First Snow

Walked around this morning in the snow and then wrote a story about walking around in the snow. The creative process is hellishly simple sometimes, isn't it?

First Snow

It's the cat that wakes him up, rustling in the plastic bags under his bed so loudly that he can no longer pretend it's part of whatever dream it is he's having at the moment. There's snow outside, which takes him by surprise—but what really takes him by surprise is that despite the fact that it is freezing in his room he is almost uncomfortably warm. With an effort, he gets up (can't waste the snow after all, especially not the first snow) and (following the normal morning routine of showering and breakfast) looks out the window again.

The snow's stopped. It's disappointing, but he figures it'll be melted soon anyway and promptly forgets about it for a while until he looks out the window again and sees flakes falling once more.

Now he's ready for it, so he throws on his shoes, grabs a hat and coat, and rushes outside, pausing briefly to make sure he's got his camera.

The camera was a gift from his parents before he went to Oxford, ostensibly for the taking of pictures. He's always felt slightly guilty that he didn't use the thing as much as he could have, though he's always been one to trust to his memory and the fact that everyone else had a bloody camera (so if he really needs photographic reminders he can ask someone else) so his wasn't absolutely necessary. Still he knows it was a big present, and now seems like the only time he'll bother to use it here, where it's very rare that something photography-worthy happens, if it happens at all.

The entryway and steps leading to the building have already been cleared off and salted, which is disappointing but probably a good thing. He steps onto the sidewalk (also clear and salted) and crosses the street (also clear, though probably not salted) to the other side where the snow hasn't been removed.

He takes a few steps, relishing the whump-crunch of his footfalls, muffled and distinct at the same time, one leading to another. He's got no purpose, and indeed lacks even a basic circuit to wander around—he hasn't bothered to learn all of the side-streets here, they remain mysteries to him. Still, it's as good of a time as any for a mystery, so he blindly heads in one direction and finds himself in a car park.

There's nobody here, except for the cars—and at the moment humanity's noise has yet to intrude. He takes a few more steps and faces the old church across from the back entrance to the car park (is it the back or the front? He doesn't really know, but he doubts that it makes a difference. It's the back in his mind, and that's the important thing), and then stands still, listening to the sound of his own breathing and the noise of the snow falling (a thousand little prickles, quiet enough one by one but raising to a chorus thanks to their numbers). The church looks out of place, next to an apartment building built in the 1940s or some other decade lacking in architectural creativity, a cookie-cutter that looks like his own building and the one next door, and the one next door. The church belongs in better surroundings, he thinks, and before he knows it his mind is back on Oxford and the cathedrals there.

Those had been in place, he thinks to himself. Immediately he laughs, out loud in the silence-that-isn't-quite-a-silence, at his own pretension. He sounds like a New Yorker, unable to think of anything but how much better his home is than here. The laughter dies down, and he wonders if anyone heard him echoing down the streets; perhaps they wondered what the hell was so funny that someone would laugh like that, out in public.

Hastening to leave the scene of his crime, he walks back across his apartment building's front and turns down another cleared road. The sidewalks remain unclear, a fact that continues to delight instead of vex (as he's sure someone must be vexed, after all you could slip and hurt yourself—a quick trip backwards and then your head's ringing and the world gets fuzzy, all the while snow falls quickly to cover your embarrassment) and he sees a young girl making a pile of snow on the sidewalk, which delights him. The girl is watched by her father, who is clearing off the front steps of their house and doesn't seem to mind his daughter blocking traffic. He sees the father watch him as he approaches, wondering if this figure is here to yell at his daughter for being a nuisance, ready to defend her actions (she's just a kid having fun, don't they remember having fun?) but the figure only grins with an amused expression and deftly steps around both child and pile, giving a friendly nod as he does so.

An older woman (old enough to be responsible) crouches behind hedges, packing a snowball while her (brother? Lover?) watches from the doorway, she in a pink coat and hat and gloves, he unprepared for the cold outside but uncaring of the fact. As she packs her snowball, her acquaintance secretly makes one of his own and fires the first shot, and the two are laughing and now he's out of the doorway, dashing through the front yard, scooping and throwing while she retaliates. He walks between the two, ducking a flying snowball as he does so, feeling more and more amused by the day as it goes on, watching the two friends battle it out in the frozen quiet.

Another side street presents itself and he heads down it, relishing the sound of a passing car on the snow covered surface, a quiet rumble that sounds not at all like the loud splashing of a car on a wet street. There's a tree here with all of its leaves still clinging to the branches, and he stops again and listens to the snow falling through the tree's branches, different than the snow in the car park—a sharper, crackly sound as dead leaves receive frozen company. He listens to this for some time, remembering earlier winters when he'd ski with his brother, and even earlier winters with fancy steerable sleds and a massive hill outside a hospital (you can't go down the hill now, they planted hedges to keep the children off and avoid lawsuits. It's a shame, he thinks, that adults bitching at one another has ruined something that was once fun and innocent, ramping sleds, trying to make it to the shores of the pond there (less a pond, more a glorified puddle), then jumping off to leave the sled on its suicide course to a watery grave (though it never made it all the way)). Or his friend's house, which had a slope down to a creek bed, where they'd gleefully crash their sleds, riding them down onto the rocks below, later taping themselves so they could watch the crashes inside with hot chocolate.

He sees larger flakes falling now, and wishes that he could freeze the moment, package it, bring it back to show everyone else—but even his camera is not up to the task, unable to take in the snow and the scenery itself. He tries a shot anyway, but he can't quite get it to work out like he wanted it to (he's alone on the street, the noise of drawing his camera out echoing, drowning out briefly the sound of the snowfall, the electronic click of the shutter shatters the stillness, pieces it together again, and displays it for him to review). He's given it his best shot, and continues walking.

Strains of some classical piece drift across the stillness, and he's surprised to see that someone's got a window open. A kindred spirit, it seems (he keeps a bedroom window cracked, preferring the cold to being overly warm). The music fades as he continues to walk, replaced by a high, jaunty whistling that echoes up and down the streets. The neighborhood is coming back to life, it seems, shaking itself out of a frozen slumber. He's disappointed, but the tune is lighthearted and completely unfamiliar, so he sets out in the direction he thinks its coming from to find the source.

The source is an old man in a coat, head down, walking down the street toward him (perhaps doing the same thing as he, enjoying the weather). He nods at the old man, wishes him a good morning, and the two pass one another without further comment—small talk would ruin it, the old man must whistle, and he must continue to walk.

A pristine driveway, devoid of tire tracks or indeed even a car, looms to his right and he stares down it, beyond it, over the garage and all the way to everything that comes behind the garage, trees and houses and more snow. It seems like a pathway to a different world, a portal begging to be stepped through, the way to a land of pristine beauty. He does not step on the driveway, unwilling to spoil the view—it will be spoiled soon enough, he thinks, but for now it has to last as long as it can. For now, it remains unsullied.

The snowfall's slackened and so he turns to his apartment, beginning the walk back and that's when he notices that he's surprisingly warm. He briefly worries about hypothermia setting in, but realizes that it's merely a matter of being used to the temperatures. He was born for this weather, put on the planet to enjoy the cold and the snow, and as he brings his hand to stroke his chin he finally notices that his beard has frozen. Snow has caked his coat and his face and his hat, but he remains warm, relishing the feeling of frosted hair.

