Words of the Drewcifer

Theme 9: Drive

2012-01-29T07:05:00.001-05:00

Quentin sulked in the back seat of the car.

"Come on, Q," said Jesse from the driver's seat. His best friend was grinning.

"Look, I don't expect you to get how important this is to me," snapped Quentin. "But I do expect to be taken seriously. Come on man."

Brigit chimed in from the front passenger's seat. "Ease up, Quentin. Of course we take you seriously."

Quentin rolled his eyes at his twin's comment. "Whatever. Look, it's important that we get this drive out of the hands of Ardcorp."

"Yeah we know, " said Jesse. "End of the world scenario. Well here I am driving you to this shady drop-off thing you've got going. Just don't ask me to take it all that seriously. You know your cloak and dagger stuff just comes off as hilarious sometimes. Especially since we're doing this in broad daylight."

Quentin's frowned deepened. "See that's what I'm talking about. Obviously I'm not gonna do a shady deal at night when there's no one on the road. The important thing here is to blend in."

"Right," said Brigit. "So we're blending. Teenagers laughing is pretty blend-y, Q."

"Yeah," said Quentin. "Well so is teenagers sulking."

Theme 8: Innocence

2012-01-09T09:40:00.001-05:00

Harmony surveyed the life-size clay figure stretched out on the table before her. She consulted her diagrams one last time, and then quickly began inscribing several runes in strategic places on the figure's body using her violin's bow. Normally, she would have employed a ceremonial stylus for the task, but this particular operation would require a speedy transition to her other talents. Her music would be required while the runes were still very fresh. Once she was done etching the runes into the figure's body, she picked up her violin. She took a brief second to ensure it was still in tune and then began her song.

Harmony played the Aria of Innocence. It was a song of her own composition, one that she had never played before and yet knew every note and rest of. The music poured from her soul into the violin and then into the clay. The runes began to glow, softly at first then growing brighter.

Harmony was a rarity among rarities. In fact, she had reason to believe she was the only one of her kind alive on the planet at the present time. Willworkers like herself were vanishingly rare to begin with, only a few thousand existed worldwide. And spellcasters were also quite rare, though not as rare as the Enlightened. She was one of the most rare beings in creation: A Willworker who could also cast more "ordinary" magical spells. Her research on the Dreamtime network led her to believe that the phenomenon had happened less than a dozen times total in the whole of recorded human history. This unique combination of talents allowed her to achieve effects unattainable by either magician or Dreamer.

Her Willworker's music mingled with the spellcraft of the runes and the glowing reached a crescendo as she finished her song. As the last note of the aria faded into the air, the glow of the runes likewise diminished. After a few tense moments, the clay figure's chest rose with a sharp intake of breath and the figure sat up.

The clay girl looked at her creator, confusion on her face.

"Welcome to life. My name is Harmony, but I guess you can just call me 'mom.'"

Theme 7: Heaven

2012-01-04T03:11:00.000-05:00

They cast me aside.

They broke their promises. They used me until I was no longer convenient and then I was discarded. But I will not be quietly resigned to my fate. I will make them pay.

My life began simply, as a proud samurai warrior serving my lord. When he fell in battle, I thought to join him, but Heaven had other plans. I was approached by a Seraph, a divine arbiter who offered me a choice. I could end my life now, stained as it was with the blood of the innocent and the guilty alike, or I could work for her. Either way, she said, I would die. The only variables were time and how much good I could do for the world first. I took her offer.

I traded my dou-maru for the protection of divine fire, the latent power of my own soul made manifest and amplified by the Seraph's gift. She sent down a pair of Principalities to instruct me in the use of my new-found power and school me in the laws I was now sworn to uphold.

Only the most effective of killers can become a Warden's Hunter. Only a mortal already so bathed in blood as to be beyond ordinary redemption can be offered the chance to turn that deadly instinct to divine purpose and in fulfilling that mandate find salvation. And what a killer was I.

My daisho shattered in the struggle with my first Edict-breaker. I wrenched the pitchfork from the demon's hand and destroyed his mortal shell with his own infernal weapon. And it is that weapon I still wield to this day. It is not the primitive hay fork of human folklore. My weapon is sleek and built for battle. Forged with cunning artifice by the techno-gremlins of the pit. Black steel prongs, carbon-nanotube haft, and a blood red jewel where the prongs meet the haft that glows as it drinks in the life-energy of my foes when they fall. It is a good weapon, a delicious irony when used to slay a demon. And on the rare occasion one of the Celestials breaks an Edict, well. . .it does what it was built to do.

For six hundred years I served my heavenly master. For six hundred years I killed who they told me to kill. For six hundred years, I was their faithful tool.

Until now. After six centuries of loyal service, I am now told my services are no longer required thanks to an "incident" that occurred relatively recently. And the Metatron has reneged on his offer of entry into Heaven.

But the Fallen and the Host are the same basic beings. There is one thing I have been trained to do very well over the past six hundred years. And that is to kill angels.

Tonight, for the first time since the Rebellion, there shall be sorrow in Paradise. And I shall be its author.

Theme 6: Break Away

2011-12-26T12:39:00.004-05:00

They chained me. They bound me and left me in darkness to rot. But I am not so easily dealt with. I am no simple problem that can be locked away and forgotten. I am the cards and the cards are me.

I close my eyes. I am the root of the powers of air. I am the knight of swords. I am freedom and wings and chains cannot bind me. I am strength.

I am all these things and more and my chains are nothing. They fall to the ground shattered and rusted.

I am the Cartomancer, and my enemies will soon learn their mistake.

Theme 5: Seeking Solace

2011-12-26T12:15:00.002-05:00

I look at your picture through a haze of cigarette smoke and whiskey. My lungs, my liver, my love, all fucked. L just isn't my letter it seems. My whole life I've been looking for something without quite knowing what it is. I thought it was you.

I was wrong.

Theme 4: Dark

2011-12-23T02:04:00.003-05:00

Fraze blessed the darkness as he stretched out to the moon with his soul. The dragon of the night responded, sending power cascading into the conduits made by the network of tattoos crisscrossing his body. He became an incarnation of opposites. The color from his skin and clothing was drained, leaving an inkblot on the face of reality in the shape of a man. The markings on his body were alive with silver fire, shining through his clothing where it covered his skin. His smile and his eyes glittered as his face split into a grin, three points of white in the void that was his face.
"Time to cause a little trouble for the sun-worshippers," he said, launching himself into the night on a trail of moonbeams.

Theme 3: Light

2011-12-23T01:55:00.001-05:00

The light washed over and through him, searing his vision despite tightly closed eyelids. He fell to the ground, choking on his own breath.
"That's right, cocksucker," said the woman. "Drink it in. You think that light's all rainbows and happy thoughts?" She kicked him in the ribs. "Think again. My light is glorious and terrible, the stuff of legends and gods."
He choked out a sound that was probably meant to be words. The woman ignored him.
"I'm not going to kill you," she said. "But I am going to hurt you." She punctuated the last with another swift kick to his midsection. "And you're going to limp home to whatever faction thought they could take on this poor defenseless light mage and you're going to tell them how fucking wrong they were."
She kicked once more for good measure. "And if I ever see your face again, mine will be the last thing you ever see."

Theme 2: Love

2011-12-23T01:48:00.001-05:00

"I don't understand," said Lisa.
"I really didn't expect you too," responded Carter.
There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him, but to her credit she blinked them away and did not let them fall. "I thought that things were good between us. What happened? Don't you love me anymore?"
Carter's gaze remained hard, unyielding, lifeless and cold like a painted portrait of a king. "I do love you," he said. "I love you more and more with every moment we spend together. But that's why I have to go. As long as you're with me, you're in terrible danger. Danger you can never understand and that I can never keep you safe from."
Her sorrow turned to anger. "Coward," she hissed, voice barely more than a whisper. "True love doesn't run. True love doesn't care what problems are before it. True love struggles and fights and overcomes."
Carter just shook his head and turned his back on her. "Don't follow me, Lisa. Hate me if you have to, but don't follow me."
He walked away, vanishing into the deepening night.
She didn't follow.

Theme 1: Introduction

2011-12-23T01:40:00.002-05:00

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to our wonderful circus of the strange, our bazaar of the bizarre. I will be your host this evening. I have many names, yet none are mine. You may call me what you wish, for I am but a humble guide. But you did not come here to hear me prattle on. Please, get comfortable in your seats. Relax and enjoy the show."

100 Theme Challege

2011-12-23T01:36:00.000-05:00

Been out of the world for a spell, I'd like to walk it again.

Gonna do some short prose vignettes corresponding to each of the 100 themes found on this post. I'll be going in order, from 1 to 100.

-The Drewcifer

Muncie Blues

2011-09-03T06:49:00.000-04:00

Okay, this is really hard for me to do, but here goes.

I started this song by singing it on my porch in the last couple of weeks before I left for China. Originally, it was just a chord progression I was doing to practice playing an F chord on my mandolin. It had different words every time.

While on the plane over to China, I managed to codify some lyrics that I think I can live with for the time being. The song may well go through another version or two, but I think it's pretty good.

Update: Added a few more lines and I think it's finished now.

For those of you interested in singing along, I'll include the chords for the first couple of patterns. After that, you can figure it out yourself.
So here goes. This is helping me to get over her.

Muncie Blues

F
So I'll write another story and sing another sad song
C
About some girl who's never gonna love me
Em
What's worst is I got no right to miss her
Am
Cuz Lord knows, I never even kissed her

F
And I'm finding myself at a crossroads, at a junction
C
Tryin' to figure out my form and my function
Em
But listen kiddo, don't you worry about me
Am
You worry enough as it is already

F C
Oh what the Hell am I supposed to do
Em
With you and your Muncie blues?
Am
No one compares to you.

F C
Oh, you know I got something to prove
Em
And I just don't think that I can move
Am
'Till I see it in those Muncie blues.

So I'll find another lover and sing another sad song
About a girl who's never gonna love me
While the new one sits beside me
With no idea of the pain inside me

Oh how I wish she was you
with your Muncie blues
Muncie blues

Oh and I feel my heart starting to bruise
But I think I've got nothin' to lose
When I'm staring at those Muncie blues

So I take another hit and sing another sad song
About the girl who said she'd never love me
And tell myself the drugs'll make it better
But all they do is make her eyes wetter

Oh I can tell that you don't approve
I can see it in your Muncie blues
But you don't get to choose

Oh and my heart it hasn't got a clue
Cuz if it knew what to do
It wouldn't be in love with you

And I die a little bit whenever I sing a sad song
About that girl who never did love me
And she never did love me
No she never did love me

Oh how I wish that I could tell you I'm through
That I've finally gotten over you
But that just wouldn't be true

Oh and I know the problem isn't with you
But it seems no matter what I do
I just can't forget about you

So I'll drain another glass and sing another sad song
Cuz all along I knew you'd never love me
I look for answers in this bottle of whisky
All the while wishing you were here with me

Oh it was nothing that I chose to do
but you see when I saw those Muncie blues
I knew I'd finally found my muse

But it's another empty round while I'm drowing my sorrows
Trying not think about all of the tomorrows
That you and I will never have

And the truth is now I'm more often drunk than I'm sober
Cuz at the start it was already over
Oh but ain't that the way it goes.

Summer Butterflies

2010-09-22T13:49:00.008-04:00

What follows is a poem, but please allow me a bit of navel-gazing and reflection before we get into the work itself.

"Summer Butterflies" is a poem that details the emotional content of my relationship with a particular person. It is, broadly speaking, the culmination of nearly two years of experience. Because my relationship with the person has not yet ended, the possibility of additional stanzas being added at some point in the future is a very real one. In this way, "Summer Butterflies" is a work in progress.

Because Blogger is being a real asshole about preserving my indents, and the indents are very important to this poem, I'm providing a link to the poem here. Additionally, if you don't like clicking on links, I'm embedding the poem in the post as well, though I don't really care for how tiny it is.

Poem

2010-07-23T03:07:00.002-04:00

This poem is dedicated to someone very important.

Poem:

My love was once a fire pure

Burning hot and clean.

Now the signal's slick with smoke

From oil and gasoline

I've seen a lot of bridges burned

By my consuming fire.

And watched each girl I've loved become

Impurities on the pyre.

But all the while through each heart break

My soul continues singing.

And it beats on, my wounded heart

Though every cut keeps stinging.

As I look forward, I cannot see

An end to loss and yearning.

But though the smoke grows thick and black

I'll keep this fire burning.

Valentine's Day 2009

2009-02-15T11:58:00.007-05:00

I know this is a little late, but I figured if anyone still occasionally checks this blog, I could give them a little something for Valentine's. Obviously, I'm running late with it as usual. Will this be a story? A poem? I honestly have no idea. I'm just going to sort of start writing and see what happens.

-The Drewcifer

Story:

Once upon a time. Does anyone ever really put some serious thought into that phrase? It's so ubiquitous, used at the beginning of so many fairy tales. But what does it really mean? I know it's not a complete sentence. But as beginnings go, I guess it's not all that bad. If you look at it, it's basically saying "What comes after this phrase happened at a time." And I guess that's good, but shouldn't you know that anything that happens happens at a time? Sorry, I got distracted and started ranting. Anyway.

Once upon a time,

there was a boy. And the boy found himself without companions. For you see, this was before anyone else existed, but after Time had already begun, for as we have already said, it was upon a time.

So once upon a time, there was the Boy. And the Boy looked for his mother, the Moon. He cried skyward for many nights. And though he could see the Moon, she would not answer his calls. She could not come down and comfort him. And this made the Boy sad, and his lonliness grew.

So once upon a time, the Boy couldn't find his mother. So the Boy looked for his father, the Sun. And once again, the Boy found his parent easily. And once again, he cried out to the heavens. And, to his dismay, he was once more left without answer. Once more denied the comforting embrace, this time of this father. And the Boy experienced a saddness that cannot be described, only felt. And the Boy thought that perhaps the Sun and the Moon did not love him any longer.

But that is not the truth of the story.

Once upon a time,

the Moon and the Sun were one. And from that, the Boy was born. And for a time, the Boy and the Moon and the Sun were together, and they were happy. But, inevitably, it came time for the Sun and the Moon to take their places in the sky. And they bid the Boy farewell, telling him they would watch him, and that they would always love him. And so the Boy was sent to the Earth, so that the Moon and the Sun could watch over him. And for a time, things were good. Not as good as they had been when the family had been together, but tolerable. The Boy would see his father during the day, and his mother at night. But soon the lonliness began to swell within the Boy. And the Moon and the Sun looked down and heard him crying out for them and they were saddened.

So once upon a time, while the Boy was moping with head downcast, the Moon began to appear in the day sky, to conferr with her husband. And they found that they had missed each other dearly, so their visits did not cease after the trouble had passed. But that is another story. They spoke and wondered and felt keenly their son's pain, for they missed him as much as he missed them. And so the Moon and the Sun spoke to Time and to Dream.

Once upon a time,

there was a girl. And the girl was lonely and without companions. This too happened after Time had begun, for it was upon a time. But only barely.

Because once,

Time and Dream met and found each other pleasing. And from their union was born the Girl, who was prophecy and mystery. And with the arrival of their progeny, Time began and Dream created.

So once upon a time, the Girl knew she could never feel again the embrace of her parents. But she dreamed each night, falling into her mother's arms. And she moved at all times through the substance of her father. And she was happy enough. But dreams and grains of sand can only be companions for so long.

So once upon a time, the Sun and the Moon were worried for their Boy, who was born of the two great lights in the sky. He was knowledge and curiousity. Just as the Girl, born of invisible forces, was all things concealed, so too was the Boy, born of forces illuminating, all things revealed. And the Sun and the Moon spoke to Time and to Dream.

So once upon a time, the four of them decided that perhaps their children should meet, so as not to be lonely any more.

So once upon a Time, buoyed up and carried by a Dream, the Girl found herself on Earth, opposite a crying Boy.

