dannil_wolf

80003.0.1 - Rusting Bones [WIP, v0.1]

2008-12-06T22:53:02Z

80003.0.1 - Rusting Bones [WIP, v0.1]

Long Winter, 27 seasons after arrival and the city's bleached and rusting bones jutted from the lofted snowbanks as the meager warmth of the sun waned. The long shadows cast by the shattered buildings transformed the dirty snowscape from a windswept plain into a series of bleak and blinding hillocks as the suns dying rays played across them. The fall had left all of humanity bleeding, but here on Hilliard it left them to freeze as well. Though a far cry from the teeming masses that had flocked and given vigor to the burgh, the remaining fragment of men and woman here moved from shelter to shelter trying to finish their daily tasks before true night fell. None of them were prosperous, none doing more than fighting entropy, none were lower and meaner than Benjamin Kyte, and none more desperate.

He huddled in the lee of a tower now in ruins, just one of the skylines many broken teeth. Of the thirty or so structures that stood above the mounded snow, just this one still had lights buring in windows. He was wrapped in the remnants of a dozen cold weather suits, scavanged from the refuse of the towers. What they threy away, he had payed dearly for the right to stitch together.

50010.1 - The Last Entry [v1.0]

2008-11-27T15:05:13Z

50010.1 - The Last Entry [v1.0]

Shipwrecked, Day 1243

My preparations are completed. What repairs that can be made, have been. This is my last night in the land dubbed "Waist Verjinyah" by the locals.

I despair to think what leaving this world might do to my improvised little craft, and to me. The alternative, to stay here among the natives that have so cheerfully helped me, succored me, befriended me, is unthinkable. This frigid little ball has changed me quite enough as it is.

If ever what I had to do here so that I might survive came to light in civilized society, I think my liberty would be short lived. I can document my deeds here, as I have for the last three years, for this journal will remain in my mountain hideaway and has no way to follow me home.

I have traded some of my belongings, things far more sophisticated than
these benighted locals might produce, for the materials to repair my
boat, the provisions that may keep me alive on my trip. I have killed and eaten the flesh of other beings. I have loved one of a lesser race. I shudder to write these things plainly, without circumlocution. Am I still a man? Have I become too like the hairy little apes? Am I contaminated by their barbarism? I pray to the ancestors that I have not. I pray that some spark of civilized man remains. I pray that this fragile craft will see me home. I pray.

The sun is up, the air frigid. It shines so bright, I sit writing by its light alone, and am blinded by the thought that its light be the last light I see. A foreign sun twists the mind. Everything is color shifted, perspective shifted. The last chance to stay, and I am shifted enough to feel its subtle tug.

And unshifted enough to stand up despite the strain, like an extra gravity or two. Years past, I learned to work during the extra weight of boost. The final decision feels like that. Unthinkable, catastrophic, quiet yearnings keep tugging. I must work through these, and I shall.

Though I have long past despaired of learning the chatterings of my friends here, several have made strides in learning my own. They will be here to see me off. What will they say of the sight to generations of descendants. Of the graceful, powerful leap of my great ascent... and perhaps of the light and dash of my failure. Will I be immortalized in oral tale? Will I be cautionary tale, or fable or epic? I doubt anyone at home has written anything of me at all, save my obituary. My friends here will remember me. If I keep writing reasons to stay I just might. My woolgathering time is past.

A parting word, to the void. If I should perish and never stand again beneath the sweet orange sun of home, I would that it be in my ascent and not in the depths of space. Ionize me here, melkd me with this world, and do not leave me to freeze and forever fly. If I not lie forever at home, leave me here.

Be well my friends. Mahrey, forgive me. Linkon, remember me. May your ancestors protect you all your days.

I pray.

-Veruskiat

Fantastic Contraption: A fun online physics puzzle game

2008-10-18T22:11:37Z

I loose whole weekends to this...

Fantastic Contraption: A fun online physics puzzle game

Posted using ShareThis

My Contraptions:

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http://FantasticContraption.com/?designId=2558955

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http://FantasticContraption.com/?designId=2544534

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http://FantasticContraption.com/?designId=2541701

Someone beat the level I made!!!
http://FantasticContraption.com/?designId=2541701
AND gave it a three difficulty. Thanks!