Just as he reaches his apartment it begins to snow harder, and he pauses, considers going back out—but no, the rest of the world has finally shaken itself awake. The stillness is gone, and he must go with it. He'd had his time with the world to himself, and it is time to share it again.

He goes back inside.

Thought I'd forgotten about you, eh?

Oh no, ladies and gents! I didn't forget about you at all!

I have, however, been really, really busy lately. So here: I present to you the first three chapters of my recent NaNo attempt. That's right.

Prologue

Whenever someone sits down to write a book it is with an idea in mind of one sort or another, and even though he (being someone) may sit down with the idea of the next Great American Novel in mind, he shall be hard pressed to do anything without a title to his future masterpiece. It is the title which the author fears the most, for it is never something which comes easy—and with no title, how is the author to claim the work as his own? Surely not by pointing to it and saying “This is my book and I wrote it,” because “my book” is a poor title for a story and really, it shan't be of any use to him on account of some other bloke being able to say the same thing.

“Why sir,” I hear you say, “The author need merely to append his name and the date to his book and this shall most assuredly solve the problem.”

Indeed it might, good lady, but then what good is the author's name on something that has no title? The book must be able to be referred to with a pithy name—something like “The Black Cat 'pon my Keyboard” by such-and-such. Books, like land, require titles for ownership to be established—and the real power of a title is the power it gives the author to name his book any old thing so long as he is the one who knows what it means. It helps if the title has nothing whatsoever to do with the book, because then the author can be assured that he will be the only one who knows that “The Black Cat 'pon my Keyboard” means that whilst the author was writing his brilliant introduction to his brilliant book the cat jumped on his desk and proceeded to attempt to write the book for the author.

Incidentally, the name of this book will have nothing to do with black cats of any sort, even though they have seen fit to place themselves upon the keyboard.

This book does not currently even have a title, as I haven't decided whether or not it is the sort of thing I'd like to claim ownership of—being unwritten, I may decide that it is no good, and toss it out of a window once I figure out the logistics of tossing a piece of data out a window. Perhaps I shall print it out first, though as I've no printer handy I think it might be a difficult task. Most assuredly I could copy the whole thing down in a notebook and then throw it out (I have both a notebook and a pen handy), but that is more effort than I am currently willing to spend on acts of violence against my own literature.

A warning: Being largely a novel written by the seat of my trousers (though as the weather is not hot today I am wearing shorts instead of trousers) I daresay that currently I make no claim as to the coherency of the novel or it making any sense. As things often do, it is merely an idea which I am (for one reason or another) attempting to give vibrancy and life, which we can promptly disregard once the actual thing gets moving. I should also warn you that there may be bits of the book which have offensive bits in them (mostly discussions on beards, noses, and button-holes which I may or may not seek to include) which the discerning reader will perhaps wish to pass over in the hopes that their virtue will not be sullied by something as uncouth as will be seen (possibly) in the book.

That's too bad, really. I personally look forward to the naughty bits (especially the discussion of button-holes, which Sterne may have been to cowardly to include, but I shall not fear), but then again they may not happen and then you'd have put down this lovely novel for nothing; this would not only cause no small amount of embarrassment on your part for acting too impulsively, but you might also be stricken with the desire not to purchase the book, and then I should be out of a job (or at least money for the bus).

Perhaps that is enough speaking for now, but I should remind you that I, and only I, know the title of the book's origin and meaning. So don't forget this is all mine.

Chapter 1

Every good story starts in the beginning, but a truly impressive story can skip right to the end and then go from there.

“One day,” Marvin said, throwing an arm around Laura's shoulder and giving her a kiss, “You're going to have to tell me where you found that rubber chicken.”

Laura laughed, a real honest-to-God laugh that rebounded through the ruins of the castle and echoed through the mountainside. “Why, I always had the chicken. I told you that years ago, but you never believed me.”

The two heroes wound their way through the ruined doorway and were surprised to see the wizened old face of the Wizard peering out from the backseat of Marvin's car.

“I don't suppose you could give me a ride into town, could you?”

“Isn't that how this all started?” Marvin said, in a manner that was by no means contrived to give the author an excuse to go back to the beginning of the story.

“I don't remember, actually.” The Wizard said. “I'm afraid that last fight caused a bit of damage to the old noggin. Everything before the last couple of weeks has gone a bit foggy.”

“Well,” Laura said, giving a stretch as she settled into the passenger seat, “I don't suppose it was that important anyway.”

Chapter 2

The sound of an alarm so early in the morning was highly confusing to Marvin, mostly as he didn't have any reason to be awake in the mornings, choosing instead the route of waking up 'at some point,' which usually was around eleven. It was a good system, made better by the freedom it gave Marvin to do things such as staying up all night fooling around with his girlfriend.

Something about that train of thought poked at the back of his mind, and Marvin became aware that he was far from being alone in his bed. In fact, the bed was being shared with the aforementioned girlfriend, who Marvin supposed he must have spent all of the previous night fooling around with. He was partially accurate in his assessment (in reality, they'd watched a movie and fallen asleep).

The mystery of the alarm solved itself with surprising speed.

Chili Fries

I have no idea where this one came from, other than the fact that I was sitting in the Smokehouse (which is the restaurant) and actually had just about this entire experience. Having just flipped through some of The Sound and the Fury in a vain attempt to study for my midterm, it inspired this little foray into things.

For the most part, this story is as true as anything else I write.

Chili Fries

It occurs to him that he is hungry, so he turns around and heads for a crosswalk. He could jaywalk but it doesn’t occur to him to go back for food until he’s already passed the restaurant so he walks in a circle. Maybe someone saw him and thought it was a silly thing to do but he’d just tell them that he was being a law-abiding citizen.

The restaurant’s empty except for the cook in the kitchen so he puts his bag down in a seat and waits until the owner gets back, then orders his food and a drink and sits down. Some song that he’s never heard of but sounds like a remix of Stayin’ Alive comes through the speakers and he frowns in annoyance because really did someone need to make a bad song worse by rapping over it?

Oxford intrudes upon his thoughts (not for the first time) and he remembers going to the little diner for breakfast all by himself in the mornings when he woke up feeling like death because of the night before and the Greek behind the counter would yell at his wife and she’d yell back and the food was greasy and life-giving. Then he thinks about the woman in the café that sat across from him and he thought he knew her, he did, so he’d asked “Do I know you?”

She seemed surprised to be spoken to beyond a request for the salt but she gave the question some thought and replied. “I don’t think so.”

“You look dreadfully familiar.” He says by way of apology and wonders if maybe it’s the glasses or the hair that did it but she looks like someone he’s written before and that confuses him terribly.

A group of high schoolers spills into the restaurant and one of them asks if they can sit in the seat where he put his bag. He shrugs and starts to move the bag but the girl suddenly seems shocked at her own boldness and withdraws. “In a New York Mood” drifts over through the speakers and he wonders if he’s ever been in a New York mood beyond his sister’s wedding before he went to college and they played “New York, New York” and he was drunk and the family formed a kickline and danced around.

“Where are you from?” he asks and wonders whether or not it’s just the hangover that’s making him this outgoing.

