Rise from your Grave

Thought that two months was a long enough hiatus. Here's what I've been working on since then--a little dainty that ties a few things together and (just to be an asshole) is written in the style of Joyce's Ulysses.

I hope you enjoy it, because doubtless I'll need to continue it (am in fact continuing it as we speak). Maybe it will grow into something spectacular, who knows? If anyone still checks this, let me know what you think of it.
"> Case Number Five

The first thing was to find a cigarette. It was impossible to start the day without one, especially these days. Rough times. Low income. No good drinks. Another late night spent staring at photographs and trying not to get too torn up over another wasted opportunity. Sunlight's muted, coming through the threadbare curtain of the window, casting the room in muted colors, cool and quiet. You'd never know the kind of shit that's happened in here. Lives ruined, and it all started right here.

Cigarette. Still need one. Ah, there they are.

Alister Joyce grumbled to himself as he discovered the pack of cigarettes on his table was in fact an empty pack of cigarettes, meaning that his morning smoke would have to be postponed. Rotten inconvenience. Last thing needed this morning, poor start to the day all 'round. Need a drink, if nothing else. Scotch, or whatever the hell happens to be in this bottle. Sniff. Not scotch, but close enough. Drink it fast and I won't notice the difference.

Much better now, ready to face the day. Shower. Shower first, then the rest. Alister bumped against a cabinet as he entered the bathroom, something he did every morning regardless of how careful he was. Warm water. So. Towel laying on the ground where it fell, hopefully nothing nasty growing on it. Lather, rinse, don't repeat because you're almost out of soap. Turn off the water, hop out, dry off. Towel smells a bit funky, might want to wash it.

Joyce's suit was wrinkled, but it was at least clean. No stains of any sort, and a fresh shirt and tie had him looking respectable for at least a little while. Until the day properly began, and he'd have the opportunity to go back to looking shifty and untrustworthy. Walked out of the office to see whether or not his secretary decided to show up for work, unsurprised to see she hadn't. Wouldn't if it was me. Can't remember last time I paid her anyway (three weeks ago? When was the last case? Times are rough, nobody can afford to care about who their husband's sleeping with).

Alister grabbed his hat from the stand next to the door and exited the office. His office was actually a rented house that he'd converted into an office of sorts, keeping the master bathroom intact so that he could afford to fall asleep in the office and wake up refreshed in the morning. Home was a modest apartment as far away from the office as he could manage without travel being a hassle. Cigarettes were close, a gas station at the end of the road. Walking's good for you anyway, might as well walk. Nod and smile at the folks out walking their dogs, don't want them to complain about your presence here. Police have been by a few too many times already, but it's not like this is a good part of town to begin with. Police are the least of their worries.

The sun was shining brightly now, a break in the clouds that seemed to perpetually hang over the city bringing a moment of light and warmth to the world. Alister paused, basking briefly before continuing his quest for cigarettes. The shopkeeper nodded, half asleep after the night shift, just needing to hold it together for a little longer until he could sleep. Cigarettes were obtained, and Alister deftly extracted one from the pack, lighting it with an easy motion that almost seemed rehearsed.

Much better. Smoke wafting around, nicotine bringing thoughts into focus. What was I working on last night, anyway? Feels like I was up late, but I can't remember really. Left a note for myself, I hope. A habit that has proven most useful in the past, especially given a lousy short term memory. Long term, sure—never forgot a face, never forgot a single thing done in a career in law enforcement and private investigation, but ask what happened last night and it's a no go. Never figured out why that is; doctors blame drinking but that's ridiculous. I don't drink that much.

The first surprise was the presence of his secretary at her desk, just like always. Fresh out of college with no other job prospects, saw a sign in a window and walked in. Answers the phones, makes appointments, bills customers. The office would fall apart more than it already has without her help.

“Any calls?”

“Nope. Someone in your office for you, though.” Seems she's awfully amused at that fact. Tone of her voice suggests I'm about to either get shot or get a job. I can't really tell one tone from the other.

Walking in, Alister sees the woman before him, smoking long stem cigarette holder, looking the part of the dame in distress. That veneer of detached boredom worn to cover up the agitation churning beneath the surface, dark glasses so you can't see the eyes and how nervous they are. Seen a million women come through this office, all with the same kind of problem. Makes you sad, wonder why a man could possibly be so lucky as to land one woman like that and then run around with another. Or it would if I hadn't been in this business for so damn long already.

“Can I help you?”

“You're a private eye, right?”

“That's what it says on the door, ma'am.”

“But you weren't always a private eye, were you?”

“Nobody's ever been the same thing their whole life.”

“I want to hire you.”

“What for?”

“You're the detective. You tell me.”

Alister sighed, exasperation creeping in to his voice. Nobody ever wants to just out and say it. Ever. First step is to admit you have a problem but nobody wants to take that first step. Fine, I'll say it for her.

“Your husband's running around on you, or you think your husband's running around on you anyway. You want to hire me so that you can know the truth, and then do whatever it is you plan to do.”

“I'm disappointed in you, Joyce. You're wrong. I'll bet that doesn't happen too often. Go on, guess again.”

Smirking now. Smirking? Why smirking? Something's not right, why didn't I notice that smell before. I know that smell. That rotten egg sulfur brimstone oh shit not now last thing I need today is this.

“I got out of that game a long time ago.”

“Nobody ever gets out of the game, Joyce. You know that more than I do. I know what squad you worked on.”

“I don't do tracking anymore, not that kind of tracking.”

“My husband's been odd lately. But you knew that.”

That smell, that fucking awful smell seems to grow stronger how did I not notice it before. Stay calm walk to the desk pour a glass of water its on the desk right where I keep it, old habits die hard.

“Yeah, I figured. Would you hold still for a moment?”

Eyebrow raised so I've still got time now throw it now now now no—loud.

Screeching filled the office, the woman flailing about and smoking, the stench of sulfur growing stronger, so strong it threatened to overwhelm him, window, he had to open the window, fresh air rushing in, the stench dissipating quickly. The woman collapsed on the ground.

Alister stood, brushed himself off. Undignified, collapsing on the ground like that. Probably should tend to the woman. The door swung open, secretary looking at me like I've done something wrong.

“You could tell, couldn't you?”

“I...had a suspicion?”

“Sarah, next time you have a suspicion...”