Once upon a time, the Girl asked "Why are you crying?" And the Boy stopped crying. "I was crying because I was afraid that my mother and father do not love me any more. They watch over me, but they cannot speak to me, nor comfort me in their arms when I am frightened or lonely."

Once upon a time, the Girl comforted him, saying: "Do not be sad, Boy. I too have been left by my parents. Like yours, they still love me, but they cannot touch me. But I know that our parents love us, still." And the Boy, once upon a time, asked how the Girl could know this.

"Because your mother and father saw that you were lonely and my mother and father saw that I was lonely. So the four of them sent me to you, that we might both find an end to our loneliness," she said, once upon a time.

And so it was.

Wendell Chapter 2

2008-08-15T09:25:00.002-04:00

The following post also appears at A Shot in the Dark
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Wendell could tell it was going to be one of those nights.

He had screamed for almost a full minute before Felicia opened the coffin lid.

"Oh Wendell, I'm so sorry. I was in the washroom and I couldn't get here right away. Are you alright?"

Wendell took a few moments to catch his breath. Ever since the transition to becoming undead, he hadn't actually needed to breathe. Nonetheless, Wendell wasn't the sort to let go of hyperventilation just because it was no longer a biological response. Wendell was a creature of habit.

After he had regained his composure, Wendell managed to give Felicia a watery smile and a weak thumbs up as he sat up in his coffin. "No problem," he said, insincerely. "I'll be fine."

Concern dominated Felicia's face. "Are you sure, Wendell?" She held out her wrist. "Here, have some breakfast to soothe yourself."

Wendell protested weakly and inaudibly while feebly pushing the girl's hand away. Felicia would have none of that.

"Now Wendell, you may be my undead lord and master whom I have sworn unswerving allegiance to, but I've been watching and you haven't had a bite to drink in two nights. You are going to drink my blood and you are going to like it, Mister!"

And with that, Felicia thrust her wrist forcefully into Wendell's face. Grumbling, Wendell sank his fangs into the girl and began to suck on the wounds.

Felicia cooed softly as the vampire administered his Kiss. Wendell just tried to keep the blood down and resist the urge to throw up. After only thirty seconds or so, he stopped his ministrations and licked the wounds closed.

"Oh Wendell." The disappointment in her voice was punctuated by the halfhearted sigh. "Why did you stop so soon?"

"I-I didn't want to hurt you. Drain you or anything." Wendell's stammering reply was made worse by the after-drink queasiness he always suffered.

Felicia looked at him, highly exasperated. "Wendell, how many times do we have to go over this? You can drink for several minutes-plural-before I'd be in any danger."

Wendell looked at her sheepishly. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Well. Try and remember next time. I'm off to bed. Wake me up when you're ready to go bed."

Yeah, it was going to be one of those nights.

Wendell Chapter 1

2008-08-04T20:02:00.003-04:00

The Drewcifer will now attempt some comedy.

The following post also appears at A Shot in the Dark
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Wendell hated his name. In fact, he told everyone he met that his name was Chris. To him, Chris seemed like a much simpler, stronger, more American name. But no matter how many people called him Chris, one thing never changed.

Deep down inside, he was still a Wendell. Wendells were meek, wimpy, and British. Wendells were prey animals. This might not have been a problem had this particular Wendell not, in fact, been a predator.

You see Wendell was a vampire. A vampire who, each night, upon waking, screamed at the top of his lungs.

Wendell was both claustrophobic and nyctophobic, meaning he feared both tight spaces and the dark. This made a coffin a very uncomfortable place for him. Each morning his housekeeper watched him fall asleep, then gently closed the lid of the coffin.

Wendell's condition had instilled an intense fear of the sun (heliophobia). As a result, Wendell went to bed very early each night. And Wendell often went to bed hungry.

Wendell did not like drinking blood. He had been assured time and time again by his bevy of beautiful mortal concubines that the act was, indeed, very pleasurable for them.

Wendell found it icky.

Technically Wendell shared the concubines with his roommates, Jeff and His Dark Eminence the Dread Prince of the Night Markomanius Necrosian (whom everyone just called 'Mark').

No one in the house called Wendell "Chris."

English 205 Final Project

2008-04-22T09:42:00.003-04:00

Originally, this assignment was limited to a 9 page maximum and needed to show setting, internal and external conflict, and a bunch of other stuff.

Anyway, I need to do a revision of it by next Tuesday, the revision can have as many pages as I want. There is a notable lack of internal conflict in this story, among other flaws. To all of my readers, I'd like as much input from you on improvements as possible. I know the ending is wonky, so suggestions there are very appreciated.

Note: Anne Marie's name and likeness are used, but her powers and goals are very different. Consider this "fanon" as far as she's concerned.

Thanks very much for your help, guys.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

Unlucky

by Andrew Blatt

Most people don’t believe me when I tell them I’m psychic. I can’t say I blame them. In fact, I’m always a little suspicious of people who do believe me right off the bat. That said, I’m being 100% serious when I say that’s what I am.

Not professionally, of course. I’ve never met a genuine psychic who made money from his or her “gift.” Unlike some of the frauds, I can find my own car in a parking lot. Most of my clairvoyance, though, is the ability to see my immediate future. I know you’re thinking that that sounds great, but it’s not. See, to go along with that little edge, I have terrible luck. So when I stare into the infinite maw of Probability, all I see is how much my life is going to suck in about five minutes.

I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Gregory Hallen. As I’ve mentioned I’m a psychic by nature, though not by profession. I’m pretty much always between jobs, a side effect of the bad luck. Doesn’t bother me too much, though. I can always see what’ll give me the best results during an interview, so getting new jobs isn’t much of a problem.

When you’re psychic, seeing things like ghosts isn’t supposed to be a big deal. Somehow, I never quite got to that point. I think that the restless dead make me uncomfortable because they throw off my predictions. I can’t read anything about the future when ghosts are involved. Once you get used to a life with no surprises, even if that life isn't all that great, surprises start to make you very uncomfortable.

Which is why I'm never quite as happy to see my dad as one might expect.

"Hello, Greg." My old man's voice is slow and melancholy. Not because he's dead, though. He's sounded like that for as long as I can remember.

I jump slightly in my chair, then put down my paper and turn to face my father.

"Hi, Dad. What can I do for you today?"

These visits are starting to get out of hand. Before, it was unusual for me to encounter a ghost more than once every two or three years. Even after Dad died, he would just drop in twice a year; once on my birthday, once on his. Simple, little things. But this is the third time Dad's been here this month.

But he shrugs it off like it's nothing. "Just wanted to see how you're doing, Greg. I worry about you a lot. I worry about your mom, too, but she can't see me."

Uh oh. Looks like Dad's going to work himself into a ramble if I don't do something.

"Look, Dad, something must be up. You've visited me more in these few weeks than you have in all the rest of the four years since you died. I know you. You don't get that sentimental. And you know that you being around tends to gum up the one single talent I have."

Dad's trapped. Everything I've just said is pretty much spot on, so there's no use in him arguing it. He sighs and looks at me with an unfamiliar expression. After a moment, I realize that it's pride.

"I always knew you were smarter than we gave you credit for," he says to me. Great. That makes me feel just wonderful.

"Right, whatever." This is becoming irritating. "Look, Dad, if this is something I can help with, tell me. If not, you need to let me get back to my life. Birthdays are still fine, but you can't just hang around the living all the time. We're both supposed to be moving on."

Dad shifts uncomfortably. He hasn't really changed any of his mannerisms since his death. It's somewhat unnerving. People are supposed to be different after they die.

"I just wanted to make sure you were safe. There's been some sort of plague or something. Something is killing psychics and no one can tell what it is."

Something killing psychics? That seems strange. "But," say, frowning. "Wouldn't we be able to see it coming? That's kinda what we do. My life's kinda shitty, but I'm not usually in any sort of mortal danger."

My dad grimaces. "That's the problem. Whatever it is, it's striking without warning. I guess I just want to tell you to be careful. Don't rely too much on your 'gift.' Keep your eyes open in the present, too."

As much as I hate to admit it, his frequent visits have been forcing me to ease off reliance on reading the future. Whether he realizes this or not is a matter of speculation. Still, I'm glad he decided to warn me.

"Thanks Dad. I'll keep on my toes."

"Love you, Greg," he say as he fades from view.

Funny, he rarely said that when he was alive.

The futures I can see slowly become relevant again. The thing about my clairvoyance is that it doesn't stop when I'm dealing with ghosts. If that were the case, I'd still know when they were around from the "blackout." Instead, timelines and futures with the ghosts in them just never show up.

That's when it hits me.

This malevolent presence hunting down psychics, it must be ghostly in nature. It's the only thing that really fits. And Dad probably knew that, but couldn't tell me. There seem to be a lot of very strange and arbitrary rules governing the behavior of the dead, one of which seems to be a restriction against telling any living being what exactly the rules are.

Right. Sorry about that. I seem to have inherited my father's legendary ability to ramble ever since I hit my thirties. So where were we? Right, my potentially looming death.

So far I'm betting it's another ghost, obviously a malevolent one. Though to be honest, I've never heard of a ghost outright killing anyone, which always led me to believe that they couldn't. The number of murders who would prefer not to be stopped by death is not a small number, let me tell you. But I've faced down the spirits of serial killers and saints alike, finding them equally unable to touch me.

This is turning out to be a great day so far.

I do know someone who might be able to help me solve this little mystery. After all, that's what she does. So I take the bus downtown and end up at the offices of one Miss Anne Marie Thompson, private investigator.

I raise my hand to knock on her door, but am interrupted by Anne Marie's voice.

"Come on in, Greg."

Did I mention she's a psychic, too? I know what you're thinking. But we're the only two in this town. It's only natural that we'd know each other, right?

I open the door and close it behind me. Anne Marie's office is small and sparse. Three sets of filing cabinets, a desk, and two chairs are the only furnishings she has. The air in here is think and smells heavily of nicotine. Sitting behind the desk is Anne Marie herself, smoking a cigarette.

At thirty-two, Anne Marie is quite a looker. She is, like me, average height. Her dad was a boxer, so she learned and used his training regimen, which keeps her in shape and ready to kick the ass of the punks she usually ends up chasing down. She keeps her dirty-blonde hair just short of shoulder length. You'd think two thirty-something, single psychics would have hooked up at some point, right? You'd be right, though that was a while ago. Back when we were still twenty-somethings.

"So, Greg," she says, blowing blue smoke into the ceiling fan. "What brings you to me today?"

Interaction between two psychics has an effect similar to, yet totally different from, interaction with ghosts. Similar in that our talents will be largely useless in our interactions with each other. Different in that I can see futures with Anne Marie in them, they're just fuzzy and constantly shifting. It's much less unsettling.

"I got a visit from my Dad today," I say, dropping into the seat across from her and placing my feet on the desk. "He had some rather downer news for me."

"Just so we're clear, this is your dead dad we're talking about, right?" She's got the same apathetic edge to her voice as always. But her eyes tell me she's interested despite the act.

"Yes, my dead dad."

"Okay, so what was this news?"

I take down my feet and lean in, resting my elbows on the desk. "He says there's been a slew of psychic killings lately. That none of them saw it coming. Heard anything about it?"

Anne Marie shakes her head. "I've been out of town the last couple of weeks. I read about a couple of deaths, but I didn't think it was anything connected. Any ideas who's responsible?"

"I was thinking a ghost, actually."

She frowns. "That'd fit the bill nicely, except I don't know of any way a ghost could kill someone. And the couple of deaths I did hear about sounded pretty gruesome."

I shrug. "I figure that's your job. You're the investigator. Do you think you can do a bit of digging? It'd be in your best interests, too."

Another long drag on the cigarette. "Yeah, I'll look into it. It's a pretty small crowd we're dealing with, so I should know something by evening. I'll call you around six."

With my hand on the doorknob I turn back to Anne Marie. "Hey, be careful, okay?"

She smiles at me. "You too, Greg."

And with that, I'm gone. While I'm in town I collect my unemployment check then head home to wait for Anne Marie's call.

The phone rings at 6:14. I pick it up on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Greg? It's Anne Marie."

"Did you manage to dig up anything useful?"

"I've got a few leads, yeah. And I think I have a good idea of who our mysterious
psychic-killer is. Can you meet me at that old warehouse on the south side of town? Do you know which one I'm talking about?"

"The one that closed down in '93?"

"That's the one."

"Sure. When do you want me to be there?"

"Head on over now. I'll meet you there." Click.

And that's the end of that conversation. I pull on a coat and head out. The warehouse is close enough for me to walk. Besides, it's a pretty nice night and I could use the exercise.

When I get there, Anne Marie is outside, waiting for me. She tosses me a flashlight.

"You're going to need that. The power's been off in there for quite a long time."

I nod and she leads the way into the old warehouse.

"So Anne Marie, what do you expect to find here?" I look around the warehouse, moving my flashlight along the walls and ceiling, turning my body around slowly. When I turn back to face Anne Marie, I find myself staring down the business end of a revolver.

"I expected to find answers."

The future becomes staticky and unreadable. Each decision that Anne Marie or I considers alters the possible futures. The end result is like watching pay-per-view channels that you haven't paid for. The pictures are distorted and scrambled.

So I stop reading the future. The sudden clarity of Anne Marie's second sight disorients her just enough for me to duck behind a huge cable spool, left over from better days of this warehouse's operation. I start to comb the threads of time as soon as I'm hidden, effectively jamming both Anne Marie and I.

"Why are you doing this, Anne Marie?" I run from one spool to the next, staying low and fast. Anne Marie squeezes off two shots, the second one just barely missing my right foot..

"We're not meant to be, Greg!" The frustration and pain in her voice is completely different from the casual savoir-faire that she usually projects.

"What do you mean?" Another mad dash for a piece of broken and rusted industrial machinery. Another two shots, this time both of them going wild.

"This so-called 'gift' has never helped anyone. It's brought both of us hardship and bad luck. The best we can manage to do is take advantage of other people with it. It's been the same for every other psychic I've talked to. We're a cancer on the world, Greg. I've decided to be the chemo."

She's raving. I don't know what got her to this point, but there doesn't seem to be any bringing her back. She is right about one thing, though. We psychics have terrible luck. And two psychics in one place is a recipe for tragic improbabilities. I glance above Anne-Marie. Through the gloom and shadows I can make out the shape of an old iron beam hanging from a rusted chain suspended on a old, broken down crane right above her. And I know what's going to happen.

The future suddenly crystallizes for both of us. There's no static because there's only one path to be taken.

The chain snaps. The sound of the beam hitting the ground is unlike anything I've ever experienced before. Its magnitude only serves to accentuate and reinforce the finality entailed by its fall.

I get up and brush the dust off of coat. I make my way over to the beam, picking up my abandoned flashlight on the way. There's no sign of Anne Marie whatsoever. I shake my head and walk out into the pleasant air of the night. I always manage to have the wrong response to really serious events. This is no exception. For all my wanting to feel remorse, sadness, anything really, I can only manage one thought.

Looks like there's only one psychic in town now.

ENG 205 Short Story

2008-04-01T15:31:00.002-04:00

So here's a short story I wrote for English 205. It's an alternate prologue for the book I'm working on. Whether I'll use this one or the one I wrote first or something totally different, only time will tell.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

Liar
by Andrew Blatt

My name is Allan and I’m a liar.

I remember the first time I told a lie. What it was is irrelevant, the important part is the feeling. It was a rush, sweeter and more profound than any sensation or drug I’ve experienced before or since. And like any drug, it’s never been quite as good as that first time. And yet I was still hooked.

Enough of that, now that it’s established that I’m a liar, you know the most important thing about me. And that’s that I’ll lie to you. Don’t worry, I’m convincing and I’ll try to be entertaining.

Anyway, her name was Emily and she was beautiful. She was in high school, I was in college. I majored in English. Not great for job prospects, but great for dating a certain kind of high school girl. Guys who are English majors are good with words. Most of my male peers were liars like me, though none quite of my caliber.

