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.

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.

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.

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.

It continues.

The bus ride once again is responsible for today's work, which is not a surprise to me because I've been on the bus an awful lot recently and there's little else to do but think about things to write about (and everyone's always saying "write what you know," anyway). This was actually written on the bus in my three year old notebook that is falling apart (not that I could bear to replace it before I've filled it up, of course). So I tried to capture the bits of people around me, which may or may not have worked out. I haven't decided yet.

Bus Lines

“That seat looks more comfortable.” They are both pinched by their current quarters, “on the seam,” as he calls it; so when the opportunity comes they strike quickly, seizing a recently vacated seat in a more comfortable area.

“You forgot your Pepsi,” she chides, and he reverses directions in mid-lunge to grab his bottle, returning to the new seat with a rueful grin on his face. They talk of nothing of consequence, satisfied with one another's company.

Another

He chooses to stand, feeling the rhythm of the bus's movements; standing with a bold grin at the rear door. A gatekeeper of sorts, though not intentionally, the poles on either side of the short staircase leading down to the street make it easy to keep balance while the bus strains to climb yet another hill. Seats empty but he remains standing (he gets enough of sitting at work, stuck in a warehouse near the center of the city, taking shoes out of one box and putting them in another, tedious work but no dress code and the pay's enough to live on) until he dismounts the ride and heads home.

Another

He hides near the back, his hood drawn over his face, concealing him for fear someone will try to start a conversation, a real face-to-face one, and he cannot speak while looking into the eyes, he gets nervous being that intimate. He holds a phone to his ear, speaking to someone who understands his problem and will never ask to meet him face to face; family can be understanding sometimes.

A lurch as the bus nearly misses a stop

Father and son sit side by side, saying nothing. The father has never been good at conversation, least of all with his son whom he fears will feel neglected and this will cause him to fail at fatherhood. He wishes his son did not have to ride a bus, and dreams of a future where he can watch with pride as his son graduates from college with honors, buys a car, a nice house in the suburbs. His son wonders what's on television tonight and dreams of being a basketball star.

A phone rings

“Girl, you know me! I'm nearly there!” Anxiety tinges her voice, there's so much between them now, old exes and her own awkward feelings of wanting something stronger than friendship (hopefully this her friend does not realize). “Don't you go drinking it all, I'm almost there!”

She's lost her job but tonight it doesn't matter, she's not going to think of it; alcohol will provide one more “fuck you” to responsibility because sometimes life kicks your ass and its all you can do to keep going, so smile and laugh and maybe tonight things will be different and she'll be honest about how she feels, even if it takes alcohol for her to feel brave enough this time.

A pothole shakes the bus

He's been through hell today, nearly killed by a falling piece of scaffolding, constantly sore, a headache that won't go away, the early mornings alone grinding him down. But when he left the job site today, staggering in his weariness, she was there to greet him, smilingly giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek that said so much more than a peck on the cheek and he felt ten feet tall. On the bus sleep overcomes him and she wraps him in a loose embrace, gives him a place to rest, lets him know she'll never leave him (though he already knows that, but the reminder is nice) and when their stop nears she gently wakes him and they head home to make dinner together.

Another new thing

I really wish I could manage to write this stuff a little earlier in the day, but oh well. Composed whilst I was on the bus today, we continue the adventures of the same dude from Chili Fries and Snow. The nameless guy who eventually will get a name and then everyone will be disappointed to learn that no, he's not actually me.

Not all me, anyway.

Long Winded Rides

The motion of the bus is somewhat less than relaxing, a jerky series of starts and stops that nearly sends him toppling over sideways with a muttered swear; he manages to stay upright and mentally thanks whatever divine power happens to be listening at the moment that the seat next to him is unoccupied and likely to remain that way. He wonders again just why the hell he thought the middle seat of the bus was a good idea, the sideways seating directly atop the joint of the double-length bus gets all the bounces and bumps, and feels rather like a roller coaster at times. Normally this would not be that distressing, but the narrowness of the seat and the width of his own legs have him crushed against a metal pole where the bus's steady rise and fall (he briefly fancies that the bus is a living, breathing thing and then stops. Personifying the thing would only make it worse) compresses and releases his own legs, which take umbrage at the constant assault on their persons.