“Hmm?”

“Let me know about it, would you?”

“From what you've told me, I figured you'd notice yourself.”

“Been a while. I almost didn't.”

“Well that's no good. You still owe me money.”

“Yeah well, I don't think we're going to get paid by this one.”

This one chose that moment to sit bolt upright.

“GET OFF OF M—Oh I'm terribly sorry, who the? Where the? Er.”

“Hi there. You must be tired.”

Brow wrinkled in confusion. “Well yes, I am a bit...wait, who are you?”

“Alister Joyce, at your service.” For a modest fee, of course. I don't add that bit. Best to let it be for now. Besides, someone was looking for me, and that usually meant I'd be doing some work gratis.

Her face changed upon hearing the name. “I had to...find you. But I can't remember why, or even where I'd heard your name before.”

“You probably never have heard my name before, Miss...?”

“Parker. Katerina Parker. I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean.”

“I mean that you've been possessed, and whatever was possessing you wanted to find me.”

“Possessed?” Denial. There's always denial in their faces when they learn about it for the first time. Most people never know the things that go bump in the night, but once you know it's hard to sleep at night. I know. I haven't slept well in years. “That's ridiculous. There's no such thing.”

“The holy water I doused you with would beg to differ.” I need a smoke. Clear my head. I offer one to Parker, but she shakes her head.

“I don't smoke.”

“Cigarette in your hand would also beg to differ. Then again, most demons need a little smoke around them to feel more comfortable. It's one of their tells.” Her eyes widen as she watches me light up. That's amusing.

“So even if I was...possessed,” funny how she seems to have trouble saying that word. Like if she admits that she could be possessed she's got to admit something else. I should probably find out what that is. “How did it happen? And why me?”

“Not sure.” Alister chuckles and refills his glass, this time with something that isn't holy water. “What do you remember before you woke up here?”

There it is. She's hiding something, and she hasn't got the sense to know how to hide it properly. Her breath hitches and she looks down, then looks back up and says the words that make my job so much easier.

“It was my husband.”

“What do you mean?” Guess it's not 'miss,' then.

“He held me down while this...shadowy thing came at me.”

“Why did he hold you down?”

“I don't know, I came home from work early and wanted to surprise him...”

“Had he been acting oddly lately? Late nights, maybe going off with friends more than he used to?”

“You think my husband was cheating on me?”

“No, I think your husband was either possessed or became a member of a cult without telling you.”

“But he wasn't acting oddly at all! He's never acted oddly since I've known him!”

Ouch. This is going to cause her some pain. The sort of thing that I do for a living, but now I'm doing it for free and the fact I'm not getting paid for it makes it worse. “Then your husband's been part of a cult since you've known him. Probably a lifetime member of some sect dabbling with unspeakable evils or something.”

“You're crazy! He's a good man! He'd never--”

“Mrs Parker, if your husband didn't start acting oddly, that means that he's been acting oddly since you knew him—and since you met him whilst he was acting oddly, you accepted it as normal behavior. Hell, I doubt you'd even be able to see the signs if someone else pointed them out to you. I blame the human mind.”

Looking offended now, drawing herself up despite the fact that she's wet and confused and probably scared, casting an imperious look that would cow the devil himself. “Mister Joyce, if you mean to imply that I'm some kind of simpleton--”

“Nope, sure didn't.” Alister was unfazed by this display. Seen it all before anyway. “The human mind can't notice everything, after all, and if it wasn't immediately obvious when you met the guy that means that he's been incredibly careful about what he does and when. How long have you been married?”

“Two years.”

“Hmm. Bound to happen sooner or later, I guess. He was just lucky for longer than most.”

“What do you mean, 'lucky?'” Sounding rather irritated. That's not surprising, I figure she's got a right to be irritated at this point. “If I were you, bucko, I'd reconsider describing any of my life's events over the past...what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“I was wandering for two days?”

“The fourteenth.”

“Ten days?”

“Er, of May.”

“I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“I meant in a chair, not on the floor.”

“Ah. Right, of course.” Alister lifted the (now very) distraught off of the floor and walked her to his desk chair. “Is that better? I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of good furniture, and you—or rather, the thing possessing you—saw fit to ruin the chair I normally offer clients.”

“Ah. Sorry about that.”

“It's not your fault.” The response came quick and forceful. “Listen, you're going to probably find out that you've done some...well, let's just say questionable things as a result of your possession. You need to know right now that it's not your fault.”

Ergh, that sounds corny as hell. Things are settling down a bit, or at least the initial shock is passing. Katerina took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. The enormity of what was going on was sinking in, and that was going to cause a lot of trouble sooner or later...

“So...should I report myself as having been a victim of fraud?”

“Hmm?”

“Well, it's just that these are definitely not my clothes. It stands to reason that I must have purchased them, and as I most certainly do not have the kind of money that clothes of this quality would require laying around, it stands to reason I was writing checks. I do not want to pay for something that was not my fault.” It made perfect sense. Bring it back to money, something you can deal with. Something practical to worry about rather than all this 'you've been possessed by demons' business.

Impressive. She's handling this better than most. “So long as none of the shopkeepers recognized you, I think you'd be in good shape.” The next question is probably going to garner a bad reaction. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“Well, I suppose I should call the police about my identity theft. Then I'll...” Go home? Can I go home now? What if my husband's just waiting to possess me again...or worse, what if he's going to kill me?

Alister sat quietly and watched realization creep across her face. That slow understanding that nothing could ever be the same. Most people try to go back to a normal life after their brush with the unknown, but it never works. The lucky ones figure it out quickly. Looks like she's one of the lucky ones. Think I've still got some cards in my desk.

“Look,” rummaging through his desk, Alister found a card with names and numbers on it, “if you get in touch with these people they'll help you get back on your feet.”

“What about my husband?”

“That depends. There's not a lot law enforcement's going to do for you. I recommend forgetting about him or contacting the Vatican. They're always interested in that sort of activity.” Leaving out the other obvious option (hire me) somehow makes me feel better. This isn't my game anymore.

“What do you mean 'interested?'”

“In the 'we can hunt it down and exterminate it' sense of the word.”

“So you're saying I should have my husband killed, is that it?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Ah, I get it. You're using some form of the word 'exterminated' that doesn't imply killing and/or eradicating.”