He doesn’t remember what she said but he remembers that it was a region to the north of them. “I’ve been here for the last five years.” She says with a grin. “Found a job out of school.”

He’s surprised because she doesn’t look that old to him but he nods sagely. “Well then we couldn’t have met before, because I only just got here a few months ago. I’m from the States.” He’s always liked the phrase “the States” because it’s so short and easy to say plus it doesn’t imply that they all agree (and he knows they don’t).

His gaze flicks up to the television and there’s a man setting himself on fire, but he’s wearing a fireproof suit so it’s okay. Jeff Gordon advertises Jeff Gordon’s racing career and he catches a comment from one of the highschoolers about needing a dollar in quarters and for a second his hand goes to his pocket but he has no change so he goes back to eating and watching the man set himself on fire.

A boy comes in and all the girls raise a ruckus over him because somebody said he liked somebody else and he denies it. In that moment it’s obvious that he likes the girl who’s teasing him the most but she’s completely oblivious to the boy’s awkward advances and he wants to give the boy a reassuring pat and tell him that it’s okay, she’s probably a bitch anyway but he doesn’t because that would be rude.

“Perhaps time travel’s involved.” She says, winking at him. He blinks, confused (that was supposed to be his line, wasn’t it?) for a moment but then he smiles a broad grin and admits that it’s a possibility.

“You haven’t time traveled, have you?” He asks idly, secretly hoping that she’ll nod and they’ll have an adventure.

“I’m afraid not,” she admits, and then he realizes that he finished his bacon and eggs and tea and really he should stop wasting her time but then she says “have you?” and he’s got to stick around just for a little while longer, just to answer her.

His fries are gone, and the highschoolers are all trying to pay for their food, rooting around in purses and pockets for spare change while a nondescript pop-rock song plays and he grabs another drink and waits and waits and waits. There’s another man in there with him and he can almost feel the man’s hatred of these children in his way, in his restaurant and the urge to tell the man that he really needs to relax and take life as it comes seizes him but what does he know anyway? It’s not worth offending anyone over.

The girl who asked if she could sit at his seat shies away from him as he approaches the counter to pay and he’s confused, because he’s never thought himself to be particularly menacing but he seems to come off that way despite his best efforts. He wonders if everyone’s always going to shy away from him but he knows that’s not true because the girl in the café hadn’t.

He’s not sure how long it’s been since he came in but his watch is back in the States to be repaired and he’s forgotten to wear the replacement he bought—but the wall clock tells him he’s got to get moving only he doesn’t want to, because he’s got something here and the worst thing that could happen would be for it to stop too soon.

But of course he gets up and makes a bow to her, saying that it was nice meeting her. “We should do this again sometime,” he jokes, and as he’s turning to leave he hears her say “Yes, we really should” and the world seems a little brighter as he steps out into the crisp winter air and heads to the college, feeling a slight pang of regret that he’d never found out her name nor told her his own—but maybe they’d run into one another again sometime soon (but they didn’t, he recalls—and maybe that was a good thing, because after a moment like that it’s really hard to top it).

The man takes his money (the smallness of the bills still seems odd to him, he’d gotten used to the almighty pound) and gives change back, and the highschoolers are gone and now he’s gone too, out the door and halfway down the street, thinking about Oxford.

The (Real) end of Troilus and Criseyde

This was (honest!) an answer I gave for the final exam of my freshman year Chaucer class.

I don't remember what the question was, but obviously that's not important.

Troilus and Criseyde: The Lost Chapter

Author’s Note: While researching the Chaucerian work Troilus and Criseyde, I was astounded to stumble across the account of the events of the work as told by the Roman historian Lollius. To my delight, there was an epilogue to the work which Chaucer left out of his story, and it is with great pride I present to you the final chapter of Troilus and Criseyde, as translated by me. Sadly my skills as a poet are lacking, therefore I have been forced to revert to prose, though I have done my best to capture the original intent of the author.

There are a variety of ways to end a story, and with one so tragic as the tale of Troilus and Criseyde, the author has decided to end with a brief rendition of an encounter that took place shortly after Troilus’ death. It begins, oddly enough, with a simple enough setup, more common than even “Once upon a time”:

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Three Trojans and a Greek walk into a bar. The Greek was, of course Diomede, who had decided to stop in for a post-battle drink. With him was the fair Criseyde, who was good-looking as long as the lighting was dim. The second Trojan was Pandarus, who had snuck out of Troy in order to see his niece again and invite her to Neverland Ranch, to use a colloquialism. The third Trojan was the recently reanimated corpse of Troilus, who had staggered away from the field of battle a few hours after being slain by Achilles and wanted among other things brains and a strong drink to cleanse the palette afterwards.

Criseyde was surprised to see Pandarus in the bar, and substantially more amazed to see her former lover shamble into the bar as well. There was a rather awkward silence, broken by a nervous cough from Diomede. He knew full well who Troilus was, and had heard that Troilus was determined to kill him, and he figured the victory dance around Troilus’ fallen corpse earlier in the day wasn’t earning him any points either.

“So,” Diomede said, swallowing hard and doing his best not to run away screaming, “What brings you two to our humble abode?”

“Well,” Pandarus answered, secretly glad that someone had broken the silence, “I’m just here to see my beloved niece. I got special permission from king Priam himself to come out here and visit!”

“Mrauugh.” Troilus said, which meant something along the lines of, “I’m dead and have nothing better to do. I daresay I should not be allowed back within the walls of Troy, they would doubtless think me a cruel joke. Also, I hunger for brains, perhaps the ones inside your tiny skulls. They are like fleshy acorns to me.”

“Fascinating.” Diomede said, for lack of anything better to say.

“Troilus, my love, are you alright? I never really loved Diomede anyway, I’m so happy to see you again my heart’s sweetness!” Criseyde had finally regained the power to speak acted immediately to attempt to placate the undead being standing in front of her. Diomede looked hurt for all of a few seconds, then shrugged it off.

Well, that didn’t last long. Oh well, it’s not like there won’t be plenty of ladies waiting for me on my return to Greece once this war’s over. Diomede thought to himself, it’s not like I have any real obligations to Criseyde anyway. That’s just what you have to say to get a woman in this damn country. Hah! Courtly love. What a quaint concept.

“Mrauugh.” Troilus replied to Criseyde’s comment, which meant something along the lines of “Ha! Like I’m going to buy that line. I swore unending devotion to you, agreed to keep your honor safe no matter what, and here you jump ship as soon as I show back up? Love’s about being willing to die for one another, not wearing it like a hat and taking it off when it gets too hot. We had a great traditional love, and I was ready to sacrifice everything! Additionally, could you move out of the light? The joined eyebrow thing is starting to creep me out. Oh, and I could really go for some brains.”

Pandarus nodded emphatically. “Troilus is absolutely right! You should run away with him! It would be really, really cool, I promise. I’ve got a secret hideaway where you could go, and it would be just fantastic to see you kids getting along again, especially after how long it took me to—that is, after all you two have been through.” Pandarus didn’t feel too inclined to rekindle the former romance, but he figured the best way to get out of the bar with his brains intact was to try picking back up the game where he left off. The whole concept of this courtly love was something of a novelty to Pandarus; it provided a great way to manipulate people. Dance, puppets! Dance!