He's tired (having come from his job), and everyone else on the bus seems to share his problem—it's quiet, and nobody seems to be particularly inclined to do much of anything beyond staring morosely out of the window at the streets going by. He would do the same, but he's so tired that he decides to give napping on the bus a try. He'll wake up before his stop, and if he doesn't, well, the end of the line is pretty close to his apartment anyway. An extra two or three minutes of walking won't kill him.

It has always been a concern of his that his expression is too easily readable, though every time he's chanced to look in the mirror whilst smiling he hasn't been able to tell much beyond the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth (he wonders if he's just so afraid of showing emotion that he subconsciously suppresses it, even when he's trying hard not to care about how silly he might look). This has very little to do with his own inability to ever really relax into a nap in public (though he's started to relax more and more, possibly because of a concerted effort to grab sleep where and when he can get it these days, as he's never sure when he'll actually fall asleep at night), though there is probably a connection between the two.

Either way, this time he manages to close his eyes, swaying gently with the motions of the bus, focusing on the drone of the engine noise to get his mind to wander. He dreams.

In his dream, there's a woman (there's always a woman, it seems) in some sort of danger; a collapsing...something or other. He, of course, must be in the hero's role (if he were not in the hero's role in his own dreams, it would probably mean something terrible), and rushes in to save the day. Only he lacks some of the unique hero-qualities—most notably the ability to not only save the day, but escape unharmed. His dream goes from rescuing the woman to being crushed under a pile of bricks, to being dragged to a hospital to spend some quality time there. The rescued woman is nowhere to be seen, which, he figures, is typical of this sort of situation.

He jerks awake, courtesy of a particularly short stop by the bus driver (he hates taking the later bus, the drivers are terrible) and grumpily considers the implications of having a brick wall fall on the bus driver. On the bright side, he notices a far more comfortable seat is now open, and relocates quickly before someone else notices the same thing. This seat is wider, and to celebrate he places his bag next to him to discourage any new passengers from sitting down next to him.

It's not that he doesn't like talking to new people—well, it is that he doesn't like talking to new people; there's a lot of putting up various defenses to keep from revealing too much in too short a time, there's the question of not coming off as a madman (which he does, from time to time, revel in for the hell of it), and there's trying not to unwittingly offend the other person (another thing he's incredibly paranoid about, and with no good reason. He's always been rather good with people, but it never ceases to worry him)—but buses are hardly places for conversation (though he did meet a fascinating man by the name of James one day, and if he were to encounter him on a future ride he'd gladly speak with him again. Something about a genial old man with a brown suit and matching fedora taking slugs out of a bottle of some rot-gut gin and reminiscing about his girlfriend's Southern cooking was incredibly compelling).

Whilst on the bus he sometimes goes around from person to person, piecing together life stories based on one-sided conversations held with telephones (vile things, he feels that the world would have far less yelling if they weren't around) and trying to write Humanity in his head. Many of the stories he comes up with are depressing things, stories of people trying to make ends meet in a country that doesn't want them, has never wanted them (despite its protestations to the contrary). Sometimes he sees too much of himself in the people on the bus and recoils, wishing that he owned a car so that he could avoid this entire mess.

He doesn't have a car, of course—and from the looks of his own situation, he's not likely to own a car for a long time yet—so he's stuck with the bus, which galls him, or a taxi (which would bankrupt him). No, he must resign himself to the bus. The bus, which (he suspects) is nothing more than a machine for people who have nowhere to be, because it sure as hell doesn't have the ability to get anywhere within a reasonable amount of time.

He tries to sleep again, but now the bus is stuck in traffic, and the constant starting and stopping makes it nigh on impossible, so he gives up and stares out the window, trying to reassure himself that he'll be home soon.

The faces of the other passengers all seem slack and lifeless, save for a small girl who appears genuinely excited to be on the bus. For a moment, he smiles and feels like perhaps the bus isn't that bad after all; he used to envy the kids who rode the bus to school when he was younger (of course, that could have been because he had to walk to school), one more in a series of things that other kids were able to do that he never got the chance to try out until much later. Reflecting upon this, he wryly thinks that this is one experience he could have done without.