Now, let’s play a game of spot the lie:

It’s a full moon on a mild Indiana night in late May. Two moonlit silhouettes—one man-shaped, one girl-shaped—make their way through a sparsely wooded park. The trees here are thin enough to let in the moonbeams, but thick enough to hide the two of them from the prying eyes of Parks Department Security.

She stops him and looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

“I have something I need to say.” She chokes on her words, hesitates.

He knows what she wants to say, what she should say. She’s finally decided to take the advice of her friends and parents. To free herself from this older boy, whose intentions, they say, cannot be wholly pure.

And he knows how to stop her.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got something on my mind, too.” He smiles at her nervously in the silver light of the moon. His façade is perfect.

The relief she feels is immediately visible on her face. Maybe he’ll want to break it off first? She’s young, unused to such difficult emotional decisions. Breaking up is easier to think about than to do.

“I know it hasn’t been too long since we’ve been together.” Punctuate the comment with a pause, a deep breath. “But I can’t pretend any longer.” Another beat, let her anticipation build.

“I love you.”

And now their positions are reversed. She’s hooked, instantly. She’ll stand by him right up until he discards her. And when he does, she’ll be left feeling jaded, cynical, and used.

Did you find it?

Those of you who guessed “I love you” receive one point. Those of you who thought the whole story was a fabrication receive ten points. Those of you who realize that nothing I say is wholly fact or fiction, you win.

I’m trying to change, though. Not because I feel guilty, but because I don’t. I’ve hurt so many people. I’ve broken hearts and ruined friendships, and never felt any guilt or shame.
Like any drug, after a while, the high gets further from you. After a while you do it because you have to, not because you want to.

So I’m getting help. I’ve started therapy. That’s what all this is. I’m supposed to write down how my problem has affected and shaped my life. My doctor says this journal will be a map of my road to recovery. I think she’s full of shit, but I’m paying to see her, so it’d be pretty stupid of me to just ignore her suggestions.

She says I can lie in here as long as I tell the truth eventually, but that once something’s in here, I can’t change it. I guess we’ll see how it works out.

New Project

2008-02-14T18:37:00.002-05:00

If you're tired of reading Andrew Blatt makes a poor attempt at writing like Neil Gaiman, perhaps you'd like my newest project, a collaboration with the Alchemist that we're referring to as "Mid-World Writings" among other things. This is our attempt at telling a story within the setting for Stephen King's Dark Tower series. What this means to you is now you can read good stuff by the Alchemist and you can start reading Andrew Blatt makes a poor attempt at writing like Neil Gaiman writing like Stephen King.

Hoorah!

-The Drewcifer

Villanelle on the Craft: A Personal Confession

2008-02-13T13:11:00.001-05:00

Look! Another 205 poem! Enjoy!

Villanelle on the Craft: A Personal Confession

by Andrew Blatt

I wrote this poem using golden ink.
And though it shouldn’t matter much at all,
It makes it easier for me to think.

Sometimes it decides will I float or sink,
Whether words will flow or slow to a crawl.
I wrote this poem using golden ink.

It takes my reasoning mind to the brink.
My science and my art locked in a brawl.
I find that that is just the way I think.

It has to fit into some kind of link,
Like black for fact or auburn for the Fall.
I wrote this poem using golden ink.

With the proper pen and the proper ink,
I can write stories great and stories small.
A consequence of the way that I think.

Kaleidoscope worlds where chairs and lamps think,
Strange worlds where the fish rule over us all,
I wrote this poem using golden ink.
And that made it much easier to think.

ENG 205 Poem #3

2008-01-24T09:56:00.001-05:00

I didn't post the second poem I wrote for class because, quite frankly, it sucked a lot. Here's poem number three. The assignment was to go somewhere or remember going somewhere and think about how we felt. Then to end with abstraction.

Yeah, I know. But what can one do?
-The Drewcifer

Poem:

Class is over and I start my
walk, my real day. I hop on a bus
to take me to Earhart, my place of
employment, but I get there
early.

I don’t clock in for my shift
yet. I’m not that kind of person.
But I do find upstairs the sort of
creative nexus
I’ve been looking for
for days.

I glance at the clock and see I have
forty minutes. That’s fine, that’s
enough.

I set the alarm and
get out my notebook and
get out pen and
start to write.

for a little while i’m trapped in a world
of my own creation where i can see
anything at all or
nothing if i choose
or rather if that’s what is chosen
after an eternity spent in faerie rings
and dragon fire there’s a

shrill beeping as my alarm alerts me
that it’s time to go to work.
I pack up my stuff and head down
to the locker room where my
uniform sits,
unthinking and mundane.
And I clock in and get to work.
But,

sometimes i can slip into
my worlds for just a moment
or two
and dreams of everything and nothing
pass before my eyes

Creative Writing

2008-01-10T13:25:00.000-05:00

I'm in English 205: Intro to Creative Writing this semester. I figured I might as well post what I write for the class, since I'm going to have to do about a poem a week it looks like.
-The Drewcifer

Poem:

"Giraffe"

Giraffes are tall but
have small tails,
not tall tales.

When I was young
We learned the story
of a giant with
an ox and axe.

My roommate plays
Guitar, and well. His
weapon of choice: An ax,
white and electric.

Eclectic is how
this poem feels.
As I stretch my literary muscles
like the neck
of a
Giraffe

More News!

2007-11-02T11:09:00.000-04:00

It's November 2. Yesterday I set up a blog and an account for National Novel Writing Month.

For the month of november, I'll be trying my damnedest to write 50,000 words of a book centered on the activities of Jacob Absolom, Stephen's father. The book is set when Jacob is a young man, several years before Stephen's birth. The proposed named of the book is Solomon.

A link to the blog I'll be posting chapters to can be found here.

Wish me luck!

News and updates

2007-10-23T02:30:00.000-04:00

You may have already noticed the addition of my Purdue webspace to my sidebar. As anyone who reads this site knows, the Words of the Drewcifer updates very rarely and erratically. Furthermore, finding a fully developed story on here is something of a crapshoot.

The purdue website, More Words of the Drewcifer, is a new project of mine. It is my outlet for telling a complete and ongoing story. A new chapter of "Aldain" is posted every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. As of this post, 10 chapters have been posted. Furthermore, every Sunday I check in and tell you how work on the Solomon Saga is progressing. If you like my writing, I strongly urge you to check it out.

That said, this site is not being abandoned. It will not be posted to often, but it wasn't really in the first place. Just because I have a goal and a focused writing project doesn't mean that random writes won't come out of my head sometimes.

Happiness

2007-10-05T16:06:00.000-04:00

My hands and notebook smell of ink. My mind is alive, writing even when I have no pen, no paper. Is this what it feels like? Hopefully I don't fly in such a way as to stall. But I'm not that high yet. A fall will cause a few bruises, a couple of scrapes. I'll get back in that flying machine if that happens.

My hands and notebook smell of ink.
-The Drewcifer

I'm Ready!

2007-09-17T01:54:00.000-04:00

Saturday I was genuinely useful as one of the only veterans who decided to show up for dinner shift. It felt surprisingly awesome to clean a jillion things.

I kind of feel like just writing something beautiful, so I'm gonna try it.

-The Drewcifer

Writey:

By the time you read this, I'll no longer love you.

Falling in love is easy for me. Falling out is even easier.

To know nothing but uncertainty is my apparent destiny. Oscillation and indecision are my anchors, my grounds. And yet don't think I'm unhappy. I'm not. My life is good, though too much of my time is spent worrying about it ending. Cessation scares me as much as continuation. Eternity fills my eyes with tears, my stomach with bile, and my heart with a longing for my parents.

Sometimes you just want someone to hug you and say it's going to be okay, even though you know they're lying.

Sometimes I think the loneliness is what gets to me. When I've got someone there beside me, it's easier to cope with Infinity. Lady Ifni's a cruel bitch to those who try to ken her.

But I'm not unhappy. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm a genuinely happy person. I don't think that makes it to the page as much as it should. I don't cry after breakups because I'm bad at being sad.

By the time you're gone, I'll love you again. Chasing what I can't have. It's a common curse.

My words are my only chance. They're the only way I can keep living and my continual resistance to them, to learning to use them, to flailing away at something else, does a disservice to everything I am or ever will be. The scientist in me will have to get his fill from elective courses, Scientific American, Science, and Nature. I just don't see any other way.

I've come to a strange compulsion that if I go to Japan someday, everything will be okay. Funnily enough, from what I understand that's exactly the way a lot of Japanese kids and adolescents feel about America. Intellectually, I know it's not a realistic expectation, but god damn it, I'm gonna try.

My parents teach. My Aunt teaches. My Uncle teaches. My cousins teach. My Great-Aunt taught. My Grandfather taught. Teaching is in my blood.

"And all I taste is blood between my teeth."

-Andrew

----------------
Now playing: Jack's Mannequin - I'm Ready
via FoxyTunes

Sweet Death

2007-08-29T16:05:00.001-04:00

This story is dedicated to Kyle A. DeJute.
-The Drewcifer

Story:

A sweet death. That was the most she could do for him at this point. A sick sense of nostalgia washed over Amelia as she shushed her dying lover. Gently, oh so gently. Finger pressed silently to her lips, she drew the razor blade across his throat.

She shuddered at a remembered feeling as his remaining life leaked from his neck. Guilt, mingled with arousal, mixed with more guilt caused by the arousal. Another shudder as she relived all the times she'd done this before. All the men and women she had truly loved during their last moments on this Earth.

Amelia stood and closed her eyes as she sucked on her blood-soaked fingers. She shook with silent pleasure as the taste filled her, savoring the fear, pain, and relief imparted to the blood by those precious final beats of the heart.

When she opened her eyes, she nearly gagged. Amelia was back asleep, only Alison Meyers was here to deal with the current situation

Before her lay a man, mutilated from the waist down. The skin and, when possible, muscle had been meticulously peeled back and used to pin him to the ground with steel stakes, spread-eagle. Great care had been taken to ensure no major blood vessels had been breached. While his torso was untouched, his arms had undergone a treatment similar to his legs. They too were filleted and staked down.

Trees to provide shade, care to avoid unnecessary blood loss. Whoever had done this clearly meant for this man to suffer for a long time. Until Amelia had intervened.

Alison wasn’t sure where Amelia came from, or when exactly she became aware that she, Alison, was two women. It had been a gradual thing. All she knew was that Amelia knew how to find people They were torturing and free them. Invariably, Amelia loved them, kissed them goodnight, and sent Alison back out to deal with the real world.

Alison got out her notebook and recorded the position, method of torture, location, and so on. She concluded her entry with Amelia’s method of dispatch. That was how the two of them worked. Amelia found them and freed them. Alison observed and looked for clues.

The scariest thing, reflected Alison as she made the long walk home in the fading afternoon sun, was the feeling she got that They were watching her. That They knew how she and Amelia were interfering with Their plans. And They didn’t like it either. How long would They let her continue? How long before They would strip her flesh and leave her to die?

Alison shook her head to clear the thought. She allowed mundanity to distract her. What would she have for dinner? Something vegetarian. No meat after what she’d just seen.

Alison walked into her apartment, flicked on the lights, and made her way into the kitchenette. After the first few times Amelia had come out, she had learned that forcing herself back into normalcy as soon as possible was key to staying sane.

Alison retrieved some carrots and celery from the fridge and laid them out flat on the cutting board. As she reached for the knife rack, she noticed one of the knives was missing from its place. Odd. She must’ve put it in the washer or something. No matter, she had what she needed for now.

She chopped up the carrots and celery, tossed them in a bowl with some grapes and lettuce, and called the whole thing a salad. Feeling no need to impress, her salad became a finger food as she sat on the sofa and turned on the news. Alison never knew how long she’d been Amelia. Memories only crossed over from the time Amelia found one of Their victims until she put Alison back in charge, never the actual search process.

She watched the news with half-interest, munching on her salad. Already the ghastly memory was starting to fade.

The newswoman’s face changed to a more serious expression for her next segment.

“In other news, police are still searching for Albert Craig, a local man who has been missing for three days. Craig, 27, was reported missing Tuesday. . .” And so on. The report continued, and a picture of the man was shown.

Alison was utterly unsurprised to find that the man in question was, in fact, the very same man Amelia had freed from Them only a few hours ago.

That meant she’d probably been gone for a little less than three days herself. Amelia was uncannily prompt about knowing when a victim had been taken.

She glanced at her page-a-day calendar to confirm.

Five days. She’d been Amelia for almost five days. Before he even went missing.

No. Please. No.

Dread seized Alison, like ice through her heart. She stood on unsteady legs and made her way to the counter, where she'd placed her purse when she came in.

No. Please.

Slowly, she reached into her purse, already knowing what she’d find.

There it was; the missing knife. A long, thin, sharp blade: A fillet knife. And it was caked with dried blood.

Oh God no.

Please.

No.

I Shall Draw Power From the Bones of the Dead

2007-06-17T04:03:00.000-04:00

From the Journal of Stephen Absalom

When I was younger I had a single prophetic moment. Touring a museum with my friends, marveling at the remains of the great beasts of the past, I spoke without thinking.

“One day, I will draw power from the bones of the dead.”

I was a little stunned, I'd meant to comment on the majesty and power of the beasts, but had instead said that. I shrugged it off, but never fully forgot it.

Growing up, Stephen was vaguely aware that his father, Jacob, was an exceptionally cruel and uncompromising man. Despite this, Jacob had always been a kind and good father to Stephen and so Stephen didn't mind too much. Jacob was a magician, specifically a demonologist: gaining power by binding demons and bending their souls and wills to his. Cruel people are the only ones who make it very far in that line of work.

Given his reputation and methods, Jacob made many enemies. Stephen watched assassin after assassin assault his father and be utterly destroyed. He, like many children, thought his father was the most powerful man in the world. Unlike many children, there were likely times when he was right. When Stephen was seventeen, however, his father proved to be vulnerable after all.

A group of assassins, both magical and mundane, assaulted Jacob in his home. A combination of luck and preparedness allowed them to succeed where others had failed.

Jacob gave Stephen instructions to run. And run fast. In the meantime he sacrificed himself to destroy most of the attackers.

Unfortunately, two of the assailants had followed Stephen out of the house and were therefore not destroyed by the explosive death-throes of the magician.

Stephen did as his father told him. He ran. He ran as fast as he could for as long as he could. Seeing the two men close behind him only further motivated him.

He ended up in a graveyard. Headstones, ancient and faded, littered the ground, blocking his path, causing him to stumble. Eventually, he fell fully flat.

The two men closed in on him. Both were of average height, though one was noticeably buffer than the other. The leaner man pulled out a switchblade, the blade emerging with a thwick as he advanced on Stephen. He smirked a little as he stared down at the boy.

“It's nothing personal, kid. You just had the wrong daddy.”

Staring death in the face Stephen remembered his words from many years ago. He reached out with his mind, feeling the bones below him.

Come to me, he thought. Lend me your strength for a while.

Tiny black tendrils emerged from the grave beneath Stephen, gently caressing his face and body. They crept up and snaked into his eyes turning them a pitch black color.

Meanwhile the thugs were not reacting well to this. They both took a step back as this transformation suddenly affected their supposedly helpless quarry.

“What's he doing Joe?” asked the bigger one, visibly nervous.

“I don't know!” the smaller man responded. “But I think I'm gonna kill him before he pulls off some trick he learned from daddy.”

The lean man, Joe, lunged. Stephen raised his arm, tendrils of blackness snaked outward, intertwining and forming a point. Joe impaled himself on this structure as tendrils issued from Stephen's other hand and plucked the knife from his assailant's hand and brought it to his own.

