.
I'm not going to post anything I did last night yet, maybe later. This fight scene with an as-yet unintroduced character is pretty good though, so I'll put that up for now.
--------------------------
Sang slammed the butt end of the staff down again, the rings of metal on its end clanging together and chiming.
“Look old man, I’m in a terrible rush here,” began Fred, already sick of the stupid ringing bells on the end of the staff and wanting terribly to take it away and club the old man with it.
“Bwahahahah!” interrupted the red-cheeked old man, laughing loudly and bawdily.
“No wine, no problem!” he slurred.
“Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Are you or aren’t you?”
“You go bring me my wine now,” said Sang again, with a wink. Tucking his staff underneath the backside of his left arm, he stood on one slightly bent leg the other extended and bent with his foot resting on the knee, arm positioned in front of him and slightly crooked with two fingers pointing up, unwavering.
Wondering how the old man managed to hold that position, completely sloshed as he was, Fred began poking through the bushes, looking for the lost jug of rice wine. The blasted thing had to have fallen out somewhere nearby he mused to himself. Dammit, if only he had been watching where he was going. Now he had a broken cart and a runaway mule to deal with. A few steps further into the underbrush and he had the jug, a red rounded beehive looking container with a stopper in one end. Fred pulled the plug and inhaled, a little too deeply. Whew! Rubbing his singed nose hairs with one hand and replugging the jug of foul smelling liquid, he stood up quickly, branches from the overhanging trees painfully grabbing at his hair. He wobbled slightly from the remnants of the fumes, and then began making his way out of the underbrush. Bursting forth onto the path, his shout of triumph died on his lips. The ‘broken’ cart was halfway down the road, Sing in tow, gleefully cackling. Fred noticed the majority of his supplies piled in the back of the cart. “Hey! HEY!” he screamed, dashing after the disappearing cart. Sing glanced over his shoulder, startled, then whipped the mule, urging it to run faster. Fred smirked. Obviously he knew nothing about this particular stubborn breed of jackass. After the first lash cracked the mule bleated, then ground to a halt. No amount of cajoling would persuade the animal to continue. Fred ran up alongside the cart breathless, and yanked his rapier from its sheath, leveling it up at the old man perched in the drivers seat of the cart.
“Ohohohoho. Don’t think you want to be doing that,” leered Sang, swaying slightly in the seat. His eyes widened when he saw the jug.
“My wine! Good good, you give it here.”
“Don’t think so, cart thief. I suggest you disappear before I run you through.”
Sang feigned a shocked look. “Mymymy, I was merely returning the Ass and Cart to the nearby village, where I would lodge it for the night!”
“Bullshit. The nearest town is 50 miles out. It would take days.”
“Yes, well. Lets trade, neh? I’ll trade you this fine cart and donkey for ride to the nearest town. And that wine you have there,” beamed Sang.
“Uh, hello? That’s MY cart, and MY donkey. I found the wine, even! I’ve got a better deal. You pick up your stupid little stick and hit the road before I toss you into the dirt.”
Sang wagged his finger at Fred, taunting him.
“Ah ah ah! My offer very generous. You take, or you be the one begging for seat in back.”
Fred almost thought twice before thrusting the point of the sword at the old man, intuition sounding a faint warning. The blow was aimed at the thieves leg, intending to cripple him. But, even before he began the motion, Sang’s leg was no longer there. In a blur the old man was airborne, body straight and spinning towards Fred, his staff flicking out and slamming down on the rapiers edge with a loud clanging. Surprised that the blade hadn’t broken, Fred staggered back, regaining his balance and setting his feet and guard.
Sang shuffled towards him, swaying slightly with the motion. Fred feinted a low attack with the rapier, then lunged forward, thrusting at Sang’s chest, which, oddly enough, had disappeared. The old man had dropped to the ground like a stone before Fred had even began the motion, and was lying on his back, head propped up under one elbow, legs crossed. Like a snake Sangs legs shot out, one foot hooking behind Freds and the other pushing forcefully on his knee. Suddenly Fred found himself on his back, staring up at the sky. Before he could leap to his feet, the ringed end of Sangs staff was leveled at his head.