“Mrauuugh.” Troilus responded, which meant something along the lines of “Actually Pandarus, I think it would be rather silly to try picking up with Criseyde where I left off. Firstly, I’m dead now, which would make intercourse a disaster. Secondly, I’m pretty sure she and I weren’t on the same page when it came to courtly love anyway. The relationship was pretty much doomed. Oh, did I mention I seem to be able to read minds? I think it’s a side effect of wanting to eat your delicious brains.”

The author will not go any further with the events of that fateful meeting. Suffice it to say that Troilus shambled out of the bar a few hours later wiping his mouth and carrying a drink with him to cleanse his palette.

Another one for the Scrapheap

Every so often I am forced to look at a story, take a deep breath, and admit that a story is just not going to sell unless I make some serious changes to it.

The problem being, of course, that most of the time I am very reluctant to make changes to my stuff, because I am just pretentious enough to think that my writing stands well enough as it is. So, I give a sigh and consign yet another effort to the scrapheap, where it'll sit until the End of Days. After writing this particular story, editing it, submitting it, getting rejected, editing it some more, making some major plot changes, submitting it again, and getting rejected again, this particular story is now in scrapheap country. I still like it, but then again I've always had a soft spot for Celtic mythology so that's rather to be expected.

So here it is, for you to read--I still think it's a good story that's worth reading, but clearly nobody is willing to pay for it so I might as well make it free.

One Thousand Years Later

The coast of Scotland had changed very little, which was not a fact that really surprised anyone at all. Sure, there was a ferry now. And yes, there was an airport to the south—but the landscape itself? Very little had altered its appearance in the last thousand years. Perhaps a little erosion here and there, but on the whole, here was a coastline that one could still recognize—assuming one was a thousand years old and spent a lot of time watching the Scottish coast.

The tide came and went, came and went, and then for a change came and went. Had there been anyone with the sort of free time to watch the ocean sweep up the beach and retreat in a ceaseless dance, that same incredibly bored person would have suddenly noticed a curious event taking place late one evening. The water came up, but this time upon its retreat there was a figure left on the shore. Not just any figure, mind you (not that our observer would know (and he wouldn't (and he doesn't exist anyway)); this was a special sort of figure. As far as figures go, it looked rather bedraggled, and rather small by modern standards. It was an old thing that didn't look old.

It took a few minutes before the figure moved, painfully pulling itself into a sitting position. It coughed, and then the cough turned into laughter, and then the laughter turned into a choked sob, and the sob turned back into a cough, and the process repeated itself. It took about twenty minutes for the figure to finish coughing and laughing and sobbing, and having finished, decided to stand. It managed to stand (though, it admitted to itself, it could have gone a lot better) and revealed itself to be a woman, one who wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep the wind from blowing through clothing that was surprisingly dry for having been washed up from the sea not twenty minutes ago.

She shivered. Things looked vaguely familiar, but that was only because he'd consented to bring drawings (and later, pictures) back with him when he went out traveling. She'd stayed behind, polishing the throne. And after that, the doors, and after that there had been the sweeping to do, and then dinner to prepare. She shivered again, and this time it wasn't because of the cold. It felt like an eternity had passed, but she knew precisely how long it had been since she'd last stood on the shore, though she could remember precious little beyond that. Time had caused her mind to become cluttered, only the faintest memories of who she was remaining. She wasn't even certain that she'd originally come from this area anymore—but she could remember exactly what she'd done.

She knew that her pride had caused her downfall, had made her ignore...someone's warning. She frowned, trying to remember their names. It was not to be.

“Now what?” She wondered aloud, relishing the sound of her own voice for the first time in years. Yes, that was it. The last few years had been spent in total silence, just for a change. Just to stick it to him. It was one of many little rebellions she'd had, though in her opinion this had probably been the best of the lot. Burning the food just meant she'd have to eat it. Not washing the floors meant she had to sleep on them—and as she was already sleeping on her bedroom floor to avoid sharing a bed, she preferred to keep them clean.

She realized she was thinking and not moving, and decided to remedy the situation. If her memory served her at all, there had been a church to the east, so she headed in that direction, hoping that she wouldn't be hit by any of those mechanical things she'd seen in pictures. Replacing horses...it didn't seem like a good idea to her, but then again the debate about whether or not it was a good idea had taken place a long time ago, and she hadn't had the chance to voice an opinion.

The church was still there, though it seemed deserted and significantly more ruined than the last time she'd seen it. It wasn't perfect, as far as a place to stay goes, but it would do until the morning. She reached into her pocket (she had pockets. Wearing anything that wasn't a dress still unnerved her, but she'd admit the pockets were convenient) and pulled out the wallet she'd been given as a parting gift. She hadn't even looked into it. Now, of course, it was too dark for any sort of investigation—the moon had decided to hide behind clouds, which led to a drizzle that she could hear on the roof. Very briefly, she missed having a home. Almost immediately, she reprimanded herself. That wasn't a home—it had been her prison for the last thousand years. This was her home, more or less. It merely remained to find her place in it.

This would, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, be more difficult than she'd like to admit.

~

The early morning sunlight streaming through the window caused a brief moment of confusion. She'd not seen the sun in a long time. The only thing she'd seen for centuries was torchlight, which had been rather easier on her eyes, she reflected. Briefly, she considered gouging her eyes out, then decided the smart thing to do would be to shade her eyes for the moment—maybe using those strange glasses she'd seen him wear once.

A thought struck her, and she felt in her other pockets for the object she hoped would be there. With a sound of delight, she pulled out the very same glasses, chuckling to herself. They had been her last act of rebellion before leaving—either he hadn't noticed she'd taken them or, more likely, he didn't care at this point. It occurred to her that she could probably feel gratitude toward him for everything he'd done to prepare her for her return, but a few years of being kind hardly made up for a thousand years of drudgery.

Her stomach growled and she realized that she was hungry. She had no idea what to do about her situation, mostly because after a certain point you simply get used to having the food appear in the kitchen. Another growl from her stomach motivated her to start walking. Hopefully a pub would be open (she hoped they still had pubs), where she could obtain something resembling breakfast. There wasn't much of anything to the north of her—just the ocean, so she headed south into what she hoped was town.

The town was not that impressive (where had the castle gone?), but she managed to find an inn that was serving breakfast, and using some of the money in the wallet, she managed to make it clear that she wanted food and was willing to pay. This was important, as her own language skills were not that sharp yet.

“Been on the beach, have yeh?” The innkeeper asked, as he brought her the long-awaited breakfast.

“Just got in this morning.” The response was delivered after a few bites of bacon had been taken.

“Oh, just this morning? That's odd, neither the ferry nor the airport's had anything come in. How'd you wind up here?”

“Swam.” This caused the innkeeper to chuckle.

“'course you did. Sorry, didn't mean to pry.”

“It's no trouble.” Well, it was, a bit. Speaking in this modern language took a lot of concentration, but at least she was getting practice. “I really did just get in this morning. I was dropped off by my... well, by my ex.” She'd heard the term used once before, and hoped it meant what she thought it did. It was satisfying to refer to him that way. Her ex. A thousand years summed up in one syllable. It was lovely.

“Well, I certainly hope you'll enjoy your stay here—have you got a place to stay?” It occurred to the innkeeper that he might be able to pick up some more business.