“Your husband might not be responsible. In that case, we—er, the Vatican, rather—would have to figure out who was. Works out well for me, because it will take care of whoever sent you here after me.”

“You said 'we.' Did you work for the Vatican once?”

“Not exactly.” And I'd really prefer not to get into it, Alister thought to himself.

“Well how do you know all about the Vatican then?”

Exposition. I hate having to explain all of this. “Look, there's other people that could explain this a lot better than me...”

“Yes, but you're the only one who's going to explain it to me.”

“You're awfully demanding.”

“I'm also tired and cranky. I don't think whatever possessed me stopped to eat. Or shower. All that aside, I'd like to know what your role in all this is, Mister Joyce.”

“Fine.” Rise up, light a cigarette. You'll feel better that way. Collect your thoughts, cast them back. “I worked a special division of the police force that dealt exclusively with the paranormal. We were underfunded and unappreciated by the vast majority of the community—but then again, we weren't known by the vast majority of the community, so it didn't matter.”

“The police have a special division that deals with the paranormal?”

“Had a special division. Underfunded, remember? We kept having to call in for help from the Vatican—that's how I know all about them—and eventually the top brass decided that if we had to rely on the Vatican so much the Vatican could handle the cases themselves.” Not the whole story, of course. There's a lot of dealing with devils that went on as well. She doesn't need to know why you quit, or about the internal affairs investigations that spelled the end of the department. She gets the short version, and she's damned lucky she gets even that. Emphasize the development with a shrug. “So I opened up shop here and decided that divorce cases were safer.”

“Obviously not.” Katerina snorted. Not buying it. There's more to the story, of course. He's not talking. “After all, something came after you, didn't it? What's more, you don't seem unprepared for such a thing. That means whatever you did on the force earned you some enemies. Enemies that require holy water.”

Observant little thing, isn't she? Sarah's leaning on the door frame with a smug grin on her face, as if to say 'you really thought that was going to satisfy her curiosity?' There's curiosity in her face too, of course, she knows a little more but still not the half of it. She at least knows one of the reasons the other side might have business with me of the bloody retribution variety. “Ten points, but then again you didn't ask for my personal history and I'm not in the business of giving it out. So you're out of luck, kiddo.”

“And you're just going to shove me out the door with some numbers to call and advice to get in touch with the Vatican? You know this is all your fault, right?”

“All my fault? Hey lady, I'm not the one married to some occultist jackass who thinks that using his wife as a vessel for possession is a good way to spend his time!” Whoops. That's probably not the greatest thing in the world to say. Too bad. My fault? Hardly.

“And my occultist jackass of a husband wouldn't have used me if some demon or...whatever it was needed to look you up and kill you. 'Find Alister Joyce,' that's the last thing I remember thinking. Now if you think I'm going to just sit back and let you ignore this thing on your doorstep, you're wrong. I'm hiring you.”

“Who the hell do you think you—I beg your pardon, did you say 'hiring?'”

“Yes, that's right. I'm hiring you, Mister Joyce. I want you to find out what happened to my husband, and why I wound up in your office.”

Huh. Do I turn down work? Can I even afford to? Sarah making murderous eyes doesn't seem to think so at all. I should probably. But this is not my line of work anymore. Hmm. “Well. Sarah, would you draw up a contract for Mrs Parker here? One of the expensive ones, due to the fact that I may get set on fire before this is all over.”

“Right away, Mister Joyce.”

All business now. “My rates are as follows: A minimum of $1500 for up to two weeks' and a further $500 a week for every following week. If at any time you are unsatisfied with my services, you are free to terminate them. If you terminate them before a Wednesday, you will not have to pay for that week. Further expenses as necessary will also be invoiced, including hospital bills. If my investigation leads me out of state or country, travel expenses may also be assessed, depending on how expensive they are.”

Katerina responds with equal business. “Done. I'll pay an additional $50 a week to stay in the office, seeing as how I haven't got a place to live.”

Kid deserves at least one break today. “Stay here for free. On the house.” Should have probably taken the case for free, but if she's willing to pay I'm not going to stop her. “But you call those numbers anyway, you hear? I'm not equipped to get you back on your feet anymore.”

Sniffs rather haughtily, “You needn't worry about me, Joyce. Worry about solving this case. I'll be able to get back on my feet without any of your help, I'm sure.”

That's what they all say, but possession's a tricky thing. You feel fine for a while, but there's flashbacks to things you didn't do (which depending on what sort of demon possessed you can range from the embarrassing to the downright horrifying) and you become far more sensitive to the things creeping about behind the proverbial veil. To say nothing of the fact that sooner or later the fact that you've been used in just about the most horrible way possible catches up to you and hits a lot harder than you'd think possible. Saw a lot of suicides in my day. Couldn't handle the implications—or the magnitude of what they'd been made to do.

“Of course.” Respond brightly, keep her confidence up. Maybe have Sarah keep an eye on her while I'm out doing my job. She should at least talk to someone with experience in these matters—more than I've got, anyway. “But call the numbers anyway. Instead of paying me for the room.”

Quizzical glance from Sarah, who's just returned with the contract. Showing a little more compassion than usual, she seems to be saying. “Here's the paperwork, ma'am,” she says instead.

“Huh. There is a fire clause in your contract.”

“I wasn't joking.”

“Huh.” They never believe me when I say I might get set on fire. All she's experienced and she still doesn't think that's a legitimate concern. Demons. Hellfire. Hellfire on me. Hence, fire clause. I hand her a pen. Sign it and I'm on the job. Sign it and Sarah might actually get a paycheck. Food that isn't rotten. Maybe some of the expensive whiskey (probably not, I need to save my money for important things). She signs. I try to keep myself from pumping a fist into the air in triumph.

Glance over the signature in a businesslike manner, and then: “Well, Mrs Parker, it appears that you just hired yourself a private investigator. Congratulations.” Handshake.

Now. How to begin?

Man, whatever.

Thought I'd throw up another post before this month ended. Mostly to let you dudes know that I'm working on A Thing which doubtless will entertain. Or at least that's the plan.

But hey, I feel bad just leaving you with that, so have a shitty poem I wrote!

New gods

What was he to do, powerless yet powerful,

A new idea but with nobody to listen to it,

Worshiped only by a few,

Struggling for legitimacy.