50006.0.1 - Mike Hell Rising [WIP, v0.5]

2008-10-14T04:42:45Z

50006.0.1 - Mike Hell Rising [WIP, v0.5]

          Pete, and he always just called himself Pete, never picking up a Changed Name like the others, crept through the brush and kept low, one hand to gently move a branch aside, one kept tight upon his rifle. He may have missed being shipped to godforsaken jungles and third world shit-holes, serving his four in Germany, but he had been hunting these valleys since he was old enough to carry a gun. The Beasts usually knew better than to come hunting him on his own land.

          Strong they may be, tougher than a bear and meaner than revenue man, but they couldn't move through the forest for shit. He had been following their trail for the better part of a mile, one far ahead, two following the first. He hoped when the three all caught up that they kicked the holy shit out of each other. He was gonna have enough of a problem killing three by himself if they were uninjured.

          A clearing, a small pile of something near one side. He paused and breathed as the wood did, knowing more than seeing that something was off. How much more off did things get with three great inhuman Beasts running round his woods he didn't much care to know, but something was. A heap of something. Too small for one of em to be layin' there, and it ain't moving... not at all. He edged up close, one eye for the pile, one for the verge.

          Looked like a goddamn big snakeskin. For one Goddamn big snake. He guessed that made a kind of sense, enough of the fuckers looked a whole hell of a lot like snakes. Never seen one shed like one though. Hmmm, maybe the first one IS sick. That skin looked decidedly ill, it dripped and oozed. Not that he needed it, but it should make the thing easier to follow, if it was leaving bits of itself as it went.

          He followed. Ahead, he head a scream. Almost like a man's scream. He hated it when they did something to seem more human. Fucked with a man's head.

          The sun was getting low, and the darkness made his foe doubly dangerous. In his youth, with eyes like a cat he would have been at a disadvantage to the things. Now... Now he should damn well wait for the backup he had whistled up. Stupid fool pride.

          The screams now came one after the other, Pete knew he was close and from what he could tell they were having a damned conference. He kept to his fieldcraft though, now was not the time for a snapped branch or a kicked up stone. Most of 'em had ears better than any man. That always irked him... He didn't like bein' second to nothin'. Being second as a species was somehow worse.

          They were rasping at each other in what passed for speech in their kind. Always took him as kind of weird that they spoke a kind of pidgin english even amongst themselves. He was close enough now to see the two he had tailed bearing down on the third. That third one, he was looking weird. Must be the molting one.   Or was that molten?

          It looked puckered and red. It's skin, far from being a grey green like the discarded one he found, was red and raw. It clawed at itself, crying out each time it stripped away another remnant of hide. The other two were beginning to circle the reddish one. Pete may have lucked out after all, they were gonna tear each other up a mite. He found a nice rest, drew a bead and waited. He couldn't very well help that he listened too.

          "Orhil, be still. The Maker will mend you, make you whole once more," said the larger of the paired grays. Pete couldn't see its face, but he heard the smile, "This human delusion you are suffering from... it must be purged." The fuckers always liked the prospect of pain. "You and Noban are young, you must learn."

          "Weakness. It is not tolerated Ssalan." hissed the other gray, now very close to the red, to Orhil.

          "Not Orhilllllll..."

          "No Orhil, No, I don't think you weak," cooed Ssalan.

          With a start and snarl the one called Orhil spun round, gore dipped claws no longer on himself but reaching for Ssalan. "I am no weak, and I NO AM ORHIL!" He tensed, coiled, and caused Ssalan to draw reflexively back.

          Before he could spring though, the second gray was upon his already flayed back, digging deep. Tearing out a double handful of muscle and bone, Nodan drove Orhil to his knees. Orhil fell forward, claws worming at the ground in pain, eyes still burning hatred at Ssalan as Nohan continued to worry at his back.

          Ssalan stepped forward, his placating tone replaced with irritation. "You chirp 'I No Am Orhil', deny yourself all you like. Do you remember a life before you were Made? Before the Maker granted you your powers? Your rage and bloodlust name you true."

          "I do amember, I KNOW me..." This was grated out even as a smirking Nohan tore and tossed bloody strips over its shoulder.

          "You can not know anything of your life before you were elevated."

          "I had... a name..." The loss of blood and tissue was finally beginning to tell, Orhil's eyes took on a glassy fixed countenance. Ssalan hissed a command to his companion, halting his raking and tearing.