“Touche” muttered Fred as Sang shook the staff at him, the metal rings jingling infuriatingly. Sang giggled.
“New deal. I get wine, passage to nearby town, and you buy chicken dinner.”
“Fine.”
Fred pulled himself slowly to his feet, grumbling all the while. At least he had his cart back. He’d never seen anyone move like the old drunkard. Was the intoxication all just an act, to get Fred to underestimate him and drop his guard? He turned, facing the cart, to observe Sang already perched in the back, noisily pulling at the red jug of rice wine. He belched loudly and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Hurry up! Gogogo!”
Fred muttered and cursed his luck for the third time that day as he coaxed the stubborn donkey forward, trying to ignore the incessantly hiccupping old man in the back of the cart.
I'm not going to post anything I did last night yet, maybe later. This fight scene with an as-yet unintroduced character is pretty good though, so I'll put that up for now.
--------------------------
Sang slammed the butt end of the staff down again, the rings of metal on its end clanging together and chiming.
“Look old man, I’m in a terrible rush here,” began Fred, already sick of the stupid ringing bells on the end of the staff and wanting terribly to take it away and club the old man with it.
“Bwahahahah!” interrupted the red-cheeked old man, laughing loudly and bawdily.
“No wine, no problem!” he slurred.
“Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Are you or aren’t you?”
“You go bring me my wine now,” said Sang again, with a wink. Tucking his staff underneath the backside of his left arm, he stood on one slightly bent leg the other extended and bent with his foot resting on the knee, arm positioned in front of him and slightly crooked with two fingers pointing up, unwavering.
Wondering how the old man managed to hold that position, completely sloshed as he was, Fred began poking through the bushes, looking for the lost jug of rice wine. The blasted thing had to have fallen out somewhere nearby he mused to himself. Dammit, if only he had been watching where he was going. Now he had a broken cart and a runaway mule to deal with. A few steps further into the underbrush and he had the jug, a red rounded beehive looking container with a stopper in one end. Fred pulled the plug and inhaled, a little too deeply. Whew! Rubbing his singed nose hairs with one hand and replugging the jug of foul smelling liquid, he stood up quickly, branches from the overhanging trees painfully grabbing at his hair. He wobbled slightly from the remnants of the fumes, and then began making his way out of the underbrush. Bursting forth onto the path, his shout of triumph died on his lips. The ‘broken’ cart was halfway down the road, Sing in tow, gleefully cackling. Fred noticed the majority of his supplies piled in the back of the cart. “Hey! HEY!” he screamed, dashing after the disappearing cart. Sing glanced over his shoulder, startled, then whipped the mule, urging it to run faster. Fred smirked. Obviously he knew nothing about this particular stubborn breed of jackass. After the first lash cracked the mule bleated, then ground to a halt. No amount of cajoling would persuade the animal to continue. Fred ran up alongside the cart breathless, and yanked his rapier from its sheath, leveling it up at the old man perched in the drivers seat of the cart.
“Ohohohoho. Don’t think you want to be doing that,” leered Sang, swaying slightly in the seat. His eyes widened when he saw the jug.
“My wine! Good good, you give it here.”
“Don’t think so, cart thief. I suggest you disappear before I run you through.”
Sang feigned a shocked look. “Mymymy, I was merely returning the Ass and Cart to the nearby village, where I would lodge it for the night!”
“Bullshit. The nearest town is 50 miles out. It would take days.”
“Yes, well. Lets trade, neh? I’ll trade you this fine cart and donkey for ride to the nearest town. And that wine you have there,” beamed Sang.
“Uh, hello? That’s MY cart, and MY donkey. I found the wine, even! I’ve got a better deal. You pick up your stupid little stick and hit the road before I toss you into the dirt.”