Gods build power from belief, it is the way of things;

They spring from our hearts and our minds, and

Once they are forgotten, that's it.

So for him, it was critical that he gain

Popularity. The popularity of divinity that only

Some can achieve, and when one has just been cast

Headfirst from the mind of a dreamer,

There is a moment of confusion, righting himself,

The general 'who am I, what is my purpose' that we believe

Gods don't need to know, but they do.

Next comes the fight to be recognized, a miracle

Here and there helps, but if you really

Must be powerful, godly, then you must

Destroy.

A short moment to drive the women mad, send them running into the

Hills, where he gave them power unimaginable,

Strength to kill, to destroy, and then it was only a matter of setting them

Loose.

Nobody doubts your godliness once you've caused a little

Suffering.

More from New Orleans

Because I couldn't resist it, and because I just finished this particular story (the origin story, so to speak, of a character I might do some work with), here you go. One day I'll start making posts on a regular basis again, but that might take some time.

Anyway, here it is: It's untitled, on account of my not being able to come up with a title for it just yet. Maybe someday.

Untitled

When Nora was nine years old, she went to her mother and explained that her mother's boyfriend had entered her room and attempted to do gross things to her. She was thrown out of home in retaliation for seducing him. The only things she had to her name at the time were twenty dollars (filched from her mother's purse) and her teddy bear. Now, this was back when twenty dollars could actually get you somewhere, and get her somewhere it did; down to New Orleans, which was as far from home as she could think of.

The streets of New Orleans are not kind now, nor were they kind when young Nora arrived. She learned very quickly (and very painfully) that it was best to stay hidden from those bigger and stronger than she. The second rule she learned was that while it was all very well and good to steal from people with houses—places of warmth and food and all sorts of wonderful things which she'd have to learn to do without—one never stole from a fellow wanderer. There were other rules, and soon living became like a game to her, or as much of a game as a daily struggle for survival could be made, and sometimes she won and sometimes she did not win as well as she'd hoped.

Three years passed, and a twelve year old Nora found herself shivering in a storm drain one night, hoping once more that she'd given her newest pursuers the slip. The game had changed, it seemed, because these men were only too willing to steal from their fellow homeless, and some men were out to steal other things from Nora (and some had succeeded, nights spent vomiting in disgust into a storm drain testified to this). The world had changed, and Nora found herself forced to change with it. She'd considered trying to make money off of what people seemed to want from her, but others had warned her away from trying this. That would only see her in prison, or worse. A rat paused in its mad dash down the tunnel, regarded her with beady eyes, and then continued on its way. Nora shivered and hugged her legs to her body, hoping to stay warm despite the damp.

She'd fallen asleep when the rain started. By the time the water got out of control, it was already too late for her to react. Nora was swept down the sewers and unceremoniously deposited in the river, which is where Mama Brigitte found her.

Surprisingly, the young girl wasn't dead. Mama Brigitte patted Nora's back and worked her legs like a pump until a stream of vile water issued from Nora's mouth back into the river. Then she slept, for a long time.

Nora awoke in a small cot next to a wood fire. Mama Brigitte sat in the corner, smoking a cigarette that smelled faintly of incense. She was dressed as if she'd stepped out of the 1920s, a flapper's hat perched jauntily on her head, and dark brown eyes looked intently at the small girl she'd rescued.

“D'you know who I am, child?”

Nora shook her head, and tried to find her voice. “N..no ma'am. I don't. I'm sorry.”

The woman laughed. It was a full throated rumble that sounded distinctly unladylike. “Ha! That's no surprise to me anymore. You're not from around here, are you?”

An offended look crossed Nora's face. “I've been here for over three years! I think.”

This only caused Mama Brigitte to laugh louder. “Three years? Shit child, no wonder you don't know who I am. You just rolled into town yesterday, far as I'm concerned. You don't learn 'bout me until you've been here longer. If you'd been here from the beginnin' you'd know who I was.”

“So who are you, then?” Nora asked, a little challengingly. She knew that she owed this woman something, that was certain—but she was surprisingly impatient when it came to conversation. For Nora, time spent conversing was time that could be spent rummaging for food, or finding a good place to sleep. Conversation was for people with homes and food.

“You ask a difficult question, you know that?” Mama Brigitte settled back and stared at Nora until she began to squirm uncomfortably. “Very well, I'll tell you who I am. Once you know, well, we'll get to that when the time comes.”

“I am one who has lived and died and does not care for dying anymore. I am the guide, the wife of the Baron, the spirit who drinks hot peppers and dances like tomorrow has already come and gone again. I watch the graves of the dead provided they know how to mark them properly, and if they don't then I don't care who comes along to piss on 'em. I am the black rooster and I am Saint Brigid to the pope and the Mama Brigitte to everyone who knows me better than the pope does, and I am a humble old woman who's seen better days but manages to pull little girls out of the river if the mood takes me—and lucky you, the mood took me. Now, if you'll excuse me Miss Nora, I've got work needs doin', and seeing as how I'm sure you're grateful and all for my rescue, I figure you'll come along and help, won't you?”

“How do you know my name?” Nora asked.

“All I just told you, and that's the only thing you ask about?” Mama Brigitte shook her head ruefully. “I must be losing my theatric flair for these things. Then again, you're young. Gods walkin' around and you say to yourself 'of course they're walkin' around. What else would gods do?' Then again, I ain't a god. Just the messenger.”

“I don't carry identification. How do you know my name?” Nora asked again.

“You got a one track mind, don't you?” Mama Brigitte sighed. “Magic, more or less. That's your answer.”

This was good enough of an explanation for Nora, and lead naturally to the next question. “Can you teach me?”

“Teach you what? Magic? History? How to read?”

Nora shrugged. “Yes?”

Mama Brigitte's grin was as wide as the world. “Good answer.” She reached out a hand, and Nora took it, feeling braver than she had in a long time. “Now come on, child. We got work needs doing.”

It would be ten years until the world saw Nora again.

Unfinished stuff

Okay, I'll admit it.

I just wanted to post something so that I could reassure myself that one day, I will in fact get back here and make more posts. So have something that could maybe go somewhere more than where it is, but probably won't. I'm working with another New Orleans story at the moment, but it's been slow going.

Still, here's something.