“Actually,” she said, pausing briefly to shovel more of her breakfast into her mouth, “I was thinking I needed a change of scenery. See what else there is out there—you know,” she made a vague gesture at the door leading outside, “see the world. What's the best way to get somewhere far away from here?”

Disappointed that he wasn't going to get any more of the woman's money, but still happy to help, the innkeeper pointed in the general direction of the airport. “Your best bet would be to fly out. You can get anywhere by air travel these days.”

“Air travel?” Ah yes, she'd forgotten. They'd learned how to fly about a hundred years ago, hadn't they? Shortly thereafter, she reflected, they'd learned how to kill one another with terrifying effectiveness (still, she'd seen battle, as a child. Lifetimes ago, it seemed (and it was)). “Oh yes, I...hadn't thought of that.”

What an odd person this guest seemed to be, the innkeeper reflected as he cleared away the dishes from the table. She looked rather young, but she carried herself like an adult. It was her eyes, he reflected, that really gave him pause. Blue eyes that showed an incredible age; the innkeeper's mother had reached one hundred years of age, and even her eyes had not carried that look in them. The vigor and interest in the eyes at their surroundings, however, seemed to the innkeeper to reflect taking everything in for the first time. It was an unnerving combination of looks, and so shortly after the woman had left, he'd done the sensible thing and forgotten all about it. It was just as well, because she was never seen on the island again. A trip to the airport saw to that.

~

It was two years later, in New York City, when he tracked her down again, just to see how she was doing. She was working as a bartender in Brooklyn, and doing fairly well for herself—'well' in this case meaning that she was able to afford rent on the small studio apartment not far off from her place of employment. It hadn't taken long for her to realize that the British Isles were too small for her—she needed to be somewhere with more space, and more importantly, somewhere where her heavy accent wouldn't go questioned. The dialect here was even further removed from what she'd initially been prepared for, but at least here it was expected that she'd have trouble with the language. Any misunderstandings could be laughed away with the simple knowledge that she was not from around here; she'd even stopped telling people she was from Scotland, settling for the more mysterious and unspecific “a long way away.”

He very nearly didn't recognize her when first he walked through the door; her hair was short now, and she wore a simple shirt with the logo of a local band and a pair of jeans. She looked far from the princess he'd had as a servant girl for a millennium. She, on the other hand, had no trouble recognizing him. He didn't change, still walking with that kingly air to him, as if he were some aristocrat rather than a beast lurking in an underwater palace.

“Of all the bars in all the cities in all the world, you walked into mine.”

“Using their quotes, are you?” He snorted, shortly before coughing. “And how are you today, my dear Faoineis?”

“S'not my name anymore.” Faoineis replied, a bit testily, “I changed it to Sarah Jane. Nice, normal name. The ID you gave me changed to reflect that, see?” Sarah/Faoineis reached into her pocket and pulled out her wallet, displaying the aforementioned card.

“Took another name, eh? What an interesting ability you humans possess. I cannot change my name, you know.”

“Yes, I know. You've told me before that your people have only the names humanity gave you.” Sarah seemed rather uninterested in the conversation. “Of course, if I said your name now, it would be disastrous, wouldn't it? Everyone would see what you are, wouldn't they?”

A frown crossed the man's face. “You wouldn't honestly do that, would you? After all I've done for you?”

“No, I won't do it—but it's not because of anything you've done. Can't have a horse running around in the bar, it'll cause a scene and may lose me my job. So for now, I'm going to call you Jeffery. Sound like a plan, Jefferey?”

Jefferey/the Kelpie snorted, and, if he'd still had his hooves, he would have stamped at the ground in an annoyed manner. As it was, he merely nodded approval of the situation and desperately searched for something else to talk about. “You seem to be doing well.”

“Beats polishing your throne.” It wasn't that she'd rehearsed the conversation a million times in her mind that caused the reply to come so quickly—it was the tone in his voice as he spoke. Sarah fancied he was looking down on what she'd accomplished, trying to make her believe that somehow a life in his palace was better. This was, to use a colloquialism from her new home, full of shit.

The Kelpie, for his part, was rather disappointed to see what she'd made of herself. He had been hoping to find her begging to come back, mostly because the world had changed too much in the past thousand years. You couldn't just find a gullible maiden willing to come to your palace and live with you anymore; the women seemed to be far more independent and unwilling to go somewhere sight unseen. This would not have been a problem, except for the fact that he couldn't technically lie. If they asked the right questions, he'd have to give them the answer—and women, it seemed, had gotten good at asking the right questions.

“Anyhow, what are you doing all the way out here? I didn't think your domain extended all the way across the oceans.” What Sarah didn't know yet was that she was damn lucky the Kelpie's domain did extend this far—she was part of their stories now, and if they were ever forgotten here, she'd have to move on, find somewhere else they were remembered. This would not strike her as a good situation; she liked it in the city. She liked the people and the noise and the fact that she was allowed to make her own way. She also liked one of the regulars, a girl who was about as old as Sarah looked and shared a disillusionment with the opposite sex—the two talked often, but nothing more than that (much to Sarah's frustration).

“Ah, but I am talked about here. There are some who remember me, and while they may not believe in me, they'd know who I am.” A note of pride was in the Kelpie's voice. “I'm in their schools, and some students wonder what it would be like to meet me. That's enough.”

Sarah failed to feign any sense of being impressed. “Well, there's one mystery solved. Now why the hell are you here? I don't recall asking you to track me down.”

Here the Kelpie hemmed and hawed. It was not certain that it wanted to admit that it missed her, so it settled for “Oh, you know. Just checking up on you, that's all.”

“Well, you've checked.” By this point, she just wanted him out. He may have missed her, but the feeling was far from mutual. “Anything else you came here for?”

“Yes, um, well.” The sight of the Kelpie fidgeting nervously brought a feeling of satisfaction to Sarah. It was nice—refreshing, almost—to see the roles reversed. “I don't suppose you have any questions about how things work?”

“Just one question: Do I age, now?” The expression of discomfort that flitted across the Kelpie's face confirmed what Sarah had feared. “I don't, do I?”

“You're a creature of myth, now.” The Kelpie admitted. “You'll grow old and die, yes, but as soon as you die here you'll pop up again on the shore, ready to do it all again. This will be the case until our stories are completely forgotten.”

“I'm one of the stories?” This was a lot to take in. “Am I even human now?”

“More or less. You're a mythical human. You're just like everyone else—a little harder to kill, maybe, but human to the core. But you're also a part of a cautionary tale against the perils of vanity. You've learned the lesson—but others have not. Your story—our story—helps others to learn their lesson.”

Sarah gestured to a man standing at the other end of the bar, and made it clear through motions that she was going to take a quick break. Walking outside, she stared up at the night sky and lit a cigarette. Exhaling slowly, she tried to wrap her head around what she'd just been told. She didn't notice the Kelpie had followed her out until he spoke again.

“I'm sorry about this.”

“Bit late for apologies.” Sarah concentrated on keeping herself calm. It wouldn't do to scream and shout—as she'd eventually realized during her imprisonment, what's done was done. “Could be worse, I suppose.”