          "You have a name now. The Maker found your True Name when he brought forth the True You. The remnants of your animal human life are erased." He sounded truly perplexed. "You say you hold them still?"

          "He Liesss." sneered Nohan.

          "I do no lie. I have a name..." and lost his fight with awareness, slumped forward and came to rest on his hands buried in the rich black dirt of the hillside.

          Ssalan stood so perfectly still, thought Pete, that it could have been made out of the granite it's skin so resembled. When he spoke it was soft, almost too quiet for Pete's old ears. "I believe him. He is not lying."

          "If he no lies?" Nohan struggled with the idea, trying to orient itself to a new idea look to pain him terribly.

          "If he does not lie, he is worse than confused. He is heretic."

          The immediate ragged hiss from Nohan was angry, scared, startled. "Stamp him out!"

          "The light that the Maker has drawn forth, none may quench save himself." The immediate response had the sonorous drum of dogmatic scripture.

...

WIP

The Truth in Blood

2008-07-19T03:38:22Z

Cindra sat, and waited, until the night held her and the corpse of her brother. She held herself close, his blood pooling about her bare feet and she watched the insects work. With the moon risen, she stood. The dried blood flaking off of her feet as she padded into the darkness, leaving brown dust in her wake.

The gravel of the path dug into her feet, and its unevenness jarred her. the movement threatening to reopen the gash along her ribs where the bullet had just missed her. She had always been the lucky one. She laughed sadly-happy as she held her side, the two fingernails that she had torn out in the fight burning along with the greater wound. She kept on, her steps light despite the pain and loss of blood.

She came at last to the car they had driven here in, she could only dimly remember the trip. She remembered Denys talking the whole way, none of it made sense now though. He was sad. She could definitely remember that. He must have been, he was crying.

He was crying when he shot her. He was still crying when she rose and struck him with the branch. She swung and she swung until he stopped crying. He died and left her then, just like mother had. Just like all those others had too, but they didn't have names to her, they were just pools. The beauty was transcendent, the spread, the pool, even the drip. There was truth in blood.

But there was no moment to his blood. It drained from him, it dripped and eddied and pooled, but no moment came, no burst of insight or beauty. It puzzled her, and she wished that she could ask Denys about it. Talking to him always helped her, even when she always promised that no more would be, and she always meant it too. And he always forgave her, he such a good heart.

As she drove she thought and she thought, looking for the moment. The image was precise in her mind, every edge and tendril of him, of what he had become. She was mad now, mad that his blood had proved false. She drove faster and faster, fury gripping her. Her vision grew blurred, here eyes wet with torrents of frustrated tears. She railed and cursed but Denys would not answer up his truth.

The abutment had a truth all its own, she must have been doing a hundred when she hit. The car didn't just break and crash, it shattered, it splintered, it erupted. She had just one piercing moment to scream her before the concrete and steel drove the madness from her.

She dripped and eddied, and even pooled, but like her brother, she gave no moment to those who came after.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

you know, sometimes i scare myself a little. on a more positive note, it made it in under six hundred words. a victory.

As the bills of April come due

2008-05-04T02:21:48Z

Okay, so its tally time, and things are none too rosy in the land. I did not reach even CLOSE to what i had wanted to accomplish, and the board stands thuslly:

The April Schedule

20th	21st	22nd	510	97	0	758
765	0	0	418

ACK!!!!

Did I mention that I didn't come even close? Well, I ended up far more in the red than I thought I would. The goal in this abbreviated period was a mere 6,000 words.

	Totals	Goal	Difference	Actual Average
April	2,548.00	6,000.00	-3,452.00	318.50

I owe like 3,500 words still. Where should i remit the check? All is not ended though. The work I did accomplish is fair to middling and the effort is not in vain and will continue.

So on to the next month!! :)

Which looks a little something like this:

			May
Sun	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thr	Fri	Sat
				0	0	3rd
4th	5th	6th	7th	8th	9th	10th
11th	12th	13th	14th	15th	16th	17th
18th	19th	20th	21st	22nd	23rd	24th
25th	26th	27th	28th	29th	30th	31st

eep, off to a bad start. Well, I'de best to work then.

At the weekend's end

2008-04-28T04:39:14Z

I had hoped to make up some lost ground this weekend, but I ended up pretty much hitting the individual days tally's and no more.