Confrontation

Deep in the heart of the city there are two men who are about to fight. They are in an alleyway off of the main drag, and the night is cool and growing cooler, so that steam wafts up from the sewers. It has recently rained, so the one guttering light sparkles on the ground, casting strange shadows on the scene. The two soon-to-be combatants could not be more dissimilar. One is of medium height, with slicked back blond hair that may or may not be the result of artificial coloring. He is clean shaved, and he is very obviously angry. Everything about his posture is aggressive, from the way his fists are clenched to the way his jaw has tightened. He is positively vibrating with anger, and rocks back and forth on his heels, ready to fight.

His opponent is a mountain of a man who seems positively bored. He leans against the wall of the alley, with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. One hand is in his pocket, the other taps out some unknown beat on his thigh as he waits to see what is going to happen next. The dampness of the wall is starting to bother him, so he shifts slightly from time to time, but beyond that he seems perfectly willing to merely allow his antagonist to work himself into a violent frenzy.

The shorter man has by this time very nearly gotten to the point where his opponent's casual posture and seeming disinterest in the entire affair is enough to get him to attack. He takes a step forward, ready to begin the fight...and then he stops. Something holds him back, and for reasons he is entirely uncertain of, he begins to feel afraid, terribly afraid. The taller man has not moved, nor has any part of his expression changed from the polite smile he has worn since walking outside of the bar.

It's the eyes. They stare back, and behind the passive gaze there's a flicker of something dark and angry behind it. It becomes suddenly clear to the shorter man that this man that he is about to fight has been toying with him the whole time. Behind those eyes there is a madness, a monster that is struggling against its leash. That's why he'd been smiling. It wasn't to provoke him, it was a smile of anticipation. A chance to become, for a moment, that monster that was otherwise kept safely hidden and controlled. To cut loose and indulge all the dark urges normally kept secret.

The taller man has not moved from his position against the wall, but his opponent suddenly finds himself apologizing, stuttering and quickly fleeing the scene. The one remaining sighs, and puts his other hand in his pocket. For a moment, he shudders and shakes his head as if to clear it. Then he too exits the alleyway, on his way to another bar. Someone's bound to want to fight him sooner or later.

Rubidoux

The Cold War Kids have motivated me to finally get around to writing something about New Orleans and magic and all the fiddly bits in between. So here's the beginnings of it, because while I think this would do for an introduction to something that I haven't gotten around to writing yet, I also think it stands pretty well on its own. We'll have to see if I do anything else with it.

Nawlans

It was common knowledge that to go to New Orleans was to invite trouble upon the heads of the unwary. It was even more common knowledge that this fact did not stop legions of the unwary from going down to the city every year. This was almost a problem—almost, because even though so many unwary came down, many became wary with alarming speed once they arrived. New Orleans tended to do that to people; it was part of its charm, or allure, or whatever you'd wish to call it.

Much of it came from the music, of course. The blues, jazz, these were forms that found a home quickly in the streets and small, smoke filled clubs that litter the New Orleans landscape. Tiny restaurants serving what they all claimed was the best damned gumbo in the city sat comfortably alongside derelict apartment buildings and old, run down townhouses. The city was alive—not in the way New York was alive with the pulse of its people, or London with its ancient history and forgotten monuments—no, New Orleans was alive in the way it collected filth and dirt; the humidity and smell of the nigh-constant party that now takes place ever since people got too lazy to figure out the precise date of Mardi Gras and decided to hold it year round. It smelled of people, their sweat and their blood. It smells of magic, if you happened to be sensitive to such a thing.

The tourists generally were not, but those who'd grown up in the city knew. Some even went beyond merely knowing what magic smelled like, and knew how to make it work for them. The old voodoo priests in silk top hats, pinched from dumpsters and castoffs, who kept their true names secret, walked down into the markets looking for chicken heads and vials of blood bought from questionable sources and obtained through even more questionable methods. Sorcerers lounged in coffee houses, tracing runes of power into the spilled sugar to scry out the location of some essential component that would make their ascents to power complete—or would aid another in his ascension to power, assuming the price were right.

Those who desired to become powerful yet lacked the knack for it could often be seen knocking on doors that were invariably opened by shifty looking individuals. If he had the right payment, and if he made his case, and if whoever lived inside whichever building he went into was in a good mood, then a deal could be done. Other times there would be a brief shout, followed by silence, and a little while later someone would wake up in an alleyway wondering why his wallet was missing. New Orleans police filed an incredible amount of mugging reports every year, but not one of the older members of the force ever expressed surprise over the amount. Indeed, the entire police force had more than a little inkling as to what went on in the odder corners of their city, and had even more of an inclination to let it happen.

It would not do to offend the sort of people who would be disturbed by any sort of crackdown.

A New Month

That means a new post! It's been pretty quiet over here, I'll admit. I shall try to make an effort to update this as much as I seem to update the CPPA (which if you haven't joined, I'm very disappointed in you and will continue to be disappointed in you until you join).

So here, have a story I wrote!

Endings

When I was younger—say in my late teens, early twenties, somewhere thereabouts—I hated the idea of stories ending. Stories were not supposed to end, because when stories ended I couldn't be with those characters any more, save in revisits of previous events. Revisiting an old book is still something I love to do these days, but a sequel, now there's where I'd always get excited. A chance to see what an old character was doing now that the problems from the first story had been resolved.

I think that's why I loved mythology so much, because a character from one story would inevitably pop up in another, and then another, and then another. But even these characters would eventually die, or merely be forgotten. I followed the path of Hercules through all of his mythological exploits and was crushed to discover that even he died in a story, struck down by his own hand, more or less. The heroes and gods had a shelf life—the Norse gods knew what would bring them down, and waited for it until it came, the Greek gods were replaced by Roman gods, which were in turn replaced by the Christian God, who, I fear, doesn't have much time left before the Science God steps in and replaces him.

It was good, therefore, to discover authors like Douglas Adams and Neil Gaiman brought the gods back and gave them new adventures, new things to do. Unfortunately not even they could restore the old gods to their former glory, and that problem, the problem of stories ending, would continue to nag at the edges of my mind.

It got to the point where I would refuse to say goodbye to people I'd met, even if I knew full well I'd never see them again. I could not bear to admit to myself that the story was over, not even when I fell in love and (just as quickly, I fear) out of love with a young girl in a math class (or somewhere, I do not recall her well at all).