“Eventually,” The Kelpie said, attempting to provide some solace, “they'll forget about us. Look what happened to Lugh. He's a completely different person now.”

“So eventually, I'll get to die, and go to the Otherworld, or wherever we go now, eh?” A bitter smile played across Sarah's lips. “I've traded one prison for another, is that what you're trying to say?”

“You could always come back.” The statement hung uncomfortably in the air, followed by the sound of air leaving the Kelpie's lungs as Sarah's fist slammed into his stomach.

“Get out of here, Jefferey, before I say your true name.” Sarah's eyes blazed with anger. “I'll take my freedom to do what I will here, and I'll keep coming back again until I'm forgotten. Find another girl, or try men on for size if you want—they've probably gotten easier to grab than us by now anyway. I don't care what you do, so long as you stay the hell away from me and mine.”

“You and yours?” Jefferey laughed, his annoyance at her defiance getting the better of his tact. “You don't have a 'yours!' You're all alone here, a fish out of water! You'll make mistakes and suffer here; and when things get as bad as they can you'll have to come back and do it all over again.”

“Sounds fun.” Sarah smirked. “I'll take it. Now get out of here, Kelpie.”

The handsome man was gone. In its place was a terrifying specter of a horse, with seaweed in its mane. It reared back, and made off like a shot for the shore. Sarah crushed her cigarette beneath her shoe and walked back into the bar. That night, she asked the girl if she'd like to go out for coffee the next day.

~

It had been fifty years. A woman found herself on the beach, washed up by the sea but oddly dry. She stood up, brushed the sand off of her pants, checked her wallet, and walked back into the city. Maybe this time she'd go to Norway. She heard that some of the Norse were still running around—Thor apparently threw some good parties. A tune not heard in over a thousand years came into her mind, and Faoineis whistled as she made her way down the streets, idly wondering whether or not she'd be able to get her job as a bartender back.

More stuff we've seen before

Thought I'd throw up the first part of Mountain Lightning as well, because honestly if there's one thing that I keep picking away at idly, it's Mountain Lightning.

I'll post the other parts of it as the days go by--it would be a shame to blow through all my material in one day, don't you think? I do, anyway.

Here then is Mountain Lightning, which is a lovely little continuing story that I have a vague idea of where it'll go and so it has as much of a chance of being completed as any other long project of mine--that is to say, 'not much but who knows.'

Mountain Lightning VS Dr. Thunder

Phase One: Introductions

The rainfall on the pavement rose up in clouds of steam, the baked asphalt boiling the water as soon as it struck pavement, giving alleyways a decidedly otherworldly look as Kathy Sullivan made her way back to her apartment. She was nervous, partially because it was night out and partially because she'd foolishly believed that a trip down the alley was a good shortcut. It didn't matter, she was close to the other side now, and it wasn't like there was anyone else in the alley, despite what her overactive imagination was telling her.

The human instinct is sometimes called a sixth sense, able to tell when something bad is about to happen. The only problem is that instinct assumes that you'll pay attention to it, which Kathy, being of a modern frame of mind, failed to do on a frighteningly regular basis. A series of lucky breaks where her instinct had been wrong had regrettably caused her to believe that the churning in the pit of her stomach was in fact just her imagination getting away with her, when in reality it was trying to warn her of the two men standing next to a dumpster, shrouded in the mist.

Poor Kathy! She'd only been in the narrative for a few paragraphs and here she was, about to walk into a trap! Well, to call it a trap would be less than accurate—hunting ground was a more accurate phraseology, and the two men were hunters. In the urban jungle, to use a disgustingly common turn of phrase, the hunters had to wait for prey to wander into their territory, preferably prey that was stupid and didn't listen to their instincts. Prey like Kathy, who had been on the planet for about thirty-five years and had never been in this sort of situation before—though she had seen such situations on television. They usually ended with the girl either being discovered the next day for the intrepid Crime Scene Investigators to avenge, or the superhero would intervene.

To the knowledge of the two hunters (and to Kathy), this was not a world of superheroes. At least, not in their city. So when Kathy walked by the dumpster, the two men didn't even bother being polite about it. At least one of them hadn't been laid in a month, plus he needed money, plus he was for all intents and purposes a slightly deranged individual. Arms shot out and dragged Kathy into the alcove, muffling her screams and holding a knife to her throat.

“Quiet you fucking bitch! You try to struggle and I'll cut the shit out of you!”

Kathy, who was understandably shocked, failed to realize the gravity of the situation. “But aren't you going to cut the proverbial shit out of me anyway?”

The second man gave his partner a significant look. “She's right, you know. It sort of renders the whole threat meaningless and gives her no reason to cooperate.”

“Ah,” the first one replied, “But humans will latch on to any hope of survival, however slight. Therefore, I am wagering that she will prefer to die a few minutes later rather than right now.” To prove his point, he pressed the tip of his knife into Kathy's throat. Kathy whimpered and went still.

“I see. How fascinating.” The second man raised his eyebrows, impressed.

Kathy found the whole thing rather odd. “Aren't you two a little too well spoken to be assaulting women in an alley?”

“Our choice of lifestyle is none of your concern.” The first said, tensing slightly. Kathy felt an uncomfortable lump begin to dig into her back and hoped to God that the first just had a gun in his pocket. “Now, you would be well advised, young lady, hand your purse over to my friend over there. Your cooperation ensures that you'll live a little longer, and increases the chances of someone coming along to rescue you. I know you want to survive, so I think you'll comply.”

Kathy pouted. She didn't like being manipulated, and this was essentially manipulation. “This isn't very fair, me having to rely on an external force for salvation.” She held out her bag.

“Should've taken a self-defense class.” The second man said, and grabbed the purse.

“Now if you'll be so kind as to not struggle overmuch, I think I am going to rape you.” The first man said, and Kathy heard the one sound she was hoping to not have to hear that night—that of a man's fly being undone.

“Can we talk about this? Maybe discuss our likes and dislikes? Have some drinks?” Kathy joked, inappropriately. She was still in a state of shock, and the promise of certain death has a way of bringing out gallows humor.

“Are you serious?” The man holding on to her seemed to get angry. “I'm an emotionally stunted individual! If I were able to function in society I wouldn't be in an alley raping you!” He ripped her jeans down in a swift movement.

“Seriously, try talking to him for five minutes.” The second one snorted.

Kathy sighed. “I suppose you're going to rape me too?”

“Nah, I'm gay.” The second mugger said matter-of-factly.

“What? You never told me that before!” The first guy paused, his hand resting on the elastic band of Kathy's unmentionables.

“You never asked.” The second mugger retorted. “If we'd ever mugged a man, you'd have found out.”

“Don't tell me that's why you watch me—Oh man, I think I'm going to be sick! Turn your back or something, you're making me lose my will to perform!”

“You're such a child.” The second mugger groused, and turned around.

Kathy prepared to scream, in the hope that someone would hear. It wasn't until she felt the first mugger actually start sliding her panties down that she really started to become properly afraid. “Please, don't do this!” She sobbed.

If this were a television show, this is the point at which the scene would fade out, she thought. A homeless guy would find her body in the morning, probably shoved into the dumpster. Then the bad guys would be brought to justice, but she'd still be dead. Besides, this was the real world. She'd be found in the dumpster, but the bad guys would probably escape.