The bus finally approaches his stop, and he gratefully hops off, feeling like he's somehow escaped in one piece and that alone is an accomplishment of sorts. He's got some new ideas, perhaps, from some of his fellow passengers, and certainly he'll have to try napping again to see if he can't avoid the hospital in his dreams this time. The bus lumbers off, trailing smoke behind it like some fat, lazy dragon that spends its time eating TV dinners while its mother inquires why it hasn't been out to eat some nice young maidens.

He laughs at the thought, a loud laugh that would echo if not for all the traffic noise. Several passers-by stare at him curiously, and this time, he merely shrugs and heads down the street leading to his apartment, whistling.

Moving on...

Well, I seem to have kept to my rigorous schedule of trying to create one new thing a day (not that you've been privy to everything, of course). So here's a brief scene I created because, well, I felt the need to. It tells a story, sort of. Another experimental way of narrating (and it's in the second person, no less).

A Moment

It's only going to be in the briefest of flashes, and when it happens you'll have precious little time to take it all in. You're not going to know who's involved. You're not going to know much in the way of why things are happening. You're just going to have the moment, and if you can get as much as you can out of the moment, then you'll be just fine.

If you get nothing out of the moment, then it's probably on the fault of the author, who should really be able to describe his moments a little better. But that is not important now, what's important is this rapidly approaching moment. Pay close attention! Drink in every word!

Begin with smell. The scent of earth, first and foremost. It's a scent of potential, of living, of growth and beginnings and endings all wrapped into one. Speaking of endings, there's another scent in the air: blood. A coppery scent (or is it iron and you just think it's copper); itself speaking of life but in this quantity it's sickening. Sweat, that salty scent, almost like the sea; that's in the air too. Foliage, the smell of wood and leaf, in the background but dominated by the blood and sweat and earth, rounds out smell.

Now turn to sounds. First, the sound of breathing. It's ragged, labored, inhaling lightly, exhaling noisily. Focus on the breathing and you can hear other things, like the sound of something dripping (saliva? Blood? There's no way of telling), or the sound of teeth grinding together, a grating sound that's instantly recognizable. The sound of metal on metal, a crashing sound, the sound of feet shuffling in the undergrowth, and now a new sound, a cracking sound—the splintering of wood. A thunderous thud.

It's sight's turn now; two men, both wounded, fight. One wears no armor save a leather jerkin, the other is armored in plate and chainmail. The lightly armored one has just lost his shield, it sits on the forest floor, forgotten. The heavily armored one wields a longsword, and he uses it skillfully to hack away at the lightly armored man's defenses. The lightly armored one only has a short sword, and with no shield, he's at a disadvantage. He's using his mobility to keep alive, but it's clear that his luck will not hold out for much longer.

Take note of the way the morning light streams through the trees overhead, illuminating the two combatants as they struggle with one another, giving the scene an ethereal feeling. Watch the dust fly into the air, kicked up by their feet. Pay special attention to the falling leaves, the way they dance on the wind caused by the passage of a sword stroke. Notice how the sweat runs down the brow of the lightly armored man, dripping off of the end of his nose, causing his long hair to stick to the side of his face. Sweat mixes with the blood running from a cut over his right eye, causing him to blink and shake his head slightly; this nearly gets him killed by a quick stroke from his opponent. His opponent does not appear to be as tired, despite his heavier kit. If he's sweating, it does not show. He bleeds from a lucky strike to his shoulder, where two plates come together. It has affected his ability to hold his shield, but he refuses to relinquish it.

With a final cry, the lightly armored man rushes at his foe, hoping to pierce the breastplate by sheer effort. His eyes are wide, his mouth is open, and his hands both grip his sword's hilt. The foliage is churned up in a trail behind him, marking his passage. There is a final crash, but you are no longer there to see it.

How does the story end? Can you choose one side over the other? Was a woman involved? Who was the good man, who the evil one? You cannot tell. You have only the moment. Make of it what you will.

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.”