The spearlike growth retracted into the darkness now swirling around Stephen. The boy rose and stepped over to Joe and looked down at him. He raised his hand to point at the remaining attacker, who was just beginning to run away. Inky tendrils emerged sinuously from around Stephen's arm and ensnared the bulky man, snaking around his neck and slowly squeezing the life out of him.

Stephen spoke to the rapidly dying Joe. “It's nothing personal. You just tried to kill the wrong kid.” And he reached down and slit the assassin's throat with his own blade.

For Time Out of Mind

2007-06-16T18:42:00.000-04:00

I wrote me a poem. This was written during my Chemistry lecture. I had listened to the first half of The Hush Sound's second album: Like Vines. I was not listening to them when I wrote this, but some of their style and imagery was an influence. Here goes nothing.

For Time Out of Mind

I wept in darkness for time out of mind
I knew no light, forgot my sight
The world was blank and frightening
Then I saw her there, a light, a flare
I knew illumination once more
I knew what I'd lost once more
Like a beacon was she
I approached fearfully
And I bathed in light eternal glorious
Wonderful, awful, Glorious and terrifying
My atrophied eyes begged for mercy
But I was enthralled and terrified
My world of darkness was there still
She knelt, hands folded and praying
Holy and good
Holy and good and utterly terrifying
The light she channeled showed my every sin
revealed and reflected, exposed
My revelation was complete
The darkness was mine, the darkness was me
The light I rejected
My eyes I destroyed
I fled
As I'd fled before, this time knowing
No saying I'd wandered, no claim of unintendedness
And yet
No matter how I ran, still shone she bright
The only light in darkness
And she sang a song
A sweet psalm
A melody of forgiveness
An aria of grace
My ears nearly bled at the sounding soft song
The whispers of madness and self-centered sobs
Were all they had known
For time out of mind
The price was so steep
Too deep
More than my means
The price was nothing
Freely given, never earned
The light reached out and kissed me
As it touched my skin, my sin started to burn
I screamed and I writhed
Emerged from the ash
My body and soul
Purged clean at last
I tremblingly stepped towards my beacon
My Goddess
She rose Right and Regal
Beneficent, beautiful
Again I wept, as long I had
For time out of mind.

I haven't written in a while

2007-06-02T17:50:00.001-04:00

My family home here in Kokomo seems to have a detrimental effect on my ability to write. I felt like doing a little cast page for the Graphic Novel project I've been working on with Whitney. So, a brief and spoiler-free cast list follows. This may get a little repetitive since I'll be including some general terms as well as specifics. As I write this it seems to become more of an explanation of how the supernatural order of this world is organized. Which is good, I think.
-The Drewcifer

Warden Angel: Often shortened simply to "Warden." An angel charged with policing the actions of Outsiders on Earth. Technically both angels and demons are capable of holding the position of Warden.

Demon Hunter/Demon Slayer: A mortal agent of an angelic Warden. These individuals have lives steeped in violence and pain. Many of them are only good at causing death. As such, they find salvation by directing their killing towards a righteous purpose. Well versed in the Celestial Edicts and merciless when dealing with those who break them, Demon Hunters are rightly feared by unsavory Outsiders. Because of the energies their bodies are infused with, Demon Hunters are capable of living forever if not killed.

Outsiders: A collective term for any supernatural creature that walks the Earth, especially ones the the Wardens and Demon Slayers are charged with policing. This includes Demons, Chimeras, and others. The Fae are, to some extent, considered Outsiders. However, they lie outside the jurisdiction of both Heaven and Hell. Since Outsider is generally a term reserved for those bound by the Celestial Edicts, the Fae are often considered to be in a category all their own.

Celestial Edicts: The laws and regulations that govern creatures of both Heaven and Hell. Contrary to what most mortals will believe upon first learning the of their existence, the Edicts do not favor angels over demons, nor do demons disobey the Edicts. The Edicts are distinct from the Laws of Heaven. The Laws of Heaven include relevant portions of the Celestial Edicts, but have many rules and regulations not covered in the Edicts. It is for rebelling against these laws that angels are cast out of Heaven and become demons.

Chimera: A subclass of Outsider, specifically a supernatural creature of limited intelligence. Though smarter than normal mortal animals, these creatures cannot be called sentient. Feral Chimera which are discovered by Demon Slayers are generally executed on the spot, to prevent them from potentially harming a mortal. All Chimera are bestial, though not all are quadrupedal. More intelligent Outsiders will sometimes create or import them as pets. According to the Edicts, both the Chimera and its owner are responsible for any breeches of the Edicts the Chimera may commit.

Fae: The Faeries, Fairies, Fair Folk, and many other names. These creatures are as varied as they are mysterious. Not fully bound by the Celestial Edicts, yet not fully outside of them, the Fae add a chaotic and unpredictable aspect to anything they are involved with.

Meriel: Meriel is an angel. A servant of God, Adonai, the Name, or whatever euphemism is your favorite. She is one of several (but relatively few) Wardens: angels charged with policing the actions of Outsiders on Earth. She began delegating this duty near the beginning of the first century CE. Demon Slayers sponsored by Meriel take on names which are ordinal forms of latin numbers (Primus, Secundus, Tertius, etc). She is currently on her sixth hunter.

Sextus: Meriel's current Demon Slayer. His past is shrouded in mystery, even more so than your average Demon Slayer. He wears a half mask that conceals the right half of his face at all times. His sword is chained to his wrist, and there are various locks on his clothing. All-in-all more unusual than even his peers, who are a strange lot to begin with. The power he wields manifests itself as golden motes which coalesce into different shapes and structures as he desires.

Quintus: The previous hunter employed by Meriel. After a series of complicated events, he has resigned his mantle as a Demon Slayer, preferring to retire to a quiet life, though he still struggles with a certain darkness he picked up during his career as a slayer. Quintus's power manifest as "soulfire," blue flame which burns only that which Quintus desires it to. Though he has retired, Meriel still keeps a wary eye on Quintus. She regards him as something of a loose cannon.

Harlequenne: A Fae, sublcass Pixie. This mischievous trickster hangs out with Sextus. No one is sure why.

Anne-Marie Thompson: A Private Investigator and an "Interpreter"-class psychic. Anne-Marie has second sight that allows her to distinguish Outsiders from normal mortals. She helps Sextus gather information and identify Edict-breakers. She is also in love with Sextus.

I'm all kinds of ironic

2007-04-30T23:41:00.000-04:00

I have a new writing playlist called "Iris Wynter." Naturally, the first thing I wrote with it playing had nothing to do with Iris. The beginning of this story was inspired by a picture from DeviantArt. Linky
-The Drewcifer
Playlist:

Vikingman 4:03 Rodrigo y Gabriela
PPA 4:14 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Love Addict 2:52 Family Force 5
Replace Me 3:34 Family Force 5
Silas Denver [Dead or Alive Bounties Mix] 1:52 Andrew Blatt
Tank! 3:29 Seatbelts
Mountain of God 3:54 Third Day
Satori 5:04 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Masked Madman 4:43 Andrew Blatt
Furious 4:03 Z-Trip
Lose Urself 3:10 Family Force 5
Bright Lights 3:54 Matchbox Twenty
Kremlin Dusk 5:13 Utada Hikaru
About Face 2:51 Z-Trip
Take Two Copies 4:24 Z-Trip
Fun With Strums 2:03 Andrew Blatt
Broken (Featuring Amy Lee) 4:18 Seether & Amy Lee
Softer 1:24 Andrew Blatt
Orion 7:44 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Necromancer 2:15 Andrew Blatt
Daisy 4:18 Switchfoot
Diablo Rojo 4:56 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Session 2:24 Linkin Park
Kyur4 Th Ich (Chairman Hahn) 2:32 Linkin Park
3rd Gear 3:52 Z-Trip
Stop the Future 2:06 Epoxies
Follow the Leader 2:18 Andrew Blatt
Silas Denver [Reno Gun Control Mix] 1:16 Andrew Blatt
Stairway to Heaven 4:44 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Juan Loco 3:27 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Cure for the Itch 2:37 Linkin Park
Tamacun 3:25 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Ixtapa 5:14 Rodrigo y Gabriela
Suddenly 3:35 Superchick
Instabilities 0:21 Andrew Blatt

Story:

Sweat ran down my face and into my eyes as a I ran, footfalls clattering loudly on the wooden planks of the bridge. My breathing was growing ragged, phlegm was starting to block my airways. My legs were alternating between feeling like fire and just plain not feeling. I'd never been this exhausted in my life. But if I stopped, I'd die.

It's funny how well that can motivate you.

I didn't have time to even glance over my shoulder, but I didn't need to. The sound of footsteps behind me was still audible over my own, and I could tell that if something didn't change, and soon, they'd catch up to me.

My eyes darted around, but my head stayed immobile. The river wasn't very far below me, but I was too tired to swim now. It might have been feasible before I'd gone with running, but I was pretty much landbound now. I'd rolled the dice on that one. Time would tell if it came up eleven or snake eyes. Right now it was feeling like the latter.

Still, I could feel something tugging at me, urging me to just follow the bridge. That little voice in my head had saved me many times before this so I wasn't about to start ignoring it.

The bridge curved up ahead, disapearing into trees. I ignored the fact that I couldn't see, breathe, or even run properly and pushed harder. Something told me that if could make it around that bend, I'd be okay.

My company wasn't slowing down either. That fear of death was working wonders for my stamina, but I still wondered what was driving my pursuer.

I rounded the curve and found the energy for one last sprint. I emerged from trees to find myself staring at a graveyard.

Bingo.

I stepped onto a grave and turned. Apparently my little boost had actually allowed me to actually pull a bit further ahead. My attacker came into view, pushing through the trees. He was obviously surprised that I had chosen to stop; so much so that he actually stopped for a split second. Then, of course, he smirked. They always smirk.

"So, you finally decided to stop running. That will make things easier." As he gloated, I got a good look at the man who had been chasing me. He was unlike what I was used to dealing with. Normally I get threatened and chased by the suit-and-shades type. Nameless agents of a nameless agency, that sort of shit. This guy was something new. White polo shirt and nice slacks. Looked like he should be golfing, not chasing innocent young men.

Okay, so maybe I'm not as innocent as I like to pretend, but certainly killing me is a bit much.

The man continued with his little speech. "You've caused my master quite a bit of headache, Stephen Absolom. I don't know what it is you do, or how you do it, but I do know that Lambda wants you dead. And what Lambda wants, he gets."

So far, not so scary. The guy looked like he'd have a hard time roughing up a seventh grader. That's when the air around him got all fucked up. Darklike, shades of red and black surrounded his body. Suddenly there it wasn't a dude in a polo shirt standing in front of me. No, it was what looked like a genuine, grade-A demon standing there.

He had the whole look down. Burning red eyes, body looking like it was made of shadow. Huge wings of fire and darkness sprouting from his back, the whole shebang.

But he had made two fatal mistakes. The first was that he let me catch my breath. My lack of concern must have been pretty apparent on my face, because he actually commented on it.

"What are you smirking about? You've killed six of our people already. I'm not just going to kill you. I'm going to make you suffer. You have nothing to smile about."

Right about then I allowed myself a full-fledged smirk. I felt I deserved it. He was right. I'd killed every man that Lambda had sent after me so far. And that was why none of them knew how I'd killed them.

The second mistake he had made was letting me catch my breath in a graveyard.

Now it was my turn to make the weird shit happen. Tendrils of black energy flowed from the grave to my fingers. Dark lines traced themselves in my eyes until my eyes were completely black. Thick fog began to creep into the area and dark clouds blotted out the sun. The only light came from the fires of my oppoent's wings and aura.

I spoke to this poor, doomed man. "Lambda still doesn't know the source of my power, and you're not going to tell him. But you're going to find out right before you die."

Translucent black tentacles sprouted from the ground beneath him, snaking their way up his body and binding his wings and limbs. The look of terror on his face, even in that demonic form, was unmistakable.

I spoke to him for the last time. "I draw power from the bones of the dead." I allowed the full meaning and implication of my words to sink in before I squeezed the life out of him. Afterwards, when he reverted back to a normal human shape, I beat him over the head a few times and buried him. Just to be sure.

Yeah. I'm not as innocent as I like to pretend.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

2007-04-12T13:21:00.000-04:00

Is dead. But, as we know from Slaughterhouse-Five, he continues to be alive throughout time. However, from our limited and human perception of 4th dimensional movement, his personal time line has ended.

Kurt Vonnegut, Junior is a man I respect as an author, as an Indiana native, and as a person. His works, of which I have not read nearly enough, have astounded and troubled me, in the best way possible. I'm not even sure what to write concerning this. I suppose I can just sum it up in his words.

So it goes.

My talent. . .

2007-04-12T01:07:00.000-04:00

. . .is nothing to write home about. I've discovered the ability to imply sex very effectively without overtly mentioning it. Check it!

Cynthia sighed. “That was incredible.”

Arthur smiled to himself. “I’m not sure I believe you. I mean, isn’t that what a woman’s supposed to say?”

Cynthia stuck out her tongue at him and giggled. “Don’t let those other girls who lie ruin my reputation.” She put on her best innocent face. “I’m just an honest soul, you know that.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to laugh. “Well I can’t really argue with that.” He paused for a moment, then “I’m glad I met you.”

“Yeah, I am too.”

The newlyweds fell asleep, exhausted, holding each other closely.

Seriously?

2007-04-11T23:49:00.000-04:00

I wrote something and I'm going to post it.

What's that, jaded and cynical ex-reader? You don't believe me?

Well I did. It's not very long though.

What do you mean you bet it's not very good either? Well, yeah, I guess you're right.

Whatever. Writing:

Not like this, thought Timothy. Please don’t let it end like this.

His breathing was labored and it was becoming painful to draw breath, but he kept running. What choice did he have? To stop was to die. And he was beginning to suspect that running was just delaying the inevitable.

He heard footsteps behind him, getting louder, closer, despite his desperate attempts to escape.

Finally, his body could not continue. Adrenaline can only carry one so far. He turned, somewhat vindicated in his own mind by the fact that he would at least face his death as it came.

John Brighton had been on the force for several years now, but crime scenes like this still made him feel a little queasy. Maybe that was a good thing. He figured if the victims he encountered ever went from being people to just corpses, it was time for him to find another line of work.

Machine of Death

2007-03-27T14:47:00.000-04:00

I saw that Ryan North and Company were doing something with this in a newspost on Dinosaur Comics some time ago, but I just today looked at it.

What is it, you ask, faithful and often disappointed reader? It is the Death Machine. And this site describes the rules and soforth for submitting stories based on the premise of said machine.

Problem is, I just got around to reading the site today. Early submission deadline is March 31st. That's not long from here. But I'm going to try.

Belladonna (Revised)

2007-02-24T19:18:00.001-05:00

I'm posting this new edited version of "Belladonna." I think most of the changes have been for the better. Mad props to Jennybean, who helped critique the original draft.

Story:

Avalon was not going to be happy about this.

Lotus swore again under his breath. This was not his lucky day. He was pinned down by mortals and the bastards were pretty ingenious. They all had iron spikes with them for hand-to-hand combat and horseshoes to hurt him from a distance. Judging from his interaction with them so far, Lotus would be willing to bet they won competitions.

First the Changeling fiasco, now mortals who knew fairies all too well. He was beginning to think that something more proactive than fate was involved in his current trouble. For starters, he wasn't sure how they had detected him in the first place. He looked like any other man, though he was a tad on the short side. Blond hair was common enough for people in this part of the world. A tattoo of a bright pink Indian Lotus on the back of his left hand was unusual, but certainly no giveaway. The pale pink eyes were problematic, but mirrored sunglasses took care of that.

Just when Lotus thought things could not get any worse, they did. As he peeked from behind the corner to try and get a look at their positions, an iron nail whizzed past his head.

Fuck.

Well apparently they didn't need him alive. This was somewhat comforting since it meant that he wouldn't need to feel so bad about what he was going to do next.