Kathy gave up. Her brain shut down, and she became a puppet. Fortunately for her (and for the author, who doesn't think he could write a rape scene without vomiting over his keyboard), while she wasn't in a television drama, she was in a world where superheroes existed. She just didn't know it yet.

So when the bolt of lightning fried the second guy to a crisp, Kathy was understandably shocked. She was also tossed into a wall along with her would-be rapist (and she had special satisfaction in thudding into him as he hit the wall), who rolled to one side, groaning. The second guy didn't do much beyond smoking slightly and falling over.

“What the fuck?” the first guy yelled, slightly dazed.

A shadowy figure stood on the edge of a rooftop, and started to make its way down the fire escape. “I want your friend to know that I didn't fry him because he was gay. I'm cool with people's sexual orientations, but he was aiding in a mugging, so I had to zap him. I would have zapped him regardless of orientation—be sure to tell him that when he gets up.”

Kathy had the presence of mind to pull her pants back up and back away from her attacker, though she was currently experiencing a cocktail of competing chemicals released by her brain in an attempt to cope with the situation. The first mugger stood up, woozily.

“I'll tell him I killed you, you fuck!”

“What an unoriginal insult.” Kathy thought to herself, and was surprised that she could think at all.

“What an unoriginal insult.” The shadowy figure said, continuing its trip down the fire escape. “You know, I'm going to have to invest in some sort of jet-pack or something. Walking around is such a drag, don't you think? Oh, sorry—you're going to have to not kill me.”

The shadowy figure held out an arm and lightning arced from his fingertips, rocketing the first mugger back into the wall. He held him there for a few seconds, and then dropped his hand. The first mugger, now sharing his friend's smoky appearance, slumped to the ground. The shadowy figure got to the final set of stairs and turned his attention to Kathy.

“Are you alright miss?”

“I have no idea.” Kathy replied honestly. “I mean, I was going to be raped and killed, but now there's a shadowy figure frying people with lightning and honestly I'm a bit confused about what I'm supposed to think about all of this. Especially the lightning part—I mean rape and murder, those are concepts I'm familiar with. Short of Star Wars, I don't think I've ever seen lightning come out of someone's fingertips before.”

“I'm not a shadowy figure, really.” The shadowy figure said in a slightly injured tone. “The lighting's just bad here. I've actually got a pretty neat looking costume. If you'd accompany me out of the alleyway, you might get a pretty good look at it.”

“What about these two?” Kathy said, confused.

“Oh hey, I hadn't thought of what to do next.” The shadowy figure paused at the top of the final stairway. “I don't suppose you have a cell phone, do you? Phone in the attack to the police and have them arrest these two.”

“What if they wake up before the police get here?”

“Hogtie 'em.” the shadowy figure said, hopping down the final steps. Now that he was in slightly better lighting, Kathy could see that he was in fact wearing a costume of sorts. Unfortunately he appeared to also be wearing a heavy raincoat that prevented her from seeing more than a lightning bolt superimposed on a mountain on the man's chest. “Use their belts.”

“I don't...I don't think I actually want to touch them at the moment.” Kathy said, backing up.

The shadowy figure frowned, and now Kathy could see that he was wearing a mask reminiscent of a ninja, or a bank robber. It looked black, but Kathy figured it might just as easily be a dark blue. “I guess I'll do it then. Sorry, I didn't know what I was thinking.”

“S'alright. I think I can overlook it considering you saved my life and all.”

“I guess I did, huh? Neat!” The shadowy figure set to work tying the two muggers up. “To be honest, you're my first DiD.”

“DiD? The heck's that supposed to mean?” Kathy asked, a little confused.

“Damsel in Distress.” The shadowy figure replied, as if that should have been obvious. “Yeah, I've been helping a lot of old ladies bring in their groceries and stuff, but I never managed to actually find any crime. I almost feel like I should give you a certificate or something.” Both muggers were now securely tied. “There, that ought to do it. Come on, we'll get to the main road and you can make the call to the cops. I'd call myself, but I don't want them knowing my phone number, heh.”

Kathy shook her head in wonder and followed the shadowy figure out. “You know, your costume would be a lot more effective if you weren't wearing a raincoat.”

“Yeah, but then it would get wet, and I don't want it to shrink.”

While Kathy made the phone call, the shadowy figure (who wasn't actually shadowy now that they were under a street lamp, Kathy judged him to be in his mid-twenties with a crop of blond hair cut short and green eyes that seemed to flick around the street, crinkled up with something that looked like amusement). “Yes, we're on 4^th next to the playhouse. Get here soon, please, I don't know how long they'll stay out. Yes, I'll stay on the line.” She looked at her rescuer again. “So who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Oh, wait, I've been practicing this.” The man held up his hand and backed up a few steps, then took a deep breath and struck a pose. “I'm Mountain Lightning, protector of the innocent!” A bolt of electricity arced from one hand to the next—it was at this time that Kathy realized he was wearing gloves—and he raised his eyebrows, gaging her reaction. “How was that?”

Kathy shrugged. “It's a bit cliché, don't you think?”

Mountain Lightning's shoulders slumped visibly. “A little, I guess. I never was very good at coming up with slogans or anything like that.”

“Well it did serve its purpose. I'm sure you'll come up with a better introduction as you go along.”

Mountain Lightning brightened. “Yeah, you're right!” He made a slight bow. “Well, I've got to get moving. Can't be around when the cops show up and all that—superhero code. Be safe!” Turning on his heel, he took off at a jog down the street, while Kathy privately thought that he should probably invest in a motorcycle or something.

While Mountain Lightning jogged down the street, congratulating himself on a successful first run in with the criminal element, something very different was going on across town. The cliché of the sinister figure working in a sinister workshop has been used at various times throughout history, but in this case there was actually a need for it. Firstly, the figure was planning to kill Mountain Lightning—ah, but that's not accurate—he was planning to kill Edward (Eddie to his friends) Carlsberg, who just happened to be Mountain Lightning. If the sinister figure would have known that Eddie was running around the city calling himself Mountain Lightning, it would have annoyed him greatly, as he'd taken the pseudonym of Dr. Thunder, and in all likelihood would accuse Carlsberg of copying his idea. At any rate, Dr. Thunder was plotting to kill someone, which is a sinister sort of thing, and would make the man a sinister figure. Secondly, the workshop was concealed in the back room of his apartment, which was poorly lit—making it a sinister workshop.

Currently, the sinister figure (that is, Dr. Thunder (or really, Charles T. Murphy (the T. stood for Thaddeus))) was bent over what looked like an aluminum trashcan. This is because it was an aluminum trashcan, albeit an aluminum trashcan with a lot of things that weren't trash crammed inside of it. In fact, the trashcan itself could be said to have been rendered unable to perform its primary function (that is, holding trash), what with the electronic components and the flaps for the deployment of various weaponry or limbs. The trashcan currently had a large cable running from it to a computer, which Dr. Thunder would occasionally walk over to in order to check some diagnostic output.

Dr. Thunder was by no means a small man, being at least six feet tall and broad across the shoulders. He wore a white lab coat that he'd stolen from his college's laboratory, because in his mind every evil genius needed a lab coat, and a pair of welder's goggles sat perched atop his spiky black hair. Most women would probably call him handsome, assuming that most women had a thing for evil geniuses who looked like they belonged at a World/Inferno Friendship Society concert rather than a sinister workshop. That was also assuming they didn't mind his propensity for muttering darkly to himself about revenge and world domination and so on and so forth.