April Schedule

20th	21st	22nd	510	97	0	758
765	28th	29th	30th

01004.0.002 - The Archivist and the Exile [work in progress]

2008-04-27T20:52:14Z

The Study was all the name it had ever been given and such a smallness could never fully describe it. Not just in size, though it's depths are only truly known to its Archivists, but it is enormity of its contents that defy description. The Immortals kept records and took trophies, and in this maze of interconnecting passages and vaulted ceilings they stored both that were of written form. Not merely centuries of works lie within, but centuries of centuries. Jealously horded, meticulously maintained and superstitiously avoided by nearly all of the Blood.

Eawrie understood the vague uneasy feeling that kept all save the Steward and those merely human servitors that were entrusted enough to be allowed here from delving this cave of knowledge. The proof of actions taken and deeds done, kept alive like the actors themselves for all time. Kept here, written down, but lost the Veil of Years. That dimness of memory that all of the Blood somewhat uneasy here. They could never be sure just what they had done, what had been done to them. Time, though leaving their bodies untouched by its passing, stole from them their memory. It unnerved them, one and all.

She felt it herself, but a greater need pulled her into its ways so often of late. Though she would die than admit to such depravity aloud, would kill all who knew rather than allow it spoken by others, she knew the truth of what drew her. Even as it warmed her, she felt centuries and generations of accumulated shame at its presence.

That an Immortal needed a human to pair with to procreate was understood. There were detailed rituals surrounding the poor mortals taken so. Man or woman they are offered to the Highest in sacrifice. It is only at the point of the ritual that the human knows that the lover they have taken is other than themselves. For women taken by a male of the Blood there was granted the extended lifespan of just less than three hundred days but men having served there use have less time allowed them.

She understood the prescripts, the why. She supposed she agreed with them in principle. It was well that she had never been measured much of a principled woman over her years. For her lover remained alive, and her with child. Instead of heading to his desk with the Steward of House Harkkaet and a warrior in tow to collect the man and lead him to his fate, she crept from her rooms to meet him.

The creeping in and of itself was no strangeness. The Blood conspired against each other often enough for her to need to creep and locate other creepers most days. Normally she could not have been followed without a great deal of effort on the part of an observer, but today, in truth this whole last month, she could have been followed with ease. And followed she had been. Kaemul watched and followed and said nothing.

Today she would find her love where she found him always, awash in the tomes of ages. She liked to add a lyric sense to him, to see him in a more romantic light. To make him more worthy of her attention. Though she rarely mentioned these musings to him when she did, he seemed stunned that she could need to redefine his work. Could she not see the beauty in restoring a book five centuries old? Transcribing a text a thousand years old into a blank by hand was in and of itself breathtaking. Why add spice to a fiery dish? She chuckled at his wonderful hopelessness. It was a sign of her carelessness that this mirth was even loud enough to be heard.

The Study doors were closed like any other time. The entry room dimly lit inside as always. The warrior clad in menace was a new touch though. He... well it would not do to say he lounged. He was far too tense to lounge. But the languid stance he effaced near the arch that lead to the beginnings of the Study proper could not hide the harm he intended. As she fairly danced into the anteroom, a tiny grin bloomed.

Eawrie made her walk a commanding stride immediately. A century of training lent her a command of her body language that would completely fool any not of the Blood. Even another Immortal would have trouble seeing the shock writ on her face at seeing a guard stationed here. Waiting. For her, it had to be.

But Ulandin was not another Immortal, he was her youngest brother and knew her better than any other. Of course, she knew him just as well. She saw the anger hiding in his eyes. The determination in the set of his lips. Fool that she was, she had come here unarmed and she saw her own realizations read by him in turn.

“Greetings elder,” mocked Ulandin straightening. He kept his hands loose at his sides and achieved a stance of balanced-power she knew too well, having taught it to him.

She slowed and stopped just out of his reach, chin rising imperially. “Bullan,” she said using the child-name she had coined for him, “Have you need of me? Why else come here searching me out.” She had always had good luck turning the tricksome youth about on his head if she assumed enough of an air of authority. She gathered all that she could. The man who was a boy no longer only smiled more broadly.

“I am here with the Steward.” He let the implications sink home. That he thought her so addled that she could not understand them in a second lent anger to her fear. The little whelp!

The Steward of House Harkkaet, Rikaard was loremaster and lawmaster in one. He meted out punishment to those of the Blood who transgressed the Law or the will of the Head of the House. Those that were caught anyway. In the last year alone she had done enough to for him have her killed dozens of times over, but for him to have her met here could only mean one thing.