Sang wagged his finger at Fred, taunting him.
“Ah ah ah! My offer very generous. You take, or you be the one begging for seat in back.”
Fred almost thought twice before thrusting the point of the sword at the old man, intuition sounding a faint warning. The blow was aimed at the thieves leg, intending to cripple him. But, even before he began the motion, Sang’s leg was no longer there. In a blur the old man was airborne, body straight and spinning towards Fred, his staff flicking out and slamming down on the rapiers edge with a loud clanging. Surprised that the blade hadn’t broken, Fred staggered back, regaining his balance and setting his feet and guard.
Sang shuffled towards him, swaying slightly with the motion. Fred feinted a low attack with the rapier, then lunged forward, thrusting at Sang’s chest, which, oddly enough, had disappeared. The old man had dropped to the ground like a stone before Fred had even began the motion, and was lying on his back, head propped up under one elbow, legs crossed. Like a snake Sangs legs shot out, one foot hooking behind Freds and the other pushing forcefully on his knee. Suddenly Fred found himself on his back, staring up at the sky. Before he could leap to his feet, the ringed end of Sangs staff was leveled at his head.
“Touche” muttered Fred as Sang shook the staff at him, the metal rings jingling infuriatingly. Sang giggled.
“New deal. I get wine, passage to nearby town, and you buy chicken dinner.”
“Fine.”
Fred pulled himself slowly to his feet, grumbling all the while. At least he had his cart back. He’d never seen anyone move like the old drunkard. Was the intoxication all just an act, to get Fred to underestimate him and drop his guard? He turned, facing the cart, to observe Sang already perched in the back, noisily pulling at the red jug of rice wine. He belched loudly and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Hurry up! Gogogo!”
Fred muttered and cursed his luck for the third time that day as he coaxed the stubborn donkey forward, trying to ignore the incessantly hiccupping old man in the back of the cart.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Nano: Day 1 -- Enter Fred
Hokay! I'm stopping today at: 2061! W00t.
Now for the DISCLAIMER: This is cut and pasted directly from my writing. Meaning, there's no editing AT ALL. I've shut my internal critic up in a little box and mailed him off to Honolulu for vacation. As such, there's all kinds of stuff in here that makes me wince everytime I even scroll past it. So please...be gentle :)
Second disclaimer, this isn't everything I wrote. I got bored with this and went off and wrote a fight scene with another character. Maybe I'll post that tomorrow, heh.
Fred sat heavily at his desk and gazed forlornly at the column of numbers and figures on the sheet of paper before him. "Freddie!" shouted his boss’s wife, coincidentally his third cousin on mother's uncle's side. "After you're finished computing the morning’s balances, take out the garbage and polish Master Paulson’s shoes!" Fred groaned. Another day of boredom, another day of meaningless numbers and humilitating footwear buffing. He tried to do the calculations, the numbers failing to add up as he cursed the day he accepted the job. For the umpteenth time that day his thoughts wandered off to the night last week at the tavern, and the storyteller who had painted a picture of exciting adventure and fortune. A life as far removed as this as you could get, Fred muttered under his breath, scrapping his calculations and leaning back in his chair. Glancing out the small window adjacent his desk, he observed that lunchtime was only a short while away, judging by the suns position in the sky. Old man Paulson’s shoes could wait until his belly was full of whatever was roasting on Maddy’s spit at the tavern and a tall pint of ale Fred convinced himself. Pushing back his chair quietly, so as not to disturb the Mrs., he slung his coat over his shoulders and snuck down the stairs and went out through the bank’s lobby.
The autumn air was chilly, and Fred was glad of the coat as he stepped onto the street. It was fairly busy, the noonday shoppers and businessmen alike in force, many seeking lunch as he was. Fred threaded his way through the hustle and bustle and made his way to Maddy’s Bar and Grill on the streetcorner. He nearly tripped over a poor, rag clad soul on the way. Fred recognized him as the local beggar, Apple Core Man. While most beggars plied their trade in behest of monetary recompense, this individual pleaded for seeds, of all things. His favorites were those of fruit trees and the like, and Fred had saved various rinds and such from his noonday meals for Mr. Core often enough in the past, to recognize and greet him as he passed.