Lotus closed his eyes and reached into his coat. He let his fingers play along the entirety of his guns for a moment, forming a tactile mental image before he committed, firmly clutching the handgrips of the two handguns.

Iron may be a fairy's enemy, but Lotus was quite aware that blued steel could be a fairy's best friend. His pistols had gotten him out of worse scrapes than this. Well, maybe not. He wasn't sure exactly where this fell on the badness magnitude scale. But he was reasonably sure he had gotten out of something at least as bad, if not worse than, this current scrape, with the aid of said pistols.

He drew the guns and shut his eyes for a moment, focusing all the magic he could muster. The humans didn't know it, but the spell would make it so that time was going a bit faster for him than it was for them. Or maybe it would slow down time on their end. The specifics were unimportant; the end result was the same.

He came from around the corner, popping a round into the head of each mortal before the first horseshoe was even close to touching him. Which was fortunate, as he had just enough time to duck before the spell ran out and several nails and horseshoes flew through the space where his torso had been moments earlier.

Lotus stood up and examined each human. Dead, for sure. He shook his head. It was a pity. He could remember a time when the Fair Folk were afforded the respect they deserved. Now, it seemed, they had to fight for it.

He put the guns away and walked out of the building and into the twilight. He had a baby to find.

Lotus knew what he needed to do to get the child back. He was, however, a tad reluctant to do it. Tracking magic was not especially difficult but it was a rare gift. Not many fairies had the focus or the attention span required to learn it.

Lotus knew one of those rare fey who could track, and do it well. And the fairy in question would help him; he owed Lotus a favor. Among the Gentry, favors were as valid a currency as gold. He'd been hoping to save this favor for something a bit more dire, but he really didn't have any other options.

Lotus flipped open his cell phone and dialed. After three rings, the voice of an elderly-sounding man piped through it.

"Hello?" inquired the voice on the other end.

"Cú," said Lotus. "Good to hear from you, old friend."

The troll's voice brightened at the sound of his elfish friend's voice.

"Kamal? What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long." Lotus had always wondered why Cú insisted on using his Hindi name, but the quirk was one he had come to appreciate.

"Listen, Cú, I need your help, and quickly. Can you meet me at the usual place within the hour?"

The troll coughed twice before answering. "Of course, Kamal. I'd be glad to." And the line was dead.

Lotus put the phone away and started walking. The "usual place" was an all-night diner a few blocks from his current location. He and Cú had met there several times over the years.

Cú was already there when Lotus arrived. This was surprising since Lotus was almost certain that he, Lotus, had been substantially closer to the restaurant when he called. Lotus had a brief conversation with the hostess on duty, which mostly consisted of pointing to a waving Cú, before walking over and having a seat across the table from his friend.

The troll produced a pack of cigarettes and proffered it to Lotus.

"No thanks, Cú. Human poisons aren't my scene."

Cú shrugged as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Suit yourself," he said, exhaling smoke. "I trust you're going to be calling in that favor I owe you. Otherwise you would have chatted a bit more over the phone, I think."

Lotus was beginning to open his mouth to speak when Cú held up a hand for silence. "Do not answer yet, our waitress approaches."

Sure enough, the waitress walked over and greeted them, bestowing a glass of water and napkinful of silverware on each of them as she did. Each fairy ordered a coffee and they waited for her to walk away before they resumed speaking.

"Yes I need to call in my favor," said Lotus, a touch of regret in his voice. "And yes, it's urgent. I pulled a Changeling switch, but I've managed to lose the human infant now. If I don't get him back before sunup, I'm in trouble."

Cú nodded, and took another drag on the cigarette before speaking. "So you need me to track the child, right? Find out where whoever snatched your baby has taken it?"

"Yeah, something like that," Lotus confirmed. "I have the kid's blanket. I knew you needed a personal item of his." Lotus was reaching into his jacket when Cú raised his index finger in a near-universal "wait" gesture. Once again, the waitress was upon them. She set down their coffees, asked if she could get them anything else, was assured that she could not, and went on her way.

Lotus took the blanket from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Cú.

Cú sniffed the blanket, looked at it from all angles, ran a finger over it. Finally, he apparently decided that it passed inspection.

"I can use this," he said. "Good work. Now, Kamal, you'll be accompanying me while we track. This is your fight. I'll get you there, but you take over after that. Am I understood?"

Lotus nodded. "Sure thing, Cú. And I know being back by sunup is an even bigger issue for you than me, so I'll try not to slow you down too much."

The troll took another drag from the cigarette and grinned at the elf. "I expect that's true."

Lotus was cursing quietly but profusely. He was doing his absolute best to keep up with Cú, but it was getting difficult. Trudging through a wet forest at night, following nothing that even resembled a path, was not Lotus's idea of the perfect evening. He couldn't even do the minor magic it would take to traverse effortlessly and without trace through the forest. The time-manipulation had really taken it out of him. There was a reason that time flowed at a pretty consistent rate. The riverbed of time had definitely become a canyon by now and diverting its course, even for a few moments, was exceptionally difficult.

Lotus was shaken out of his reflection by Cú suddenly stopping.

"Tread carefully, Kamal," he breathed. "We're getting very close to your child. In fact, you should probably be able to see it if you look around. Your eyes are better than mine."

Lotus had taken off his sunglasses once they had started into the woods. Away from humans, there wasn't much point in them. Pale pink eyes scanned the wood ahead of him, the moonlight providing all the illumination he needed to see. He spotted something near the base of a large tree around 20 meters away. Undergrowth obscured the thing, but he pointed at it. Cú looked and focused his tracking magics for a moment, then nodded. Together, they began making their way towards the child.

There was a very small clear area when they got close to the tree. Sure enough, there was a basket with a sleeping human baby in it at the base.

Something is wrong here, thought Lotus. From across centuries, the voice of his sensei rang in the back of his mind. "Remember Lotus, you musn't mistake an object's reflection for the object itself."

Lotus was, to the best of his knowledge, the first and only Zen Buddhist fairy. He had traveled East many years ago and his sensei's teachings always seemed to help him when he least expected it.

Lotus held up a hand, stopping Cú from approaching the child further.

"That," he said. "Is not the child. It's a glamour."

There was laughter from the higher branches of the tree. Lotus looked up and saw exactly what he hoped he wouldn't. Standing on a branch, holding the basket with the real child, was another fairy. She was an elf like Lotus and he knew her well.

"Nightshade," he said, shaking his head. "I should have known." Lotus couldn't prevent a rueful smile from creeping onto his face.

Cú looked from Lotus back to Nightshade, surprise apparent on his face.

"This is Belladonna?" he asked in mild awe. "She is as beautiful as her name would imply."

"And as deadly," agreed Lotus. His voice suddenly took on a cold and impersonal aspect as he spoke again to Cú. "Cú, I thank you for your assistance. You have fulfilled your debt to me and your presence is no longer required."

Cú was transfixed. He had never seen the Unseelie Court's most deadly assassin and Lotus seemed to have prior dealings with her. This was about to get interesting; he had no intention of leaving.

"Actually, Kamal--"

"I said you can go now, Cú."

Something in Lotus's voice made Cú reluctant to press the issue. So he shrugged and cast a spell, fading from sight into the Otherworld.

Lotus looked up at Nightshade. "Now that we're alone, do you want to come down and discuss this like two mature fairies?"

Nightshade laughed maliciously. "If you'd like to pretend that's what we are then I'll humor you, Lotus."
Nightshade leapt from branch and landed effortlessly. Now that she was on the same level as he, Lotus could get his first good look at her in three years.

She hadn't changed much. She still had her long, shiny black hair; large eyes that were a deep purple shade most people mistook for black or dark brown. She was about Lotus's height, maybe a tad shorter. In short, she was still everything that Lotus dreamed about: Beautiful, sexy, and extremely deadly.

"Nightshade," he said. "I know why you're doing this. Can we perhaps come to an agreement?"

Nightshade sniffed contemptuously at Lotus. "Your precious baby boy will please my lords to no end. I see no reason for me to give him back to you."

Lotus was pretty sure he had a solution to this, but again, he was very reluctant to go through with it. The problem was largely in the origin of Nightshade's enmity. Three years ago, Lotus had come out on top in a conflict between the two of them. Long story short, he won her servitude. She was bound to his service for a year and a day. Nightshade was a very proud fairy, and she hated every single second of her subservience. In her opinion, no one was superior to her, and being forced to serve him was a blow from which her pride still had not fully recovered.

The elfs stared each other down for what seemed an eternity.

Lotus sighed. There was only one way to set this right. To win back Nightshade's favor. (And oh how very sweet her favor was, he thought, reflecting on their pre-conflict days.)

"Listen, Nightshade," he said. "Just let me take the babe back to Avalon. If you do, beginning tomorrow at sundown, I will be bound to your service."

Nightshade grinned wickedly; it made Lotus shudder, for a variety of reasons. "And how long shall this service last?"

Lotus sighed again. "The traditional span. A year and a day shall I be bound to your whim."

Nightshade was satisfied. "I have your word that if I let you take this babe back tonight, you will be mine starting tomorrow at sundown. For a year and a day?"

Lotus nodded. "To those terms, I pledge my word."

Nightshade's grin grew wider still. She handed him the babe. And then she did something she had not done in almost four years. She kissed Lotus, deeply and passionately. Then she winked at him and disappeared.

After recovering from that shock, Lotus looked down at the baby and shook his head. "You have no idea what I've gone through because of you tonight, little one."

The babe slept on, content and oblivious. Lotus had a feeling it would be a long year.

Belladonna

2007-02-12T00:13:00.000-05:00

UPDATE: I'll be going through the process of rewriting and revising this over the next few days. More than likely, I'll be cleaning up this site a little bit in the wake of this story's aftermath. I'll possibly be deleting the 3-post version of Lotus's tale right before I do the rewrite. I'm not sure whether I'll be replacing this post, deleting it and adding the revised version, or just letting both coexist on the site. I'll say more when I've decided.

CLARIFICATION: This is not a story snippet. This is the first story I've ever completely finished. This is a full-length, complete, self-contained short story.

I've decided to put the last three posts into one superpost, to show the story in its entirety. Enjoy!

Author's Note: Cú means "hound."
Also, from Wikipedia: "Kamal may refer to:. . .A Hindi name which means 'lotus'. . ."
Also Also from Wikipedia: Lotus and Nightshade.

Avalon was not going to be happy about this.

Lotus swore again under his breath. This was not his lucky day. He was pinned down by mortals, all armed with iron. The bastards were pretty ingenious with this. They all had iron spikes with them for hand-to-hand combat. Additionally, they each had quite a few horseshoes. Judging from his interaction with them so far, Lotus would be willing to bet that they won competitions.

First the Changeling fiasco, now mortals who knew fairies all too well. He was beginning to think that something more proactive than fate was involved in his current trouble. For starters, he wasn't sure how they had detected him in the first place. He looked like any other man, though he was a tad on the short side at 167 cm. Blond hair was common enough for people in this part of the world, and people in general. A tattoo of a bright pink Indian Lotus on the back of his left hand was unusual, but certainly no giveaway. The pale pink eyes were problematic, but his mirrored sunglasses took care of that.

Just when Lotus thought things could not get any worse, they did. As he peeked his head from behind the corner to try and get a look at their positions, an iron nail, propelled by some sort of nail gun, whizzed past his head.

Fuck.

Well apparently they didn't need him alive. That was a somewhat comforting fact, since it meant that he wouldn't need to feel so bad about what he was going to do next.

Lotus closed his eyes and reached into his coat. He let his fingers play along the entirety of his guns for a moment, feeling them, forming a tactile mental image before he committed, firmly clutching the handgrips of the two handguns.

He put the guns away and walked out of the building and into the twilight. He had a baby to find.

***

Lotus knew what he needed to do to get the child back. He was, however, a tad reluctant to do it. Tracking magic was not especially difficult per sé, but it was. . .specific. Not many fairies had the focus or, frankly, the attention span required to learn it.

Lotus flipped open his cell phone and dialed. After three rings, the voice of an elderly-sounding man piped through it.

"Hello?" inquired the voice on the other end.

"Cú," said Lotus. "Good to hear from you, old friend."

The troll's voice brightened at the sound of his elfish friend's voice.

"Kamal? What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long." Lotus had always wondered why Cú insisted on using his Hindi name, but the quirk was one he had come to appreciate.

"Listen, Cú, I need your help, and quickly. Can you meet me at the usual place within the hour?"

The troll coughed twice before answering. "Sure Kamal. No problem." And the line was dead.

Lotus put the phone away and started walking. The "usual place" was an all-night diner a few blocks from his current location. He and Cú had met there several times over the years. Lotus hoped he'd be able to get Cú back in his debt before Cú got Lotus back into his.

The troll produced a pack of cigarettes and proffered it to Lotus.

"No thanks, Cú. Human poisons aren't my scene."

Cú shrugged as he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Suit yourself," he said, exhaling the smoke from his first puff. "So, Kamal. I trust you're going to be calling in that favor I owe you, right? Otherwise you would have chatted a bit more over the phone, yes?"

Lotus was beginning to open his mouth to speak when Cú held up a hand for silence. "Do not answer that yet, our waitress approaches."

Sure enough, the waitress walked over and greeted them, bestowing a glass of water and napkinful of silverware on each of them as she did. They each ordered coffee, waited for her to walk away, then resumed speaking.

"Yes I need to call in my favor," said Lotus, with a touch of regret in his voice. "And yes, it's urgent. I pulled a Changeling switch, but I've managed to lose the human infant now. If I don't get him back before sunup, I'm in trouble."

Cú nodded in understanding, and took another drag on the cigarette before expressing his opinion. "So you need me to track the kid, yeah Kamal? Find out where whoever snatched your baby has taken it?"

Lotus took the blanket from an inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Cú.

Cú sniffed the blanket, looked at it from all angles, ran a finger over it. Finally, he apparently decided that it passed inspection.

"I can use this," he said. "Good work. Now, Kamal, you'll be accompanying me while we track. This is your fight. I'll get you there, but you take over after that, you got it?"

Lotus nodded. "Sure thing, Cú. And I know being back by sunup is an even bigger issue for you than me, so I'll try not to slow you down too much."

The troll took another drag from the cigarette and grinned at the elf. "I expect that's true."

***

Lotus was cursing quietly but profusely. He was doing his absolute best to keep up with Cú, but it was getting difficult. Trudging through a wet forest at night, following nothing that even resembled a path, was not first on Lotus's list of things he would love to do. He couldn't even do the minor magic it would take to traverse effortlessly and without trace through the forest. The time-manipulation had really taken it out of him. There was a reason that time flowed at a pretty consistent rate. The riverbed of time had definitely become a canyon by now, and diverting its course, even for a few moments, was exceptionally difficult.

Lotus was shaken out of his reflection by Cú suddenly stopping.

"Tread carefully, Kamal," he breathed. "We're getting very close to your child. In fact, you should probably be able to see it if you look around. Your eyes are better than mine."

Lotus had taken off his sunglasses once they had started into the woods. Away from humans, there wasn't much point in them. Pale pink eyes scanned the wood ahead of him, the moonlight providing all the illumination he needed to see perfectly well. He spotted something near the base of a large tree around 20 meters away. Undergrowth obscured the thing though, but he pointed at it. Cú looked at the thing, focused his tracking magics for a moment, then nodded. Together, they began making their way towards the child.

There was a very small clear area when they got close enough to the tree. Sure enough, there was a basket with a sleeping human baby in it at the base.

Something is wrong here, thought Lotus. The voice of his sensei rang in the back of his mind.

Lotus was, fittingly, sitting in the lotus position as his sensei instructed him.

"Remember, Lotus," he said, pointing at a water lily floating on the pond's surface. "You must never mistake a thing's reflection for the thing itself."

Lotus was, to the best of his knowledge, the first and only Zen Buddhist fairy. He had traveled East many years ago, and his sensei's teachings always seemed to help him when he least expected it.