In a moment she saw all her missteps with her lover, all the ways she had led the hunters to her. Had made this day inevitable. Its result was inevitable as well. There was only one reward for her failings here. Her lover would die screaming, and by her hand if she wanted to survive the day herself.

“Where are we to meet him? It had better not be far.” and her body moved from assertive-waiting to impatient-waiting with a minute shift. Another non combative positioning. Her lack of a threatening stance made mock of his tense readiness. He flushed slightly, the shame stinging him but he did not relax. He did not think all of her was lost in the madness that had overtaken her.

“He is just inside.” The impudence left him. She should be worried, not impatient and he was worried in his turn. As seemingly impossible as it was, if she had a way to come out of this intact or even in a more superior position, she would repay him very thoroughly indeed. He didn't even realize it himself when he transitioned into defensive-waiting as she started past him.

The first room beyond the arch had been built to impress. Few of the Blood ever ventured further and this room alone in the Study was designed with their tastes in mind. The arch led to a series of massive roman vaults in the dimness of the ceiling, the columns inscribed with the historic events of the House. The sturdy tables and grand carved chairs were more prominent than shelves and holdings. In the center of it all was a large open circle and inlaid in the stone of the floor was the crest of House Harkkaet. In the center of the circle, upon the very head of the lioness of Harkkaet stood an Immortal and a man. The Steward Rikaard and her lover, the human archivist Everard Cameron.

Everard stood with his nervousness plain. Eawrie sighed, the man was hopeless. No human could hope to hold their emotions from the notice of one of the Blood but he didn't even try. Couldn't understand the need. She had taught him the exercises taught to children. He found them as fascinating as he found all knowledge but would not practice them. She had found it endearing, but now his inability to restrain himself could cost her all.

Had teaching him the basics of the dance been the least of her crimes in regards to Everard, he would be killed. Her great crime was not teaching him and taking him as a lover held no penalty. Such use of a mortal was common, even approved of. No, her crime was that she had debased her race by loving a mortal.

She approached. Ulandin followed her in a deferential manner that was not lost on Rikaard, even in his fury. Everard was clearly confused at being taken from his duties, he looked at her a question. Having been taken as a lover was no crime for him. She was a little saddened. For him to not know his peril was impossible if he but knew her feelings were true. He must think himself a plaything taken. She was not so lost to convention that she would weep, but the hurt at least colored her eyes.

Rikaard saw her hurt but could not fathom it even if he believed it. She was the most adept he had ever seen at manipulation. Her every act calculated, her every word crafted. He thought not for the first time that he might be antecedent of her. Her father was known She strode to the very edge of the seal in the floor and stopped. She came to rest in assertive-command but Rikaard was too old in his cunning to be taken in. But only just.

“...[more to come]

50002.2.0.1 - Catch and Release [v2.0.1]

2008-04-27T19:11:36Z

His hand was slippery with blood, the iron stake in his hand twisting like a snake as he drove it with the mallet. With a final blow the clinched head was tight against the hulking form's tree trunk sized leg. Now it tight was held tight against the barn door he had on the floor. The blood spurted a final time and subsided, the wound pulling close around the rough iron pinning it.

"Are we sure this is the one that ate your cow, Ed?" asked the bloodied man with the mallet. He stood up from the floor, surveying his work. Three spikes in each leg, two in the arms, one in the throat to hold its head. It was still unconscious, its breathe wet and rasping.

Ed's bald pate glistened in the harsh light of the bare bulb of the worklight. His wizened visage nodding grimly.

"Must be, Lou." He rasped out. "Can't be more than two or three mature bulls in these hills big enough to take off with a full grown cow."

The thing's shaggy gray hair was matted with blood around the spikes. It thinned around its bestial face. Enough to bare black, wet, snoutlike nostrils and a wide thin mouth full of rough cruel teeth. Its eyes seemed to be moving fervently beneath closed hairy lids.

"Seems pretty damn restive. You sure you used enough tranq?" asked Lou uneasily.

"Any more he might have a damn heart attack. Be a fine thing, killin' him when we only mean to collar 'im. Feds would toss us ina prisonyard, quicklike." He rummaged through a collection of boxes on the nearby workbench, all stamped "Forestry Service".