Stories end, and you no longer can see what the characters are doing with themselves. Some authors took the easy way out and merely ensured that their characters were all dead by the time the story ended, so that there was never any doubt as to what they were doing once the book was over: they were mouldering, that's what they were doing. It would be silly to ask after them, because the dead don't talk (at least not most of the time).

My distaste for endings continued for some time, and eventually grew so large that I began to refuse to finish anything. Movies, books, games, all were placed to the side where they could never end. I got into a fair amount of trouble over it all, especially when it came to books. I was supposed to read books for class, and I never finished them. Not once.

I determined that no matter what happened, my story would not end. The rest of the world could bring their stories to a close, but I would be someone who would never stop. It would be difficult (or more accurately, impossible), but failure was for other people.

And so it came to pass that late one night I found myself walking home, when some street toughs stabbed me in the heart and stole my wallet. I would have given them the wallet without a fight, but I suspect they got carried away. I died, but because I was not willing to end my story, I appear to have stuck around. I have stuck around for the past two hundred years.

So long as my story never ends, I will continue to stick around. As I'm the one in charge of ending my own story, I can merely walk away and leave the whole thing incom—

I don't believe it either

Well son of a bitch, readers. This was the last thing I would have expected, and yet here we are.

I seem to have not only written a poem, but taken time in writing a poem, so that I can no longer in good conscience post it on the CPPA. Clown shoes, that's what it is.

So I guess I'll put it up here, because I haven't put stuff up here in a while.

Malaise

Sometimes the world
Gets a bit heavy to be
Carrying it on my shoulders,
Certainly this should not be
My problem,
But I made it mine
Long ago,
On a whim,
And now I can't seem to
Drop
 the
  damned
    thing.

Hmm...

No new stories for you yet, dear readers, but I have fiddled with a new template. I like it, except the sidebar is way to big and I want it to be smaller (and obviously lack the ability to do so).

Anyone know how to do that?

Keeping it brief

Sometimes I forget that I don't have to post here every day and so I push myself to slap something together (as well as throwing things up at the CPPA). So here, take this from me and try to remember that I did it in very little time.

Let it be Brief

A silent prayer, repeated over and over again as he waited for today to fall into tomorrow, fretting because just maybe he was wasting time but he could not think about today right now. There was only tomorrow, and at the moment it was not tomorrow yet. So he had to wait, hoping that it wouldn't be that bad.

Tomorrow was a thing that he dreaded, at least this time it was. Today merely stood as the final buffer between him and tomorrow, and while part of him was grateful for the interference, the vast majority of him wanted it to be over—to be over now, so that he could pass through the fire and focus on recovering rather than on wondering how he would survive. There was nothing to be done; he'd gone through all the possible scenarios and not found one which had him emerging unscathed. There was only strapping himself in and surviving tomorrow, which he didn't want to do but then again there wasn't any real choice in the matter, now was there?

Instead he sat, awake an miserable, as the hours slowly ticked by. It was now tomorrow, but not yet the part of tomorrow that would necessitate his trying to survive. He tried (for what felt like the fortieth time) to figure out what he'd say—what could he say? What could he do? Was there a way for him to escape the situation entirely?

Would he manage to survive at all? He had to confront that very ugly possibility that tomorrow would be it; he'd be ruined. Everything that was now his own would no longer be his own, and he'd wind up desolate, or dead, depending on his ability to deal with it.

Time marched on. The hour approached.

He got ready in a mechanical manner, stepped into the shower for what might have been the last time, combed his hair, and spent some time staring at his face in the mirror. His reflection looked back at him with sunken eyes and hair that (despite the combing) remained a mess. He ran a hand over his chin, newly shaved, and stared back into his own eyes.

It was a shock to see a spark there, burning angrily behind those eyes. Despite the hopelessness of it all, despite the fact that he couldn't possibly escape unscathed (not this time), despite everything, something in his eyes still burned.

“Let it come,” he thought. “Let it come, let it be the worst thing to ever happen to me, let it tear me apart if it can. I will carry on in spite of it—to spite it. I will not merely survive, I will fight back, and when it is over, I will know that I did not meekly submit.” His hands formed into fists, and all of a sudden he wanted the hour to arrive, arrive now, he'd rip it apart with his bare hands and move on. Maybe he could escape unscathed. Maybe everything would be all right.

The hour came. He took a deep breath and walked out of the house, a little taller, a little more confident (though still haggard from lack of sleep). It was not brief, but it no longer mattered.

These are Jokes

Well, after yesterday's brief foray into my old ways, I went and shot away from them again in this one. Ah well.

The Coalition for the Preservation of Pretentious Authors (yes, not even a day and we've altered the name a bit) is now officially up and running! We're calling it a "live beta," because that's what the cool kids do on the internet.

Stop by, sign up, and let the hijinks ensue!

Oh yeah, story. Here:

Precipices and Such

The hard part is realizing where I am, perched upon the corner of something that I can't actually define yet want to define anyway, all I know is that if I'm going to go any further this would be the time to do so. Feel it, that's the sort of thing that you do in this situation, there's a tingling that starts at the base of the spine and works its way upwards, ending in my brain and exploding into a thousand different possibilities. Is it good to do this? Should I do this?

What was it my dad had said again? I wish I could remember, because it would probably prove useful in this situation; something to do with listening for a response that won't be spoken with words. What did that even mean? I should have asked at the time but now it's a bit late for that, here I am and here I'll stay unless I do something soon. Remember to breathe, slow and deep breaths that fill the lungs and clear the head. Neurons are firing, I can feel them firing now, I'm aware of the sparks jumping from one cell to the next, faster and faster and hangontightbecausethisisgoingtobethebigonealmost there.

False alarm, sigh and try to start again weigh the pros and the not so pros (there was a better way to say that) and think think think think—wait if this isn't done soon I'll miss the chance how long do I have again?

Frightening, that's the word I'd use to describe this situation, the whole future is before me and if I do something wrong now, I won't get to see it. What's the right decision here?

Why does this have to happen now when things were going so well before? Whence came the dissatisfaction that inevitably lends itself to this kind of a decision? I could try to run it down or up or whatever you do with that stuff—fuck it; no use worrying about how I got here there's just here and what I'm going to do about being here.