Lotus held up a hand, stopping Cú from approaching the child further.

"That," he said. "Is not the child. It's a glamour."

There was laughter from the higher branches of the tree. Lotus looked up and saw exactly what he hoped he wouldn't. Standing on a branch, holding the basket with the real child in it was another fairy. She was an elf like Lotus, and he knew her well.

"Nightshade," he said, shaking his head. "I should have known." Lotus couldn't prevent a rueful smile from creeping onto his face.

Cú looked from Lotus back to Nightshade, surprise apparent on his face.

"This is Belladonna?" he asked in mild awe. "She is as beautiful as her name would imply."

Cú was transfixed. He had never seen the Unseelie Court's most deadly assassin, and Lotus seemed to have prior dealings with her. This was about to get interesting and he had no intention of leaving.

"Actually, Kamal--"

"I said you can go now, Cú."

Something in Lotus's voice made Cú reluctant to press the issue. So he shrugged and cast a spell, fading from sight into the Otherworld.

Lotus looked Nightshade in the eye. "Now that we're alone, do you want to come down and discuss this like two mature fairies?"

Nightshade laughed maliciously. "If you'd like to pretend that's what we are, then I'll humor you, Lotus."

Nightshade leapt from the high branches of the tree and landed effortlessly. Now that she was on the same level as he, Lotus could get his first good look at her in two years.

She hadn't changed much. She still had her long, shiny black hair, large eyes that were a deep purple shade that most people mistook for black or dark brown. She was about Lotus's height, maybe a centimeter or two shorter. In short, she was still everything that Lotus dreamed about: Beautiful, sexy, and extremely deadly.

"Nightshade," said he. "I know why you're doing this. Can we perhaps come to an agreement?"

Nightshade sniffed contemptuously at Lotus. "Your precious baby boy will please my lords to no end. I see no reason for me to give him back to you."

Lotus was pretty sure he had a solution to this, but again, he was very reluctant to go through with it. The problem was largely in the origin of Nightshade's enmity. Three years ago, Lotus had come out on top in a conflict between the two of them. Long story short, he won her servitude. She was bound to his service for a year and a day. Nightshade was a very proud fairy, and she hated every single second of her subservience. In her opinion, no one was superior to her, and being forced to serve someone inferior was a blow that her pride still had not fully recovered from.

The elfs stared each other down for what seemed an eternity.

Lotus sighed. There was only one way to set this right. To win back Nightshade's favor. (And oh how very sweet her favor was, he thought, reflecting on their pre-conflict days.)

"Listen, Nightshade," he said wearily. "Just let me take the babe back to Avalon. If you do, beginning tomorrow at sundown, I will be bound to your service."

Nightshade grinned wickedly; it made Lotus shudder, for a variety of reasons. "And how long shall this service last?"

Lotus sighed again. "The traditional span. A year and a day shall I be bound to your whim."

Nightshade was satisfied. "I have your word that if I let you take this babe back tonight, you will be mine starting tomorrow at sundown. For a year and a day?"

Lotus nodded. "To those terms, I pledge my word."

After recovering from that shock, Lotus looked down at the baby and shook his head, exasperated. "You have no idea what I've gone through because of you tonight, little one."

The babe slept on, content and oblivious. Lotus had a feeling it would be a very long year.

Things My Non-existant Readers Do Not Care About

2007-02-04T15:49:00.000-05:00

. . .but that's fine with me, because they don't exist anyway.

First off, song list for Writer's Block III. Not sure why I do this. Maybe I hope if I die I'll be reincarnated and read this blog, picking up more or less where I leave off. Maybe I think someday I'll be famous and some kid will go back and try to emulate me in every way possible. Maybe I'm a creativity voyeur. Whatever. Song list time!

Songs are in the format "Song Time Artist"

Follow the Leader 2:18 Andrew Blatt
Follow the Leader ["Get to It!" Edit] 1:35 Andrew Blatt
Fun With Strums 2:03 Andrew Blatt
Instabilities 0:21 Andrew Blatt
Masked Madman 4:43 Andrew Blatt
Silas Denver [Dead or Alive Bounties Mix] 1:52 Andrew Blatt
Silas Denver [Reno Gun Control Mix] 1:16 Andrew Blatt
Softer 1:24 Andrew Blatt
Another Bag of Bricks 3:45 Flogging Molly
Broken (Featuring Amy Lee) 4:18 Seether & Amy Lee
Daisy 4:18 Switchfoot
DOA 4:12 Foo Fighters
Duel of the Fates 4:14 John Williams
Every Planet We Reach Is Dead 4:55 Gorillaz
Fall to Pieces 4:30 Velvet Revolver
Kremlin Dusk 5:13 Utada Hikaru
Pain 3:01 Jimmy Eat World
Pure 3:30 Superchick
Remedy 3:27 Seether
Sevens 3:49 Samuel R. Hazo
So On 4:16 Silers Bald
Sophmore Slump or Comeback of the Year 3:23 Fall Out Boy
Suddenly 3:35 Superchick
Sweetness 3:40 Jimmy Eat World
The Rare Ould Times 4:06 Flogging Molly
The Storm 3:02 The Procussions
Three Days Later 2:23 FM Static
Apocalypse Please 4:12 Muse
Time Is Running Out 3:56 Muse
Hysteria 3:47 Muse
Thoughts Of A Dying Atheist 3:11 Muse
Starlight 3:59 Muse
Supermassive Black Hole 3:29 Muse
Map Of The Problematique 4:18 Muse
Assassin 3:31 Muse
Bathroom Stall 2:45 Epoxies
Please Please 3:42 Epoxies
Radiation 2:13 Epoxies
Stop the Future 2:06 Epoxies
Struggle Like No Other 1:55 Epoxies
No Interest 3:05 Epoxies
Fly 4:52 Sugar Ray
Under the Sun 3:20 Sugar Ray
Every Morning 3:40 Sugar Ray
Waste 3:27 Smash Mouth
Then the Morning Comes 3:04 Smash Mouth
Defeat You 3:54 Smash Mouth
Home 3:12 Smash Mouth

That's 48 songs! That's 40 in a base 12 system!

I think I'll do a short story now. What to do it over. . .

The problem is that I'm being distracted by trying to pick out the next dozen songs to construct Writer's Block IV. . .

Good News, Everyone

2007-02-02T14:42:00.000-05:00

My new to-write-by playlist "Writer's Block III" is now finished. It has 48 songs, and I'll be posting it and a story sometime this weekend.
~The Drewcifer

Joshua and Quentin

2007-01-29T21:11:00.000-05:00

This excerpt covers how Joshua came by the facilities he's been using in previous posts, as well as introducing the minor character Quentin O'Riely. I don't like to use Quentin very often, because he's a very Deus Ex Machina character by virtue of how wealthy and, digitally, powerful he is. As I stated before, Quentin came from a story I started earlier, specifically my sophomore year of high school. His story, though very different, is the spiritual precursor to Joshua's. Anyway, on to Joshua and Quentin's meeting.

"Take this, Joshua. Do not lose it." Quentin handed him a small slip of paper. "That is who you are according to that bank. All of my dealings with them have been through the internet and representatives. If you lose that, you lose the money."

Joshua nodded and read the number to himself. He tucked the paper into his wallet, then looked at Quentin.

"But don't you have another copy somewhere?"

Quentin shook his head. "It's yours now, not mine. You know I don't keep redundant information. Besides," he grinned, tapping the side of his head. "It's all up here. If you lose that, I'll take it as my cue to resume control of those funds. Half a million dollars is not a small amount of money. I expect you to be responsible with it."

"I understand. Thank you for helping us out, Quent. I don't think I'll ever be able to make it up to you."

Quentin waved a hand dismissively. "It's no trouble. I've got the money to spare. 'A friend in need,' right? All I ask is that you don't involve me in this any more than you have to. You're in some pretty big stuff and I need to lay low for the time being. I did find a place for your little operation, as well."

Joshua looked at Quentin both puzzled and embarrassed. "You've already done so much, Quentin. You really don't have to get us a whole building as well."

Quentin shook his head. "It's fine. See, Tendall Corp. has just acquired a small internet venture called Falling Down Sober Industries that was based in the building that Tendall will be donating to your worthy cause, Cressman. And it's perfect, trust me."

Joshua looked at his friend uneasily. "What is so perfect about it?"

Quentin grinned again. "Well, for one, it's a modest office building. Perfect for the little business front you're running. But there's a bonus, too. In the early sixties, a man named Harold Baumrigger started a cult. He was ridiculously paranoid, convinced that nuclear holocaust was imminent. He built himself a huge multi-story fallout shelter. Harold taught his followers that only he could keep them safe from the rapidly approaching destruction of the Earth. After it was revealed he was involved in sexual harassment of some of his disciples, the operation was shut down. But the bunker is still there. Beneath that building."

Quentin looked at Joshua, who in turn nodded appreciatively. Quentin's characteristic grin returned. "A few years ago, just before Falling Down Sober invested in the building, someone went and deleted all mention of the bunker. I mean, no one had looked at the listing in years, so no one remembered any way. A certain hacker just made sure they stayed forgetful. I happen to have the last remaining blueprint of the fallout shelter."

Joshua was impressed, and it showed. A new thought occurred to him which prompted a question. "But if you bought it, does that mean you were going to--"

Quentin raised a hand, cutting him off. "Jesse and I occasionally used it for an office. And you don't get far in my profession without a little paranoia. What I mean is that if I think there's going to be a nuclear winter sometime soon, I'll be stopping by."

Preparations

2007-01-29T14:26:00.000-05:00

I don't normally do this, but I'm just going to type a little background about a character who is going to be appearing in the next post I do. His name is subject to various spellings, but for now call him Quentin O'Riely. He is the twin brother of the previously encountered Brigit and best friend of Jesse Rasnick. Quentin is the main character of the story I started involving those three characters. Okay, here's a pseudo-encyclopedic listing of Quentin.

Quentin O'Riely: Male, mortal. No supernatural powers. Instinctive expert on computers and related systems. More famous for his exploits as the hacker known as Imhotep. Does most of his hacking in the true sense, only occasionally participating in the "phreaking" that has made Imhotep famous. Always attempts to create a sort of "Robin Hood" image for Imhotep, robbing only large corporations that he, Quentin, views as corrupt. Normally does very hard-to-catch items, such as siphoning off a portion of a target company's revenue into an overseas bank account of his own. A huge fan of the proverbial Swiss bank account, Quentin has quite a few and is a multi-millionaire, though he does not make that known. At all. He also runs several legitimate online businesses, contributing to his income. Part of his success as Imhotep comes from the fact that he has custom programmed every piece of software he uses. This includes his operating system, which he continually tweaks and upgrades. He went to high school with Joshua Cressman, who eventually became trusted enough to learn some of Quentin's secrets, including the fact that he had much more money than anyone knew, but not including how he got it or who, as a hacker, he is.

There we go, now you know the scoop on Quentin. I'll keep a few secrets to myself though.

Preview time!
The following is somehow related to Joshua (props if you figure out what it is. You have to click to see it because of the transparency.):
Added a second, non-transparent, bigger version:
Frustration! The bigger version does not have all of the information! Curses! No matter, I will get this fixed. Accept this temporary solution for now.

Update: It doesn't look like I'm going to get the full string at a readable size, so please accept the above as a minor preview of what it would look like at a readable size.

Say It With Me: "Intrigue"

2007-01-19T13:15:00.000-05:00

POSTS YOU NEED TO HAVE READ BEFORE YOU READ THIS:
Joshua Cressman
Sleep Deprivation
Joshua, Meet Chris

(In that order, probably.)

This is a fun little event that I dreamed up over the last few days. The nice part about it is that that it 1)reveals a little bit more about the differences between Iris and Chris and 2)will enable me to do another scene later without having to answer some awkward questions. I haven't gotten up the nerve to write aforementioned later scene yet. There will still be awkward questions when I post it, just not "WTF is going on and why is Chris where she is?" Anyway, on to what I actually have written.

Current Music: Utada Hikaru selected songs:
1. About Me
2. Devil Inside
3. Fly Me to the Moon (In Other Words)
4. Exodus
5. Usomitaina I Love You
6. The Workout
7. Simple and Clean
8. Kremlin Dusk
9. Easy Breezy
10. Animato
11. Let Me Give You My Love
12. Simple and Clean [Planet 9 Remix]

This playlist is on random and repeat, so the order of these songs is constantly shifting, but these are the songs.
-The Drewcifer

Joshua finished up the last of his desk work for the day. In the two weeks since Chris had shown up, she had proven just as useful as her twin, if not moreso. Joshua walked and was met by Adam at the door to his office. They had important matters to discuss, but not just yet. They struck up a conversation typical of best friends. It wound from topic to topic, sometimes a logical progression, sometimes flowing from one idea to the next, usually jumping unpredictably. As they turned a corner and were just settling into serious discussion, Chris was there.

"Hello!" she said, energetically. Her voice still had the lilting quality that had caught Joshua's attention in the first place. She stared blankly at the air for a moment, the spoke again. "Mind if I walk with you?"

Joshua shrugged. "I don't see why not, but the conversation is about to get pretty boring."

"That's okay, I just want to be with people right now," explained Chris.

Joshua almost asked what she meant, then thought better of it. Chris was just a little more like Iris than he had originally thought upon first meeting her.

So the three of them walked, Joshua and Adam discussing a range of rather boring, if vital, logistics topics, Chris trailing a few steps behind them.

Suddenly, Chris snatched Adam's gun from its holster, spun around very quickly, and put three holes into the ceiling. As she was squeezing the trigger on the second shot, her free hand shot out to the side, catching Joshua's wrist, preventing he progress of his knife to her shoulder.

"What the Hell are you--" Joshua began yelling but stopped when blood began to drip from the holes in the ceiling.

Adam spoke up, somewhat perturbed. "As the only normal mortal currently present, I'd like to know what, exactly, just happened." He paused for a beat, then held out his hand to Chris. "Furthermore, being a lowly mortal, I'd like my gun back."

Chris nodded at Adam and returned the firearm. She looked at Joshua and spoke.

"I'm going to let go of your wrist and you're going to put that away," she said, gesturing towards the knife held in his currently trapped hand. "Nothing needs to be cut right now, Nemesis. Next, I'm going to explain. Understood?" The lilting quality was completely gone from her voice, in fact, it had an almost icy quality to it now. The complete split-second transformation caught Joshua off-guard. He nodded dumbly and Chris let go of his wrist. He put the knife away and fought the urge to rub his wrist. The girl had quite a grip.

Chris was satisfied, so she nodded as if she was agreeing with herself. The motion reminded Joshua of Iris. Not surprising, he supposed. After all, they were twins.

Chris began to explain. "The men in the vents were spies from Shane Gaspar. They were recruited from one of the street gangs in the area that are under Shane's control. It's one you've had previous run-ins with, so you should be able to recognize the tattoos that mark them. The first one has his mark on his back, the second's is on his arm, the third's is on his chest. I suggest you go retrieve and dispose of those bodies now." Chris turned and walked away.

Joshua looked at Adam, sighed, and got on the intercom. "I'm going to need a few boys for some rather unpleasant duct work," he said over the loudspeaker.

*******

Chris walked into the broom closet just as the man was replacing the cover on the vent. "Well done," she said quietly. The man started, then turned around, fumbling for his weapon.

"You won't need that, Nate. Don't make me regret letting you live back there."

The man stopped trying to get his gun into his hands and left it as it was. He stared at Chris, thoughts racing through his head at a rapid pace. How does she know my name? Is hers the voice that told me to go, how to get here right before the others were shot? She's definitely the one who shot them, I know that. But how? How did she do it and why am I so sure it was her?

The man stared down Chris for a few moments, then found his voice. "Why?" he inquired weakly.