“Please, Goodman, spare a pear!” pleaded the beggar.
“Well, Mr. Core! This isn’t you’re usual spot I daresay. Aren’t you usually further down, in front of the Blacksmithys?”
Apple core gave no indication that he recognized Fred, as he ever did.
“Aye, I’ll try to save you a core from my midday meal, if you like.”
Giving no heed that he had heard him, Mr. Core continued to plead with passersby for fruit, his arm palm up extending from his ragged clothing. Fred shrugged and pushed his way into Maddy’s, already near full of hungry patrons. The low, cheerful fire in the hearth and the steady background noise of conversation was a comfort, and Fred briskly rubbed his hands together to take the chill out. Making his way up to the bar, he caught the eye of one of the serving girls; a comely young lass in tight bodice and frilly skirt. She nodded acknowledgement and Fred took in the surroundings as he waited for her to make her way over and take his order.
The musician in the corner stummed his guitar, providing background music for lunchtime. Obviously it wasn’t a piano player, as this is not a ritzy, suit and tie 500 dollar a plate dinner, but your average bar and grill where people go to have a good time and enjoy the food.
One of the patrons at the bar raised his voice over the din in an angry shout.
“I ordered the steak! NOT a sandwich!” he roared, startling the patrons sitting next to him.
“Sir,” the serving girl started in, “that IS a steak.”
The gentlemen grumbled and harrumphed, then peered closer at the plate until his nose was touching it, his drooping white mustachios swimming in the juices of the meat.
“Arr. So it is, so it is.”
He pulled his big hat off, ringed with crocodile teeth in the band, pulled a fork from underneath his vest and dug in, making appreciative slurping noises. She rolled her eyes and made her way over to Fred.
“Hey, Freddie. What’ll it be?”
Fred winced. “Ah, the usual Maisy.”
“Roight, pastrami on wheat, mayo, cheese no crust with an apple, right?”
Fred grinned and nodded assent.
“Coming right up,” she said, reaching under the bar for a mug and filling a pint.
“How’s work going?”
Fred groaned.
“That bad, eh? Well don’t let the witch get you down. The day’s half over right? Then you can come back ‘round again for drinks,” she said with a wink.
Fred grinned stupidly, then took a swig of ale as she moved on to take the next order. There was something odd about the man with the crocodile tooth hat, Fred mused as he nursed his ale. It might’ve been the six inch long knife he picked at his teeth with, or the bleary eyed way he peered about the room, but there was something unusual about the fellow.
Now for the DISCLAIMER: This is cut and pasted directly from my writing. Meaning, there's no editing AT ALL. I've shut my internal critic up in a little box and mailed him off to Honolulu for vacation. As such, there's all kinds of stuff in here that makes me wince everytime I even scroll past it. So please...be gentle :)
Second disclaimer, this isn't everything I wrote. I got bored with this and went off and wrote a fight scene with another character. Maybe I'll post that tomorrow, heh.
Fred sat heavily at his desk and gazed forlornly at the column of numbers and figures on the sheet of paper before him. "Freddie!" shouted his boss’s wife, coincidentally his third cousin on mother's uncle's side. "After you're finished computing the morning’s balances, take out the garbage and polish Master Paulson’s shoes!" Fred groaned. Another day of boredom, another day of meaningless numbers and humilitating footwear buffing. He tried to do the calculations, the numbers failing to add up as he cursed the day he accepted the job. For the umpteenth time that day his thoughts wandered off to the night last week at the tavern, and the storyteller who had painted a picture of exciting adventure and fortune. A life as far removed as this as you could get, Fred muttered under his breath, scrapping his calculations and leaning back in his chair. Glancing out the small window adjacent his desk, he observed that lunchtime was only a short while away, judging by the suns position in the sky. Old man Paulson’s shoes could wait until his belly was full of whatever was roasting on Maddy’s spit at the tavern and a tall pint of ale Fred convinced himself. Pushing back his chair quietly, so as not to disturb the Mrs., he slung his coat over his shoulders and snuck down the stairs and went out through the bank’s lobby.