Close eyes, visualize the two paths and see which one seems best. Cutting across my consciousness, a slender thread telling me which is the right one but where the hell did it come from? My brain, an outside source, what? I know it'll be the right decision, because grabbing the thread brings back that tingling at the base of the spine, and the more I think about it the more it seems right, right for me right for you right for the whole goddamned world out there waiting to see what I'll do next (if they are waiting to see what I'll do next, am I that interesting is this important what will this do to the people around me?).

The world around me slows down, weighty with the portent of my choice. It's made, the very fabric of what my life was until this point has been irrevocably altered, until I make another choice and alter it again. The world goes back to normal, but I know it won't be the same anymore. There are things that cannot be undone, and I have just done one of those things.

Would I do the same thing again, given the chance?

Probably. Bacon on my cheeseburger is the sort of thing I could get used to.

Chug-chugging along

Written in part to celebrate the opening of the Coalition for the Preservation of Pretentious Art, a joint-venture with my good buddy (and fellow Writer) Ed Turner, who not only provided the webspace but also worked tirelessly to discover a proper way to make a Pretension Meter. A brilliant mind, that's what he's got.

You, dear reader--that's right, you're a dear reader to me, can participate! Make an account and throw up your delightful literary meanderings to your heart's content! We promise that we shan't laugh, no matter how bad you think it is (I can almost guarantee that I have written worse). We would, of course, prefer you not post fan-fiction--it's not pretentious enough, and there's lots of communities for fan-fiction writers out there already.

Anyhow, there's a story which I wrote for there which I shall post here.

So here it is.

On Doorsteps

There was once a house, in which lived a man of little consequence. The house was not really a house, per se, it was (to be accurate) a town house, in a row of other town houses, which the man rented from some faceless corporation several states away. The man's very appearance was unremarkable, and his town house's appearance was equally unremarkable, looking precisely the same as all the other town houses nearby. It certainly was not the sort of house that would have a door which suddenly opened to a completely different vista than the man was accustomed to; which oddly enough was precisely what happened one morning.

The landscape was decidedly alien. Where a parking lot should have been a wide grassy plain instead made itself known. The sky itself seemed to be different; a sky which instead of being the normal gray and cloudy which so defined the area was nowhere to be seen. Instead the sky was stunningly blue and clear—so clear, in fact, that after staring for a few moments in shock the man fancied he could see some of the stars despite the brightness of the sun's rays. The fact that there were in fact bright rays of the sun to have any sort of effect upon what could and could not be seen was also a new one for the man, but he was more concerned with the grassy plain leading to a rather impressive looking forest that he only faintly registered this development.

The trees of the forest were towering things; the man suspected he was several hundred yards from them, yet they seemed massive even from that distance. He was not sure what sort of tree had a trunk so massive, or leaves so green, but he felt himself called toward them—so much so that he very nearly stepped outside his door without thinking. He managed to catch himself at the last second, and fell backwards with a rather violent start. As he landed upon the cheap-yet-stylish throw rug that he'd bought in a fit of depression one day (he'd come back from a long day at work to find that the previous night he'd tracked mud all over the hallway) he reflected that there are things which one is simply not prepared for—strange landscapes appearing in front of one's door is simply one of those things.

“It will have to go.” he thought to himself, and was just about to close to door when something deep inside stopped him. Suddenly, he knew with an awful certainty that if he closed the door, he'd never see the landscape again. This was his one chance (though for what, he'd no idea at all). Despite his supposed distaste for the new surroundings, he couldn't yet bring himself to leave them behind.

In desperate need for advice, he picked up the telephone and called his mother, who answered cheerily. This was a comfort to him; at the least he knew that his phone still worked. “Why I haven't heard from you in ages! What's the occasion?”

“Well mom, it's rather difficult to explain. I opened my door and it's not my parking lot. It's a plain and lots of trees and stuff instead.”

His mother's first reaction was to ask about drugs, which of course he hadn't been doing (he took a special pride in having never tried any narcotics (unless, of course, alcohol counted as a narcotic)). After his reassurance that he was, in fact, awake and sober, she came to the obvious conclusion (well, obvious to her, anyway. His mother had always had a fascination with fantasy that irked him to no small degree, though he'd always enjoyed having her read him bedtime stories as a child). “Son, I think you should walk through that door. It's a doorway to adventure, at any rate.”

“Yes, but I'm not sure that adventure is really the sort of thing I should be doing, is it? I've got bills to pay, and I was hoping to get a new car this year...”

“John, listen to me.” She very rarely called him by his name, even as a child. She always explained to him that names had power, and using them too much would cheapen them. It was for this reason that John had often given a nickname to teachers rather than having his real name used. His co-workers teased him about it, but nobody called him John at work either. “Everyone, and I do mean everyone, has an adventure or two in them. Your adventure was merely kind enough to show up at your front door for you. It would be rude to deny it. Get out there, run wild on the plains, and see what's in that forest!”

“But what if I get hurt? I don't know if they have hospitals out there!” He'd grown up a pragmatist, under his father's watchful eye. His father, it should be noted, had lived the traditional American Dream of working hard in a job he disliked before retiring and living fairly comfortably for ten years or so before dying of heart disease. In the years following his retirement, his father had started to embark on a series of increasingly bizarre trips that had culminated in an attempt to walk cross-country. The heart attack had followed soon after, though on his death bed his father had admitted that his only regret was not doing it all sooner. Despite this change of heart, the man had always clung to the earlier teachings.

“If you get hurt, then fix it yourself. You know first aid, don't you?” This was true—he'd been in the Boy Scouts as a child all the way up through Eagle scout (though at the time he'd insisted he was doing it for the scholarship money that would invariably result from having Eagle Scout on his applications. Despite this, he'd most often been found wandering in the woods during camp-outs). “Besides,” his mother continued, “getting hurt is part of the adventure. Get going, John! Just remember not to give out your true name lightly, do you hear? You can tell me how it went when you get back.”

“I haven't even decided to go yet!” His voice went up several octaves. “There's too many risks involved!”

His mother sighed in that special way that only mothers can manage. “Well, it's your decision in the end, dear. But let me tell you something: a new car isn't going to keep the regret away. You've got a sense of adventure, just like everyone else. Give it a chance to grow. Now, I'll talk to you later. I'm on my way out to see Phyllis—you remember Phyllis—we're going to explore some ancient burial mounds to see if we can't commune with the spirits. Bye for now!” With a click, she hung up.