Chris shook her head. "I had to. You idiots tattoo everyone and their markings were far too obvious. I'd almost lost hope but then I realized that they were at least smart enough to have you grow your hair out before they sent you. That means the tattoo on your scalp wasn't going to be recognized, at least not easily. Now listen, in order to avoid interpreter detection, you're going to need my help."

Nate looked at her, still visibly shaken. How did she know so much? "What do you want?" he stammered.

Chris smiled. It was a predatory thing, with none of the music and grace she had displayed when Joshua first met her. "Tell me where to find Shane Gaspar."

Footnote: Shane Gaspar is the main bad guy. He's the man in the red suit Joshua fought in the dream in the post "Joshua Cressman." And yes, Chris is basically agreeing to help and enemy spy. Funny that. I think this maybe the longest bit of literature I've managed to write set in this world. I hope you enjoyed it.

Story for Morgan

2007-01-16T23:45:00.000-05:00

This one is for Morgan. She's a friend of mine whom I love very dearly. Okay, here's to hoping it doesn't suck.
-The Drewcifer

Melissa splashed cold water on her face and looked up to view herself in the mirror. Pull it together, Mel. You're gonna be fine. She tried on a smile, but it looked somewhat strained an awkward on her face at the moment, so she decided to go back to a more neutral expression. It's just a boy. Just a date. Calm down. Consciously, she slowed her breathing and kept that constant until her heart rate settled down to a much more normal range.
Much better, she thought, a smile coming unbidden to her face. When natural and smooth, it looked fantastic on her. Don't force the smile, she said to herself. But don't hold it back either. Okay. Good advice from me to me.
Melissa exited the bathroom and set about getting herself for this evening. Her date was arriving in half an hour and she wanted to look good.
Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, her date's face told her that she had succeeded in her efforts earlier. Damn, she thought. Judging from that expression, must be lookin' fine.
Her date stuttered for a second after she opened the door. And who wouldn't? It was a slinky black dress, showing not a small amount of cleavage. Bright blue eyes looked out at him, framed by beautiful, wavy red hair.
Finally, he found his voice. "Um," he coughed. "So, are you ready to go?"
Melissa grinned. "Absolutely."
As they walked to the car, the boy knew that this was one girl he was going to be glad to be seen with tonight.

"Write me a story involving a blanket, a tiara, and a picture frame. Go!"

2007-01-16T00:23:00.000-05:00

This story is dedicated to Jennybean.

You can learn a lot about a person from the things they treasure. In Iris Christine Wynter's bedroom, there are three treasures. Said treasures are a blanket, a tiara, and a picture frame. Let us start with the last and work our way back to the first.

The picture frame.

The picture frame holds in it a picture of a man that few, if any of Iris's current friends would recognize if they saw. This man was, at one point, Iris Wynter's fiancé. She loved him, or at least thought she did. Who can say for sure? But when the Seer awakened, when Christine became more than just a second name, Iris could no longer stay with him. The heartache has yet to completely abate, but Iris both knew that she was destined for other things, and feared for the safety of this man. His name is Anthony Joseph Fiocco. He and Iris were together for four years. They were three months from their wedding when Iris called it off and vanished.

The tiara.

The tiara is a gift from Gideon Irby, the Sage. It she values for a very practical reason. The tiara blocks out her second sight when she wears it. Sometimes, even the Seer needs a break. Even the Seer must restrict herself to this reality. And during those few brief intervals that she can afford to wear the tiara, Iris Wynter knows peace that has been all too rare since she Woke.

The blanket.

The blanket is the last of the treasures. It is also the most treasured. The blanket is technically a quilt. It was made by Iris's mother. The scent of her father's pipe tobacco permeates it, mingled with the soft smell of her mother's perfume. It brings comfort to Iris whenever she is near it. Her father died when she was midway through college, just after she met Anthony. Her mother she has not contacted since she Woke, since she broke ties with Anthony. It is the last piece of Home that she has left.

Let's Have a Break from Narcom, Shall We?

2007-01-12T17:30:00.000-05:00

Okay, so yeah. I've had this kinda romance-novel type scene in my head since early last semester. It comes back to me every time a girl I care about talks about how she's chasing a boy who doesn't even seem to care about her. I've resisted putting it into words, but I think I need to. As I write this, Christian Rap is blasting in my ears. Blame TobyMac for anything strange that happens in this little snippet. Also, these names are pretty much meaningless. Any gender-appropriate name can be substituted for another. The names are not the important part of this.

"It's not fair!" exclaimed Bethany. There were tears in her eyes, her head rested on Mark's chest. It was a warm spring night and her tears were hot as they bled through his shirt after escaping her eyes. Awkwardly, he moved a hand up to stroke her hair in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

"Why? Why?" she continued, sniffing to mark her punctuation. "I mean, no matter how much I tried, I wasn't good enough for him. All he could do was compare me to that tramp, even when we were dating."

Mark thought for a moment. Apprehension gripped him down to the very bone. Was he really about to speak his mind to this girl? It seemed so, because his mouth was moving before his brain could say "Hey, wait! The committee does not have a quorum, we can't even vote yet!"

But speaking he was, and the words flowed out before he could even think of what he was saying. "Maybe the problem is this. You've been focused on someone who can't stop talking about how beautiful his ex is. Someone who can't stop thinking about what he had long enough to see what he has. What you need is not someone who compares you to someone else, but someone who doesn't just think, but knows that you are the most precious and beautiful person he's ever seen."

Suddenly, both of them became very aware of the manner in which they were standing. Bethany had pressed herself into Mark. Mark, in turn, had his arms around Bethany, for his embrace had always comforted her. She looked up into his eyes, astonished. After three and a half seconds that seemed like three and a half eternities, she spoke to him in a whisper.

"Know anyone like that, Mark?"
"I might," he replied, equally soft in tone.

And then they kissed.

And that was that.

Narcom Locke's Monologue

2007-01-10T00:15:00.000-05:00

Narcom Locke: Generic Sci-Fi character. Narcom has been and done so many things over the years. Now he's a MACRA pilot. What's a MACRA, you ask. Read and find out.

The joysticks feel good in my hands, even after all these years. I run my hands over the controls, checking each dial. There have been some changes made to a cockpit during my hiatus. The one big improvement I see is a clear plastic sleeve, just about the right size for a picture. And that's what it's for, a picture. That way, the pilot can stick a picture of his girl or his family or his dog or whatever he's got to come home to there instead of covering up one of the more important meters, indicators, or dials. That's a damned good idea. I once had a friend die because his overheat indicator was obscured by the picture of his grandma he kept clipped to his control panel.

As for me, I leave the sleeve empty.

My name is Narcom Locke. I'm a MACRA pilot. That's Mechanized Anthropoid Combat Resolution Apparatus. It's mecha, for you Japanophiles out there. And no one's bothered to capitalize the letters in macra in about ten years. That's who I am, or was, at least. I got out two years ago. Honorable discharge from the Army of Independent Peoples. Valor and Bravery in the Face of Almost Certain Death. I got three medals, and accepted five more on behalf of fallen comrades. I was, and still am, one of the best. But I wanted out.

The problem was, I no longer cared about what I was fighting for. The Independents' Army had been a dream come true for me at first. I helped develop most of the technology current macras use. My father had even been on the committee that had come up with that ridiculous name. Conflict Resolution Apparatus. That sounds so much more peaceable, so much more comforting than Death Machine, Massacre Engine, Child Slayer. My personal macra, Avalon, had been, to me, as beautiful as her namesake. By the end of my tour, between repairs and upgrades, none of her original parts were still with her. But she was still the same machine. Still my Avalon.

My call sign was--is--"Brightghost." I never was quite clear on where it came from, but I wore it proudly nonetheless.

I lost a lot of good friends over the course of the war. Especially after the Hegemony started producing their own macras. Suddenly, everyone had the same maneuverability that we had. Our edge was lost, and their numbers began to have a more pronounced effect on us. Oh we still had far superior macras, but when they had the material and the manpower to field four macras to our every one, the balance tipped their way quite a bit.

I saw things on the frontline. Things I will never forget no matter how much I want to. Somewhere along the line, I lost my purpose. I lost the burning passion that said "Never! You cannot ever take my freedom! Not while I still draw breath!" That fire was doused by the blood of many friends and more enemies. So two years ago, after I realized I was becoming a soulless shell of a man, I told Command I couldn't handle it anymore. They tried to talk me out of it, but in the end they gave me my pat on the back and sent me on my way. The war was still raging, but I moved away from the battlegrounds. Moved inward, where the fighting hadn't come yet. I swore never to fight again.

Yet here I am, in the cockpit of Avalon II, one of the finest pieces of equipment I've ever touched. Here I am, about to go out and kill again. Where the Hell did this all go wrong?

There's more to Narcom's tale. I'm just really tired, so it's not getting told tonight!

Mixed Nuts

2006-12-30T02:53:00.000-05:00

I break my silence not with words, but with sounds and pictures. Only there is a catch. I provide the raw material, you must process it. Ready? Okay, let us begin.

* * *

You can feel it. A place just out of reach. Somewhere you long to be, yet suspect you will never see. Heaven is a place of dreams, but dreams can become nightmares oh so easily. Don't trip, you might Fall. It's very, very bad to Fall.

Speak not to me of things Heaven-sent. For they have sent me and have sent to me. Neither do I much care for. But that is not true. This is what I do. This is who I am. I enjoy my task as I am hating it.

My name is Quintus. From the Latin meaning "fifth." I am named such because I am the fifth to fill my position. If I have my way, there will never be a Sextus. Quartus was utterly useless, his tenure being the shortest of any of my antecedents.

What is my work, you might ask. It's simple enough. Demon-hunting. Upstairs thinks that a few too many of them are straying from their designated stomping grounds. Hell, that is. Being the non-confrontational folk they are, the angels prefer to have a mortal to do their dirty work. Or at least my patron does. There are other hunters, with different angels sponsoring them. Mine's alright. Sent down a half-decent trainer to me, taught me enough not to get myself killed. It's not a bad time. You get to meet new and interesting people, then kill them. Also, if you avoid being killed, you'll live forever. But you will get killed. That's the rub of it, eh?

My weapon is a pitchfork; black, sharp, sleek, and surprisingly concealable. The whole apparatus extends from a handle and folds out at my whim. I took it from the first demon I killed. I thought him carrying it a bit cliché, but for me, with my line of work, I find the irony quite to my liking.

I've been to Hell, on Heaven's behalf. Certain power-hungry demon got the idea that if he kept mucking about in Earth business without coming to Earth, he'd be safe. Wrong idea. I brought the fight to him, that's how I got these horns. Bihuanel, Lord of Biunallum. Well, former Lord. That title actually belongs to me now. He left these horns on me as a mark. A dying "gift." No matter what I do, I'll never be fully rid of his presence, though his soul is gone and beyond repair.

One would think after what I've been through, Heaven would welcome me home with open arms, right? Wrong.

*

The last strains of the doxology ring out as the doors begin to slowly swing closed. Huge doors. Each one is easily six times my height and three times my width. The Gates of Heaven are nothing compared to the Doors to Heaven.

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Amen.

I almost turn and walk away, but I decide otherwise.

My hand snaps out and catches the door as it is about to close.

I say one word. Not loudly, not quietly. Just ordinary, as if I were talking to you right now. One word.

"No."

Joshua's Monologue

2006-12-20T03:28:00.000-05:00

I haven't slept in three days.

Six months ago, I started having the most vivid dreams imaginable. After every dream, I'd wake up briefly and be able to remember both that dream, and all the dreams that had come before. I'd fall asleep and forget it all by morning.

Three days ago, the nightmare came rushing into my life. Everything, every single one of those vivid dreams, dreams which make one truly understand what a prophet says when he describes a vision, came back to me. Suddenly I could remember them all with perfect clarity. I realized that they were, to some degree, real.

I haven't slept in three days.

Joshua, meet Chris

2006-12-16T04:25:00.000-05:00

This story follows after the one from yesterday. Both of them would make a little more sense if you knew what events had occurred before them. Oh well. You're getting free stories, man! Don't whine to me that they don't make any sense due to their lack of context!
Anyway, comment telling me what you think.
-The Drewcifer

Joshua was busy reading over some important documents when he heard a knock on his office door. "Come on in!" When Joshua said it, it was not so much permission as it was a command. Without looking up, he began speaking, thinking he already knew who had entered.

"Listen, Adam, can you try and track down Iris for me? She hasn't checked in in three days, and I need her to interview some of the new recruits. . ." Joshua trailed off as he looked up, and was momentarily stunned. The person standing in front of him was not Adam. It was a girl. A very pretty girl. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else," said Joshua, sincerely apologetic.

The girl laughed, and to Joshua, her voice sounded like a sonnet. "It's quite alright. You must be the great Joshua Cressman, yes?" She laughed again, her emerald green eyes sparkling with mystery and promises of secrets to be told.

Joshua stood. "The one and only," he said with a slight bow. "I don't believe we've met Ms. . . ?"

"Wynter. Christine Wynter," Chris took Joshua's outstretched hand and shook. "But you can call me Chris."

Joshua was still somewhat awestruck by the musical quality of her voice. But he did raise an eyebrow as he disengaged the handshake. "Wynter? Are you related to Iris at all?"

Chris laughed again. "I'm her twin sister. Iris wanted you to know that she won't be able to come in for quite some time. She's taking a hiatus. I'm here to take over her duties until she gets back."

Joshua frowned. "I'm afraid it's not that simple," he explained. "Even if you two were identical twins, which you don't seem to be, the abilities Iris has are spiritual, rather than genetic in origin. There's only one Seer on Earth at a time."

Chris just grinned at him. "Well maybe there are two this time. Things change. You can't know for sure yet, can you? But trust me, anything Iris could do, I can do. If you want, I'll head over to your team of psychics and let them subject me to some test so you can know for sure. Sound good to you, boss?"

Joshua couldn't help but smile a little as she spoke. Again, it just seemed more like singing. Every sound she made was music. Joshua was completely unaware of the fact that he was rapidly falling in love with this girl. "Fine," he acceded, with a grin. "Go let the Interpreters do a couple of scans on you. Have them report back to me on their opinion of your authenticity. And if you are a bona-fide Seer, you're going to have to start on some work we've got for you right away. Iris's little stunt has put me behind somewhat."

Chris smiled warmly, winked, spun on her heel, and left the room, sashaying perhaps a little more than was strictly necessary. Joshua, being a man, couldn't help but watch her go. He sat down and smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair. Today wasn't shaping up to be so bad after all.

Sleep Deprivation

2006-12-15T04:39:00.000-05:00

I want to be sleeping right now. But, as some of you may have already guessed, I'm actually not asleep. Let's see what The Drewcifer can drag out of his writer's block?

"Christine! I need your help!" Iris ran through the forest, branches moving of their own accord out of her way. She kept yelling for Christine, doing it very loudly.

"Christine! Where are you? You said you'd be here for me when I needed you!" Iris was on the verge of tears. Then again, Iris was often on the verge of tears. She stopped running and stood, panting. Just when she was about to give up, a blonde girl about her height stepped out from behind a tree.

"Iris what seems to be the trouble? How can I help you?" The girl's voice was such that she didn't so much ask as she nearly sang her inquiries. There was a lilting quality to her voice, something that could brighten even the gloomiest day when heard. As she heard that voice, Iris reflected that maybe things weren't quite so bad after all.

"Christine--" she began, but was cut off by the other girl.

"Chris. Please, Iris, call me Chris. We've been over this."

"Right sorry," said Iris apologetically. "Anyway," she said, looking emphatically at Chris. "I need you to help me out. There's a boy."

Chris laughed her melodious laugh. "Boy trouble, sis? You have come to the right girl for this one."

Iris frowned a little as she pressed on. "Yes well, just because you're better at it doesn't mean you have to rub it in my face." She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. "I don't think he even likes me, but. . .I love him, Chris. And I want him to love me."

Chris smiled at Iris, once again warming the other girl's heart. "Don't you worry about a thing, sis. Just relax and let me take care of it. Close your eyes now."