"We're allowed to tag 'em. If it dies before we set the damn thing free, we'll just say it was in here, killin' livestock."

"Like hell we will. Just bury the thing. Besides, it wont die."

The beast's clawlike hands began clinching into fists, and releasing. Over and over. Lou scampered back from the staked form. He raised the mallet, as if to ward it off if it was rousing, before he dropped it back to his side sheepishly.

Ed found what he was looking for. Three fist sized metal balls. He managed the three in the crook of his arm until almost he had reached the beast, then one tipped free. Falling with a dull thunk, it rolled back towards Lou's boots.

"Shit Ed, think it broke?" Lou asked nervously, bending to pick it up.

"Nah, bring it over. It will still give him a hell of a shock if he comes through the fences."

Ed had his knife out kneeling next to the brute. He was holding one of the metal balls close. With a grunt, he drove the knife deep in its side and drew it towards its hip. In one motion, he thrust the ball roughly into the wound. He barely got his hand free from the rapidly closing cut. The lump beneath the thing's pelt moved, as the rebuilding muscle enmeshed it, settled it.

He moved back with another ball, preparing another slash. Across its great midsection this time. Ed weighed the ball, poised the knife to strike. The outcry from Lou behind him was wordless and shrill. Ed looked up to the things head, into its eyes… and the fury that they held.

The gurgle that erupted from its spiked throat should have been a roar. With a squelching crunch, it pulled its arm free. Pulled the spikes THROUGH its arm, really, and knocked Ed clear off his feet.

With a meaty thwap Ed hit the wall and fell with a heavy grunt.

Lou was backpedaling, eyes wide, crying wordless warning wardings. The monstrous form had torn the spike from its throat with its free hand and now was working on freeing itself more fully. The wood of the barn door beneath it sounded like was breaking up, splintering.

Lou ran into the workbench, turned, looking for the tranquilizer gun. He desperately threw aside the boxes of useless regulatory government junk. The gun, where was the fucking GUN! He had to find it of they were both dead!

The healing throat of the beast set forth a roar that shook the rafters. Lou dropped to his knees, closed tight his eyes, clutching his ears, trying to hold out the sound of death's approach.

The whole barn shook, and his eyes flew open and there he saw it. The fallen rifle on the floor, just out of reach. He threw himself at it, felt his hands close on grip and trigger. With a roll worthy of a man two decades younger he came up and drew the rifle to he shoulder. He drew a bead on the form, but too quickly it had charged out the door. Into the night.

Shaking and not dropping the rifle, he made his way over to a groaning Ed. "You alive? "

Ed managed to get seated and looked about at the mess

"Through no fault of my own. Thank god you got to that rifle, otherwise it wouldda killed us both."

The beast's roars could be heard moving farther from the ranch, up into the surrounding hills.

"RAUTHFARAR!!" Screamed the freed shogii. He stumbled and crashed through the rough fencing, moving into the trees. His mad dash sent him careening off of and sometimes right over the large pines and scrub oak that covered the hills.

"YO, HAUFAMAK, OVER HERE!" Came an echoed reply from further up the hills.

A form even taller and more massively thewed emerged from behind a granite outcropping and waved the escapee over.

Haufamak came to a ragged stop, still pulling iron spikes from his arms and legs as if her were pulling jaggers free and tossing them aside. The wood that had been still holding to the captive fell now also.

"Rauthfarar, you wont believe it. The fuckers were stickin me!" He said to his rangy friend. His voice was unusually high pitched, almost shrill.

"They came up and shoot me with those sleep things of theirs, then I wake up in that big wood house of theirs. Nailed me to the damn floor. When I wake up, they were STICKIN' ME!"

Chuckling, the older shogii shrugged. He slapped his young friend on the back, leading him back up into the hills.

"Calm down, calm down. Who knows what they were thinking. Well, you know the rules man. Cant just go killin' 'em. Get yourself in some real shit then. You hungry?"

"Shit yeah. You got any of that cow left from yesterday?"

50001.2.1 - Descision's Fruit [v2.1]

2008-04-27T19:08:18Z

She didn't notice the weight of the prybar in her hands until she was done. It pulled at her, dragged at her, drawing her to the floor.

She let it fall away. She never heard it hit. The wash of blood upon the table hid from her all sound.

