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.

Shock! Horror!

Okay, I'll admit it.

This poetry thing is difficult to give up. I suspect it's the newness of the thing; like I said, it's not the sort of thing I've ever done before. So here's a couple more poems, freshly minted this very day, for you to peruse and (most likely) snicker at. Because they're really, well, probably not that great. I'm trying to update this on a semi-regular basis now (call it a late New Year's resolution), and poetry's quicker for me to write these days. As for the short stories, well, I can't give those up, so don't worry.

Morning Would

Roll over, hit the

Alarm, grab new

Clothes, take a

Shower, brush your

Teeth, and confront

The day without

Deciding to call it a

Wash and go back to bed.

The last part always was

Tricky.

It's a Gas

There's no secret to snatching

Success these days,

One need only attain

Precisely what every one else is trying

To attain--

But more of it than them

Because more of it

Makes you better,

Blesses you with

Freedom, friends, fantastical

Fucking phenomenal

Opportunity.

Go live the dream!

Do what you need to do

Because there's no other way

To get what you want

If you want to be comfortable

That is.

Do what you want

Once you've done

Your time in the mines,

Chase your dream once

You don't have to worry about

Where your next meal's coming from

Or how to impress the girls

Or where to live

Or how to pay your taxes.

Don't get me wrong

I think it's very important

That we all keep working

And nobody does what they

Really want to do,

What would that do, after all?

It simply can't work,

Won't work, you

Have to take

Responsibility

Do your

Part to forge your own

Chains. Otherwise

You'll just

Die like all the
Others, hungry

But

Free.

Is that worth it? The

Cost of living

Is your dreams,

Is that a fair

Price?

The cost of your dreams

Might be your death

But I hear that's not

Worth much these days,

So really it's quite a

Bargain.

Highly unexpected.

This was the last thing I thought I'd ever write, or do--but I spent the last week in an awful lot of art galleries and it got me thinking, and once I started thinking it was hard to stop, and then all of a sudden I sat down on Wednesday night and wrote poetry for the first time in over ten years (I believe the last time I wrote poetry I was in fifth grade, making it a total of...thirteen years (and even then it was just because I was forced to by my teacher and I hated it, so it's really the first time I've ever written poetry)).

Here's some of them, at any rate. I don't know if it's good or not, because poetry's a lot weirder than a story. A story, you can read and it either tells you a story or it doesn't. A poem can do whatever the fuck it wants, and rarely feels the need to explain itself.

So here's some of them, with more to come...if I ever decide to post more of them.

Fine

Are you happy now?

Look at this! I think it's

Terrible, don't you? This is

Not a story at all;

It's something sinister,

Manufactured poetry--

Should I mention my mother?

Maybe some painful

Allusions, bring home the

Drama.

It's your fault, you know. I was

Happy telling stories, but

That wasn't good enough for you, was it?

Hydras! There, a mythological allusion,

To show I'm classy

Well read.

Keep the punctuation sparse,

Use it sparingly, space it out

Over several lines so that people don't

Know how to read it.

There I'm a poet now

Does that make me

An artist?

I've got stories to tell, tales of

The good old days and the

Not so good days and

Boring days but

This will be published

Probably taken seriously

Because you can analyze it

Easily.

Lazy bastards.

Criseyde

Troy burns and she stands on the shore,

Hears the dying,

Watches the smoke claw upward,

Souls on their way to Hades

Or somewhere else.

The ship carries her off

While her lover paces the deck

Impatient to be home

To see where he used to live.

He carries on with the crew,

Knows them all,

And so does she

(Perhaps in more ways

Than one).

She knew it would happen

She is forgotten,

Another trophy

From a war over trophies.

Greece is strange to her

The language is not her own

And the food's not her own

And her home is not her own

But his,

Even though he doesn't go there

Anymore.

It does not bother her.

She smiles in crowds,

She walks through parties

Wearing her mask,

The face she shows the world.

And when the parties are over

She goes home (but home was

Destroyed a long time ago)

And she sits regretting

In the dark

With shades

For company.

Criseyde

You've seen her in class,

Proud at her desk,

Back straight, eyes forward,

Viewing the world

With detached air.

She doesn't say much, nor does she

Seem to be paying attention;

Paying attention is for the

Smart or the stupid

(Depending on who you ask).

In the diners she is

Surrounded by people, always

Smiling, comfortable, collected.

The others walk by

And she smirks

Or says nothing

Or says something

But it's clear they are not the

Same as she.

She's better,

Or worse,

Even though she tries to be

The same.

And when she goes home

(Wherever home is (whatever

Home is)) she goes to

Her room and she

Tries to remember who

She really is

Before the loneliness hits

And she's got to

Ride it out

Like a wave

Or an earthquake

Or a strong wind,

A sinking,

Dipping dance that

Leaves her

Spinning around

Inside her own head

Behind the masks

She can't take off anymore,

Not even when she's alone,

In the dark

With shades for company.

First Snow

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

First Snow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He goes back inside.

Thought I'd forgotten about you, eh?

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

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

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

The mystery of the alarm solved itself with surprising speed.