Iris closed her eyes and Chris reached out a hand, resting it on Iris's forehead. "Just let Chris take care of it for you, Iris," she whispered. "Let me take your burden for a while."

Iris opened her eyes, and sat up in her bed. She walked over to the mirror and smiled. "Looking good Christine," she said, in a lilting, melodious voice. She ran a brush through the blonde hair that had been jet black when she had laid down. Chris smiled at her reflection and muttered "That's right sis. I'll get this all taken care of."

OneWord.com

2006-12-14T00:36:00.000-05:00

Okay, so it's a pretty good idea. I'm starting to get a feel for Christine's character, since that seems to be the mode I'm in whenever these little 60 second writing prompts come up. All two times I've done it. Anyway, while I like the idea, I don't like that the site changes one's writing to all lowercase. For one, I like proper capitalization. A word of warning to you, English speakers: Not all languages have capital and lowercase letters. Cherish yours and use them properly. Also, this really just disrupts a lot of the potential power of a person's writing. I mean, it's fine (actually it's pretentious and stupid) if you want to write in all lowercase letters. That can be powerful and poetic (but, generally speaking, you aren't up the challenge, trust me), and that's fine. But proper and unusual capitalisation can also be a powerful prosetry (pronounced "prose-a-tree," a portmanteau that yours truly made up on the spot) tool. Taking that control away from an author can really rape an individual's writing style. (I also don't like how Blogger won't freaking preserve my indents, but that's a whole different story.) Anyway, on to my little bit of writing.

Alone and homeless. That's how Chris felt. Everyone she'd known had now left her. First Iris, then Joshua. Now, finally, even Adam was gone. Fuck. What on Earth was she supposed to do now? She sighed and slumped against the wall.

Chris Panics

2006-12-13T01:10:00.000-05:00

Hmmm. So I'm not sure what this one's about. I was on a website Jennybean sent me where it gives you one word and you write about it. "Panic" was my word. Yeah. w00t.

I need to calm down, Chris thought to herself. Panicking is going to get me nowhere. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then stood up. She wobbled on her legs, gripping the counter to steady herself. The vision had really taken it out of her. Don't get worked up about what you saw, she urged herself. Just do something about it.

After a few moments of hesitation, Chris picked up the phone and started dailing. . .

Joshua Cressman

2006-12-08T00:27:00.000-05:00

This is the first thing I ever wrote featuring the heroic Joshua Cressman. Don't worry: it's a dream. He's not really dead. ;) There are no paragraphs because I transferred it from notebook to computer really, really quickly.

Rain poured from the night sky, droplets pattering on Joshua Cressman’s black leather longcoat on their way to the ground. His hair was flat, black, and matted from the rain. Water collected on his eyebrows, ran down his face in small rivers. Intelligent blue eyes scanned the area as he walked up the street of the city. Black boots scattered the water, sending droplets flying with every step. Suddenly Joshua became aware of something behind him. He spun around to see a man in a bloodred business suit walking towards him. His light red hair was slicked back; a friendly smile was framed by a neatly trimmed goatee of a red-gold color slightly lighter than the hair on his head. His eyes were much like Joshua’s: a light, crystal blue, amicable and bright. Strangely, he seemed completely dry despite the heavy rain. His arms were spread in front of him, friendly, welcoming, non-threateningly. Joshua frowned, confused; he knew his enemy was here somewhere, but he saw only this man. He looked straight into the man’s eyes, searching. There! Behind the outward appearance one could see the man’s true self in his eyes. It flickered continuously, like a spiteful flame. Hatred, malice, and hostility lurked just out of sight. Joshua’s frown turned into a smile. The man in red had been advancing on him the whole time and was almost within arm’s length. In one fluid motion, Joshua threw open his coat, drew a long knife, and leapt at the man in red. The man dropped his façade, his face hardening into a scowl as he sidestepped Joshua’s weapon while drawing his own: An impossibly large handgun emerged from the red stranger’s suit coat. Joshua dove for the ground, madly trying to put distance between the gun and his body. The stranger fired three shots; Joshua hit the ground rolling. One of the bullets clipped Joshua’s shoulder, slicing through his leather coat and causing him to wince in pain. Still moving, Joshua twisted and ducked to avoid two more shots from the man in red before once more reaching into his coat. With his other hand, Joshua grabbed a throwing knife and hurled it at the man in red while tightening his grip on the knife and running past the man, intending to cut from the side. The red man shot the knife out of the air. Just as Joshua’s blade was about to make contact with the stranger, the barrel of the gun knocked it aside, sending a shockwave up Joshua’s arm and causing the cut on his shoulder to throb with pain. Joshua spun, ready to face the man, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out. When he looked up, however, he was staring straight down the barrel of the red man’s gun. The man in red’s scowl had turned into a maniacal, evil grin.
“Say hello to the Devil for me, lad.”
I mustn’t be afraid.

Jesse and Brigit

2006-12-06T23:20:00.000-05:00

Jesse Rasnick and Brigit O'Riely. They're quite the characters. Their story is also part of something much, much bigger. Maybe you'll see more of them from time to time. They don't usually have many problems, but no one has a perfect relationship.

Jesse slammed the phone down. Damn that girl! How on Earth could she do that? Make him feel so happy and so. . .so angry all at the same time? It wasn't really Brigit's fault, he reasoned. But somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.
He kept mentally replaying the night in his head, like his relationship was some sort of morbid sporting event.
"I know you wanted to see me tonight, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen, I'm sorry Brigit. You know I'd rather be with you."
He heard her sigh through the phone. "I know. I know it's not your fault, Jesse. That doesn't mean that I have to like it. Are you sure you can't cancel?"
"Look, this is the last time Blake's gonna be on this continent for a good three months. You have to understand that I need to go to his sending-off party!"
"I guess I just don't get why you don't want to take me with you." Another sigh. Damn! Brigit was not making this any easier on him. The real reason he couldn't take her with him was simply this: Blake hated Brigit. He had no idea why, but he'd come to terms with that. But he couldn't very well tell his girlfriend that one of his closest friends couldn't stand her. That would not be good.
Instead he went with "It's an invitation only thing. There's limited space and it was pretty clear that no one was allowed to bring a 'Plus One,' including me. I think it's silly, but I'm not the one headed to New Zealand. When I am, you'll be there for sure." Actually Blake's words had been something along the lines of "That fucking bitch better not show up at my party." He'd taken the hint.
After wrapping it up with Brigit, he'd gone to the party. Everything had gone great until right near the end. He'd left his phone on the table and it rang. Jesse hadn't been around, Blake had. He'd seen it was Brigit, answered, and really layed into her. Jesse hadn't even found out until he got home and Brigit called him at his house, sobbing hysterically and truly hurt from the things Blake had said. The more Jesse tried to console her, the more inconsolabe she became. Hurt gave way to frustration, gave way to anger. Both of them had angrily said goodnight and hung up. Which brought him to now.
Jesse knew they'd make it through this, but the thing that was really upsetting him was how Blake had acted. He had been a bit tipsy, but that was no excuse for the way he'd treated Brigit. He hadn't told her this, but when Blake got back to America, Jesse fully intended to punch him.

Gregory Hallen's Monologue

2006-12-04T23:13:00.000-05:00

I wouldn't be surprised if we heard more out of ol' Greg. He is from the same world/universe/reality as Joshua.

My name is Gregory Hallen and I’m a psychic. Not like one of those fakes you see on TV. No, I can actually find my car in a parking lot, thank you very much. No, all I can do is see a bit into the future. Usually just far enough to realize how much my life is going to suck in about 5 minutes if I don’t make exactly the right decisions at exactly the right times. Case in point: I’m currently being chased by the ghosts of gay man-whores. Their brothel was burned down in a rash of homosexual hate crimes. Not fun shit. Now the specters take revenge on any straight man they can find. Now, I happen to fall into that category. Never in my life have I wished more that I like the cock. But, unfortunately in this case, I don’t.
I'd love to get into the nuance of my condition, but there's no time for that at the moment. Later, I promise. So I'm running from these ghosts, eyes open, trying to scan the threads of fate for a way out of this mess. As the quanta dance across my metaphysical field of vision, I realize something important: sometimes infinite possibilites doesn't mean that there's always a way out that's good for you. Sometimes it just means you're totally, infinitely fucked. And so it seems in this case. Maybe the solution is there, but so far away I can't see it. Either way, what I can see is pretty grim, so I decide to narrow my focus to just ahead of the now and wing it.
* * *
I manage to get away from the ghosts. Honestly, I'd rather never talk about how I did it. Let's just say I'll never be able to look at a 2x4 the same ever again.
Where was I? Oh, right, more on the psychic condition.
Okay, here's the deal. Guys like me come in two types. "Forecasters" and "interpreters." I'm of the former type. Forecasters see the future with varying degrees of finessé, depth, and accuracy. Interpreters see things as they "really are," as they put it. It's a fancy way of saying they get the metaphysical world layed right smack on top of this one when they open those creepy third eyes. I've never seen one myself, you need to be an interpreter yourself to do so, but still, the idea is pretty fucked if you ask me.
Personally, and this may be my own bias talking, I think forecasters are considerably more useful. Sure the 'terp can tell you that the man you just passed by is an angel, but what people forget is that angels and demons don't look any different, they just act different. Nine times out of ten, you were better off not knowing the paranormal nature of that man anyway. I'm just sayin'.

First Glimpse at the Tale of Joshua

2006-12-04T22:38:00.000-05:00

It's short, and ambiguous, but I don't really have a readership yet. So whatev. The second speaker is Joshua. You'll learn more about him later.

“‘She’s one of a kind, Joshua. Her powers are quite stressful. There’s a reason that she’s killed herself in so many of these cycles, you know. You ought to go a bit easier on her.’
‘Oh? Since when did you become Gideon’s mouthpiece?’
‘Oh come on, Joshua. You know it’s not like that. Besides, you should listen to Gideon more. He’s been around a lot longer than either of us.’
Joshua walked on, silent.”

If you are intrigued, please, comment. Let me know.

A brief break.

2006-10-16T16:20:00.000-04:00

We take a break from storytelling today so that I can write some more funny. In the meantime:

HowManyOfMe.com

There are:
8
people with my name
in the U.S.A.

How many have your name?

Divine Adventures, Chapter 1

2006-10-13T02:37:00.001-04:00

I was bored as Hell at the speech meet. It had been a long, pointless day. Eric had gone to compete in the final round of Radio, leaving me alone in the cafeteria to wait for him. I doodled some as I waited. I can't draw, but I'd like to learn, so I'd been practicing. I'd kinda been getting better, too. Well, right about then, this tiny little red guy, whom I would later come to know as Satan, pops up on my paper.

“Hello Drew,” it says to me.

Now, I've read a lot of books, so I know that it's important to stay calm in these kind of situations. Otherwise, the tiny bastard will vanish and everyone will think you're crazy.

So I—very calmly—say “Who the fuck are you?” Quietly, of course.

“I am Satan, master of your soul.”

This kinda ticks me off. I was born and raised Christian. Satan showing up and asserting ownership of my immortal soul perturbs me somewhat. I keep my voice quiet as I reply:

“That's nice, tiny Satan, but you seem to be mistaken. You see, you are not, in fact, the Lord of my soul. So please, fuck off to your miniature Hell where you can annoy the souls of sinful midgets.”

Satan glares at me. “You sold your soul for the ability to draw.”

I actually laugh a little, but I catch myself when people start looking over. I lean in close to make it look like I'm still drawing.

“Look, Beelzebub, I didn't sell my soul for the ability to draw. And even if I had, you'd have no right to collect, seeing as how I'm still less than mediocre. And that's with no small amount of practice.”

Satan huffs. Even if by some impossibly slim chance I had accidentally sold him my soul, which I hadn't, he knows he can't beat the logic on the second point of my argument. With a grunt of a mildly audible “fine!” he vanishes.

I continued my latest doodle. It was a small, very cartoonish frog. It wasn't that great, but Eric and I thought it was kind of cool, in a funny sort of way.

A few minutes passed. Suddenly, Satan reappeared on my paper. He was still 2 inches tall, but now he had his pitchfork. Stuck on the end of it was a regular-sized hot dog.

“Drew, I'm back, and I have a hot dog,” he said, moving the dog around in front of my face. “Would you like a hot dog? It can be. . .arranged.”

Instinctively, I say, “No, Satan! I shall not partake of thy tainted meat tube!”

Satan shrugs. “More for me,” he says as he takes a bite.

I narrow my eyes at the tiny tempter. “Are you so bored that you don't have anything better to do than harass me?”

“Well, you've got nothing to do but cultivate nonexistent art talent.”

“Touché, Sammael.”

Satan began pacing, occasionally eating a bite or two from his hot dog. “I know that you're supposed to belong to the forces of Hell, but I can't remember why.”

I raise one eyebrow. The Adversary is right. I have nothing better to do. At least he's a stimulus.

“I'm all ears, Satan,” I say nonchalantly.

“I checked in the records department, but the boys are on vacation, so it'll be a while before I get any sort of answer.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, somewhat disdainfully.

“So in the meantime, I decided to call in a friend to try to figure this out.”

I stared at him for a few minutes.

To my infinite surprise, a man in a white robe wearing a surprisingly stylish crown of thorns appeared. It was Jesus of Nazareth, 2 inches tall.

“Jesus?” I asked, incredulous.

“Hey, Drew. What's goin' on?” The miniature Christ sees Satan. “Yo, Lucifer, lookin' good, man.”

I stare blankly at the lilliputian Savior. Finally, I find my voice.

“Um. Jesus? What's happening here? Why are you friends with Satan?”

“Oh, that's a story for later,” he says, winking at me.

“So did you ask your dad about that thing for me?” Satan asks, somewhat impatiently.

“Oh yeah, him,” Jesus points at me. “yeah, he's a bastard.”

“What!” I ask, incredulous. “What the Hell are you talking about?”

“Oh,” says Satan, ignoring me. “That makes so much more sense.”

“What is going on here?” I demand. Suddenly, I realize that people are starting to look at me funny again. Shit. I lean in close and remember to keep my voice to a whisper.

Satan looks at me and begins to explain. "Okay, so it turns out that you're an illegitimate son of mine. Hence, bastard. I've got a lot of those running around. It's not a big surprise that I lost track of you.”

“You're the father of lies. I have no reason to believe you. And if I did have a reason to believe you, that would make me a lie myself. I'm not entirely comfortable with that,” I assert.

“Don't worry, dude,” says Jesus, chiming in. “I got freaked out when my paternal ancestry was first made known to me.”

I was unable to speak at first. There was a long discussion ensuing. Over the course of the debate, my older brother Damien, as well as Frosty the snowman were both brought into attest to the veracity of my dad's claims.

Before Satan and the gang finally left, I asked him one final question. “So do I get some sort of kickass Hell-derived powers now?”

“You'll get them as your exposure to the larger world grows. And I'll even let you borrow the car on weekends.”

“Bitchin',” I replied.

Just after the discussion wrapped up, Eric arrived on the scene.

“Hey, Drew,” Eric said to me upon returning. “You didn't get much done on that frog, did you?”

“I just kinda zoned out. Talked to a few people…”

The plan

2006-10-13T02:31:00.000-04:00

The plan for this blog is to post short stories that I am working on. The first one to go up is the first chapter of the work-in-progress novel from of The Divine Adventures of Drew and Eric. Normally, I am quite a "grammar Nazi." However, in this first chapter, one may notice that I often switch tenses. This is semi-intentional. I wrote, and will contiune to attempt to write, Divine Adventures straight on instinct. Normally, I naturally keep a consistent tense. The only logical thing is that the shifting tenses are natural for this story, or at least this part of it. I've always felt that authors should be encouraged to find their own style, even if it pushes the bounds of traditional grammar. However, that does have its limits, which is a whole other story.
-The Drewcifer

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