The man sighed and wished that his father were around to tell him to go to work. He paced for a while, deep in thought, then walked back to the front door and looked outside again. The scene filled his vision, and now exerted an even stronger pull on him. It filled his mind, and suddenly he felt the wild desire to rush out—now, unprepared, dressed for work, with nothing but a breakfast bar in his pocket for sustenance, a set of keys with a tiny pocket knife key-chain, a pen, and a pocket notebook. The whole world held its breath. He wavered in indecision, looked left, looked right, leaned forward, leaned back, ran up the stairs, ran back down the stairs, always coming close to leaving the house but never leaving.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the house, and the front door began to swing shut. Panicked, he threw himself bodily through the doorway, shortly before realizing that his keys were not in his pockets after all and, more to the point, he'd forgotten shoes. He stood on the field, feeling the grass through his socks.

He took off his socks. He wiggled his toes, and took a deep breath. The scent of grass and the faint hint of trees caused his blood to stir in a way it had not stirred in a long, long time. He laughed. He started walking.

Things and stuff

Well, another day has passed with nary a "how do you do," but it's okay! I have other things to show you all (if, indeed, there are any of you at all), and this time it's not even poetry!

I know, I'm pretty stunned myself.

It is, however, in second person for a while. Well, kind of. Sort of. Maybe.

Enjoy it, anyway.

Apartment Time

There is a street that nobody talks about much, mostly because many miss its presence. Indeed, it is little more than an alleyway; cobblestones adorn its surface years after all other streets had been paved over. If you were to walk down this street you would discover that there are few doors upon it, and those doors that are upon it are mostly steel affairs, bolts secured with padlocks deny entry to those lacking keys.

There is one door, however, which is not steel. It is a small wooden door, cracked and forgotten. What was once a robin's egg blue finish is now cracked and faded, the dirt from years of neglect changing the color to more of a dull battleship gray. Several bare spots where the paint has flaked off completely (or been collected as souvenirs by visitors to the street) show that the door is in fact made of solid oak, worn nearly smooth now with age. The doorknob itself seems out of place, as it is highly polished despite the dilapidated door upon which it rests.

The door is never locked, though oddly enough it has never been robbed. If you were to place your hand upon the knob, you may notice the warmth radiating from it. Not hot, but hardly as cold as you would expect to find a brass doorknob down a disused street. It feels as if it has been used recently, indeed as if someone has just walked through the door. The knob turns smoothly, without making a sound, and the door swings open easily enough on hinges that are far less rusty than they've a right to be.

Upon stepping through the door you'd find yourself in a narrow hallway. Intricate Art Deco molding runs on the baseboard, though it (like the door) is cracked and the paint upon it is faded. Dust floats in the air, catching the light from naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Once, this was one of the most respected buildings in the city (or so they say), now, it is forgotten; a place of ruined grandeur. The hallway is, of course, lined with doors, all of them equally shabby, all of them painted a uniform black. The doorknobs on these doors, unlike that of the front door, are all tarnished. Save one.

You would have to walk an awfully long way down the hallway before you found it, but on the right hand side, there is a doorknob that is polished rather than tarnished. It is easy to spot, a naked bulb does not hang above the door. Instead a small light fixture in the shape of a lantern hangs from the ceiling, almost always swinging gently from some breeze that you can never feel. The swinging motion causes the light to wash over the polished knob, which in turn glints quite perceptibly.

If you were to place a hand on this polished knob, you would immediately notice that (like the front door) it was unlocked, also that it had been oiled recently. As the door swung open, you may expect to find the apartment within inhabited; but it has not been so for many, many years. The apartment is done in the same Art Deco style as the hallway, and like the hallway the moldings have all fallen into disrepair. A scent pervades the apartment, the smell of dust and grime, added to the smell of still air and old age. The apartment is surprisingly air-tight, and the opening of the door causes the fresher air of the hallway to rush in, stirring dust back into the air.

This apartment was once the home of one of the greatest minds in the world, a man by the name of Edward Tolley. Edward specialized in space/time theory and (though it was never publicized) worked closely with Einstein on the implications of his theory of Relativity. Tolley was absolutely fascinated by the idea of time being something that was relative, and so began seeking desperately a way around seconds and minutes.

Tolley was, in fact, the first to posit the idea of the fifth dimension (though again, his involvement has been covered up). It seemed to him that the matter of time travel was a simple enough one—one needed merely to step out of the fourth dimension into the fifth, and pick the point on the fourth dimension to return to. This was met with derision from most in the community, as was his insistence that it could be done—that we could pass out of the fourth dimension into the fifth despite our being only fourth dimensional beings to begin with. What's more, Tolley claimed that one could do it with existing technology.

The government caught wind of this claim and, of course, demanded Tolley's research. Tolley refused, and quickly found himself called before Congress on trumped up charges (easy to obtain in those days of paranoia) of treason. It shocked the world (or it would have, had the cover-up operation not been so thorough) when Tolley, defiant to the end, suddenly vanished from his seat at the hearings. A search was made of his residence, but all of his research was missing. What's worse, those who entered the apartment reported both auditory and visual hallucinations, ranging from seeing the walls of the apartment decay to glimpses of shadowy figures passing through the hallways.

Darker reports came back from the apartment too, of men entering the apartment and vanishing for days, reappearing later with graying hair and hollow looks in their eyes. There has been at least one fatality reported in the past twenty years; the victim was found in the shower, having somehow appeared in the middle of the wall. Even more disturbing, the aforementioned wall returned to an unmarked state shortly after the body was removed.

Over the years, the apartment has attracted several visitors from time to time, but only those who have learned the apartment's tale—and those are few and far between. The street itself has been stricken from the records; the city as well. It is only known that the city is somewhere on the east coast. Those who manage to find the apartment are seldom seen, and tend to take all of their research with them. For those who seek the apartment are those hoping to learn the secrets of time travel from the old genius himself; it is said that he still lives in his apartment despite its being so clearly abandoned.

The apartment itself is said to exist in multiple forms, in multiple dimensions. The proper actions once you have walked through the door will presumably determine whether or not you are successful; odds are, of course, if you found the apartment you know what to do.

A word of caution: Tolley is a brilliant mind, but he can be cranky—especially now. Tread lightly.