She turned from the kitchen, shambled into the hall. Left behind the corpses of two men. One had come to help and one to kill her. Both lay cooling. In the hall, the shattered door let the glare of the streetlight spill in as she moved through and out.

The cement porch was cold as she sat, drew a cigarette to her mouth and lit. The smoke filled her lungs, sweet and stinging, and she remembered the first time she saw him outside the courthouse. The first time he talked to her, smiling. He'd bummed a cigarette, made her laugh, got her number. A final pull brought her to the present, to the sirens in the distance, to the car halfway into the front yard, engine running. Her ears still rang from the gunshots.

The sedan looked new. Made sense, she supposed, everything about him was new. Clothes, apartment, name, identity. Would have saved a hell of a lot of time and grief to know that aforetime. Not to mention she might have expected him to kick in the door and shoot her.

Shoot her and Tim both. She touched her left arm, it came away red and wet. Her breathe quickened with the pain she finally felt. The red made it real, dripping.

She lay back on the porch with a laugh and a sob. She had some ugly breakups under her belt, but she guessed that attempted murder just about topped the list.

As the porch light above her began to spin, she wondered who he had been, really. Why he was using a fake name. Why he needed all those guns. Or the money in cash. Who keeps honest to god stacks of money in their basement? Well, in a case in the basement. She was NOT snooping…

A new pain breached her darkening vision. Reflexively, her hand tossed the butt of the cigarette that had burned her fingers away. The hurt was a point to focus on, unlike the now icy arm and shoulder which were only vague things. She tried to hold.

The sirens filled the night, the lights added their oscillating hues to the porch. Maybe if she had called the police the night she found all that shit, maybe if she hadn't looked around at all.

A man stood over her, calling to her. What can he be saying? The icy mass of her shoulder now woke. A tearing, searing fire bloomed in her head, the world receded into it as she screamed. A throbbing, jarring pain replaced it. The world grew again, emerging from the pain. The light was close, and a woman now spoke. Half talking to her, half talking about her. Sound now joined sight as the worlds grew a little more. The siren and the jarring telling her she was in an ambulance. Being helped.

She ought to understand this woman, she seemed so in earnest, though the words seemed all a burble. As the pain receded again into a dull thing, the world around her grew soft. And so confusing! It seemed that she should brace herself against the rocking of the bed she lay upon, but she couldn't quite remember how to move.

But why should she move? And where was she going? Where was she? Damned, she wished she had a smoke. And the light closed down once more. Where had it gone the last time? Where…

This Late Weeks Work

2008-04-27T00:16:18Z

I have instituted a new schedule. It demands productivity on my part, something very much lacking on my part in my writing and otherwise. :)

The work is occurring on what was designed to be a flash fiction piece to help me find the voice and mood of the larger piece, 01004.2 - Entropic Growth Script v1.0. I had not ever hit my first bullet point and i was well past 600 words before I even new it. It is growing more to a very short story. In fact, for a stand alone piece Entropic Growth is spawning an awfully lot of attendant pieces. I may need to reclassify this as a new universe instead of a 01000 stand alone. 08000 is open. We shall see.

The former flash fiction piece is:
01004.0.002 - The Archivist and the Exile
and is proceeding nicely is in an inflated fashion. I am learning a great deal about the atmosphere that shrouds the Blood in their homes. I am having a bit of trouble showing Eawrie as a completely dominant figure in her relationship with Everard. She cannot even conceive of him as an equal though she does truly love him.

As to the schedule:

As a guide, here is the grading system I am starting with. I am measuring my progress in words per day as:

Terrible	Poor	Fair	Good	Golden!
0-500	501-1500	1501-3000	3001-5000	5000-Up

Now a notation of:

1st

indictates a day in the schedule that is not counted. A null day that does not count against me.

and:

is a day from another month.

Unfortunately for me, gaming and a hockey game sabotaged an already anemic display on my part. I am just trying for 750 quality words a day for now... well behind am I.

April Schedule

20th	21st	22nd	510	97	0	26th
27th	28th	29th	30th

Well, to work.

-Dannil

A Note of Understanding creeps in...

2008-04-20T23:38:36Z

But only a note. Most of it is still petty bitterness and selfish irritation.

To Everyone who bailed on the Friday Game Session: Fuck. You.

Listen, I get it, you have lives and obligations outside of the gaming table. That real life intrudes and you just had to prioritize things and as it turned out, gaming just had to be set aside. Whats more, it was for only the evening, and next week you'll be back with bells on. Normally I'm an understanding man, able to give a pass to just about anyone.