The autumn air was chilly, and Fred was glad of the coat as he stepped onto the street. It was fairly busy, the noonday shoppers and businessmen alike in force, many seeking lunch as he was. Fred threaded his way through the hustle and bustle and made his way to Maddy’s Bar and Grill on the streetcorner. He nearly tripped over a poor, rag clad soul on the way. Fred recognized him as the local beggar, Apple Core Man. While most beggars plied their trade in behest of monetary recompense, this individual pleaded for seeds, of all things. His favorites were those of fruit trees and the like, and Fred had saved various rinds and such from his noonday meals for Mr. Core often enough in the past, to recognize and greet him as he passed.
“Please, Goodman, spare a pear!” pleaded the beggar.
“Well, Mr. Core! This isn’t you’re usual spot I daresay. Aren’t you usually further down, in front of the Blacksmithys?”
Apple core gave no indication that he recognized Fred, as he ever did.
“Aye, I’ll try to save you a core from my midday meal, if you like.”
Giving no heed that he had heard him, Mr. Core continued to plead with passersby for fruit, his arm palm up extending from his ragged clothing. Fred shrugged and pushed his way into Maddy’s, already near full of hungry patrons. The low, cheerful fire in the hearth and the steady background noise of conversation was a comfort, and Fred briskly rubbed his hands together to take the chill out. Making his way up to the bar, he caught the eye of one of the serving girls; a comely young lass in tight bodice and frilly skirt. She nodded acknowledgement and Fred took in the surroundings as he waited for her to make her way over and take his order.
The musician in the corner stummed his guitar, providing background music for lunchtime. Obviously it wasn’t a piano player, as this is not a ritzy, suit and tie 500 dollar a plate dinner, but your average bar and grill where people go to have a good time and enjoy the food.
One of the patrons at the bar raised his voice over the din in an angry shout.
“I ordered the steak! NOT a sandwich!” he roared, startling the patrons sitting next to him.
“Sir,” the serving girl started in, “that IS a steak.”
The gentlemen grumbled and harrumphed, then peered closer at the plate until his nose was touching it, his drooping white mustachios swimming in the juices of the meat.
“Arr. So it is, so it is.”
He pulled his big hat off, ringed with crocodile teeth in the band, pulled a fork from underneath his vest and dug in, making appreciative slurping noises. She rolled her eyes and made her way over to Fred.
“Hey, Freddie. What’ll it be?”
Fred winced. “Ah, the usual Maisy.”
“Roight, pastrami on wheat, mayo, cheese no crust with an apple, right?”
Fred grinned and nodded assent.
“Coming right up,” she said, reaching under the bar for a mug and filling a pint.
“How’s work going?”
Fred groaned.
“That bad, eh? Well don’t let the witch get you down. The day’s half over right? Then you can come back ‘round again for drinks,” she said with a wink.
Fred grinned stupidly, then took a swig of ale as she moved on to take the next order. There was something odd about the man with the crocodile tooth hat, Fred mused as he nursed his ale. It might’ve been the six inch long knife he picked at his teeth with, or the bleary eyed way he peered about the room, but there was something unusual about the fellow.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Woo Freakin Hoo!
I got a plot!
My main character, an employee at a bank, finds a treasure map in a safety deposit box. /me dances I've got some great characters going too. Can't wait to start! Go me!
My main character, an employee at a bank, finds a treasure map in a safety deposit box. /me dances I've got some great characters going too. Can't wait to start! Go me!
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