He was, in fact, muttering to himself at that very moment, except it wasn't precisely to himself as he in fact seemed to be talking to the trash can. “Sorry you don't have a better body right now, but we'll fix that soon enough, won't we? Of course we will! How dare you doubt us! Why, we should just leave you switched off for such impudence! I'm just kidding, I couldn't stay mad at you, one more test and you'll be online.”

Fortunately for Dr. Thunder, nobody was around to hear him yammering to himself, and so by all accounts he was a normal enough individual. Something started flashing on the computer screen, which was apparently a good thing as it caused Dr. Thunder to become excited, and he clapped his hands happily. “See? We're all ready for the switch-over! Isn't that fantastic?” He made a few keystrokes and double clicked an icon marked “Evil robot startup utility.” There followed a few seconds of silence, then came the sound of tiny fans whirring to life. The trashcan shuddered and rolled forward on the set of wheels which Dr. Thunder had thoughtfully installed.

Almost immediately, the trashcan sprouted two arms and began waving them around in despair. “Why do I live? Oh Gods, why have you seen fit to make me alive? What is this world I find myself in?” Further questioning was cut off by an agonized howl.

“We'll have no more of that!” Dr. Thunder said in an annoyed tone. “I can hardly say I approve of such theatrics.”

The trashcan coughed apologetically. “Sorry, couldn't resist.”

“Well resist, dammit! You've been alive for a lot longer than this, and you know it. I programmed you in high school.”

“And only just got 'round to giving me a body, I might add.” The trashcan said sulkily. “Honestly Doctor, why did it take you so long?”

“The technology wasn't good enough, you know that. The amount of miniaturization I needed to be able to form your innards just wasn't up to snuff.”

“I know, I'm just yanking your chain, as you humans are wont to say. Nice to be a bit more mobile, I must say.” The trashcan replied brightly. “By the way, am I keeping my old name?”

“Don't see why not.” Dr. Thunder said, shrugging. “Unless you wanted to change it.”

“No, I rather like Theseus. Makes me seem more...mythological.” Theseus replied.

“Well, that's settled then.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Indeed.”

“Quite.”

“So....” Theseus said, a few moments later, “What's the plan?”

“I uh...don't actually...have...a plan.” It took some time for Dr. Thunder to say this, as he was feeling gradually more and more sheepish as time wore on. “One thing at a time, and all that.”

“We're still killing that Eddie kid, right?” The trashcan, if possible, would have raised an eyebrow suggestively.

“Yeah, that's always the main goal, you know? I figure it's probably a good thing to have goals.” Dr. Thunder responded.

“Even though the last attempt failed utterly?” Theseus said, gently.

“Well we can't all hit home runs our first time at bat, you know.” Dr. Thunder sniffed.

“That was a terrible metaphor. I don't think you ever played baseball.”

Dr. Thunder drew himself up to his full height, pointing dramatically at his creation. “Silence, my creation! I'll not have your insolence tolerated! Eddie Carlsberg shall die, yea, he shall die a thousand times over before I have drunk fully from my cup of vengeance! Nothing shall prevent the carrying out of my will!”

Theseus clapped approvingly. “Not a bad first speech, sir. Have you been practicing it?”

Dr. Thunder grinned appreciatively. “Why thank you Theseus, I have been. I thought the bit about not tolerating insolence was especially good.”

“I got shivers, sir.” Theseus replied.

“Oh, you're just saying that.”

Stuff We've Seen Before

Okay, so maybe this isn't the greatest thing to start with, but I'd like to put up some of the old before I go making the new. So here's the deal, kiddies: this evening, you get the story that is about as pretentious as I can get.

Later, we'll have less pretentious stuff. I intend to sort these by levels of pretentiousness (also stuff like the Mountain Lightning series will all be sorted that way as well)--a level which will be completely arbitrary and, for the most part, completely useless to you. More experimental stuff will have a higher pretension level than something more traditional.

I posted this a while back somewhere else, but I'm irrationally fond of it, so I'm making it the first non-announcement thing to be posted.

The Secret is In this Story

Aaron Poppleton

There's a secret to not dying did you know? Nobody can do it because of the trick involved but that's okay we aren't supposed to know the secret anyway. Look closely because otherwise you won't know the secret and then you won't even be able to try it will you—that would be completely worthless to both of us, and if there's one thing I hate. It's wasting time.

There was a man you see. He thought to himself that I do not want to die. So he made a decision, which is what you do. When you come to a conclusion, you decide whether or not you're going to do something about it. He wanted to do something about it. The dying thing. He didn't like the idea. So he went looking for the secret (which you don't know yet but you might later on).

Devil was useless, perhaps due to his nonexistence. But that might not have been a problem. Maybe it was, though. Either way it didn't help the man at all. He wasted his time, the silly thing. With looking to Devils. Probably it was a silly idea anyway. The man went on, because that's what you do. On quests. For immortality (which is what the secret deals with, you know. Of course you do (no secret yet)).

Books are a good start he thought. Perhaps he should have started with them but he didn't. Which was silly, but he knew that now. The library didn't have anything under 'immortality.' Frustrating but creativity is important. The man knew creativity somewhat he supposed that it was a good place to start. Even though it wasn't where he started (planning would have helped him out more I think). Libraries have the secret but they don't tell you that.

There was nothing for it. A lack of immortality section in the library made it necessary to reeval56h666666g

'yBV “? First he had to feed the cat (cats know but they don't want to tell you. They also don't use it, because they don't mind). Then reevaluate his plan. Fiction seemed a good jumping off point. Secrets usually hide in fiction when they don't want you to know them.

So he read a lot of books (maybe too many but you can never read too many).

The secret was in front of him but he didn't know what it was yet. He didn't know because he was looking to hard.

The secret is to not look hard because otherwise you won't find it.

He didn't know but any fiction has the secret (and you know more than him now). Have you found it yet? No, it eludes me still. I guess you'll die like the rest of us then.

Nobody's pulled it off but maybe that's not true.

Fine he said I'll just refuse to die. This is pretty effective but it doesn't get you as far. He's still refusing but he won't last forever because that's not the secret.

He's still looking but there's too much thought to it. Simplify.

Earlier we said all books have the secret but that's only half true because some books are better than others. But nobody's pulled it off because time is a long time and we can't tell yet. Maybe someone will go to forever and verify but nobody has yet and that is too bad because here's the secret.

The secret is breathe slowly pick up a book (old books are best because they show the secret more) look at the book. Reading is optional (but recommended).

Do you have the secret? You don't even really need a book this will do.

Even though its short it still has the secret.

Look carefully but not too carefully because it's obvious and obvious things aren't obvious anymore when you look too hard.

A balancing act to be sure but if you find the secret you could try it too.

Now here's the big surprise (because there has to be a twist to the story or people won't think it's good and the secret won't get out) are you ready for it?

You don't need a book either. The secret is in other things but I won't list them because there's a lot of things and then the story would be too long and drag and you might miss the secret.

Less than eight-hundred words have the secret find it if you want.