Not this time. Not about this. I have ONE, count em ONE, semi-normal social interaction with other humans... Gaming. The week is merely a time of waiting, the weekend is for post game critique. Without the game I have no recharge, the week drags. So here I shall be wholly and unashamedly selfish. SHOW THE FUCK UP.

The group being composed of so many new faces to gaming, and more to the point new to me, I can be a little impersonal in my irritation with them. But there is where the note of understanding creeps in. I am a heck of a lot more comfortable being irritated at Jim, Becky or Becky. I can get mad at them, let em know it and know things will work out OK. With the new fish, its all ajumble. I just cant bring myself to let fly with a resounding "ASSHOLE!" and when i look at it for each different reason. I'm attracted to em, or I work with em, or the irritating behavior really is just about as cute as they think it is. Etcetera, Etcetera. Well, that and I'm not comfortable at all with thinking of them as merely "aids to gaming". Partly because its a vile thought, partly because its true and more the pity on me.

And should you bail, how about some fucking warning. How about you plan this shit a little better. How about I never get an emailed heads-up ten minutes AFTER I start walking over to game. How about that, hum?

And while I am here, with Mr Empathy on the shelf, would it be so much to ask that you pay some fucking attention! Put the sketchbook down, allow yourself to enjoy the game. Release the aloofness, and play!

-Dannil

p.s. you can tell things are pretty messed up when you can with a straight face say "Semi-normal interaction with other humans is gaming".

Progress!

2008-04-18T03:23:10Z

"01004.3 - The Change from Vampires to Immortals" is complete!!! I posted the text to some friends to stimulate their comments on it though i have little hope of hearing from them. They are almost as reticent to comment as i am myself. Actually, they seem to comment profusely amongst themselves just not to me. I suppose that even inside the circle of friends, I stand apart. Well, no need to go over that old ground again to no avail, I will revel in the joy of some prewriting completed!! Huzzah!

Now on to "01004.4 - The Families of the Blood" and "01004.5 - Imprimus Pre-Outline". One is another background piece and the other a freewriting exercise i do in the early stages of a project to explore story options. The effort there will run concurrently.

Onward and upward!
-Dannil

The progress of the day...or lack of same.

2008-04-17T02:38:17Z

I got officially nowhere on any of the various projects I have in the works. To be fair, I spent a goodly portion of the evening watching the Pens sweep the Senators, but I still wanted to get SOMETHING done.

Here's the Active Project List:

The Family Archive - an attempt to scan and save all the old family photos, with an emphasis on having the parents identify the places and people therein before they're minds are moosh.
    Status: Just Begun
    The Freakin Hold-Up: Scanning that many images gets BORING

My Module - a D20 modern module for use with my current gaming group. With so many faces new to gaming, I thought it might behoove me to work a little more concretely than I am normally wont to do.
    Status: Midway through the Second Act
    The Freakin Hold-Up: I moved this to the back burner when Jim began his Godlike campaign. I thought I might have more time to finish before it was my turn again. I thought wrong and now am WAY behind.

01004 - Entropic Growth - an intended throw away diversion that has caught my attention more than I had hoped. the precursor documents are well along... at least compared to other similar projects.
    Status: Mid Prewriting Phase
    The Freakin Hold-Up: becoming bogged down in the prewriting...as per norm.
             Current Prewriting Document: 01004.3 - The Change from Vampires to Immortals

05010 - A Roundabout Way To Barter - a short story that keeps trying to grow into a novella set in the Millerverse/Ruins setting [05000 series]. The first appearance of Dermott Henderson and Jaul.
    Status: Endless midwriting
    The Freakin Hold-Up: each time i get focused on this, i get massive writers block. but back to it I am always drawn.

05710 - The End of Eikon - another short story set in the Millerverse/Ruins setting [05000 series] starring Dermott Henderson that takes place before 05010 - A.R.W.t.B. This project stemmed from a period of beating my head against 05010's dead stop progress bar.
    Status: early Pre-Writing
    The Freakin Hold-up: a way to to work with the 05000 series but not hurt myself with 05010. it just makes me want to work with 05010...sigh.

after taking time to document such a litany of lackluster performance, I will try to hammer out some more on 01004.3 before sleep consumes me.

-dannil