WIP fun

Oh, that was sad. I spent 2 minutes wondering, seriously, if one of the eventual antagonists of a WIP would wear briefs or boxers. To say nothing of considering sherry vs. beer in terms of beverage of choice. OTOH I did come across this

while looking for the proper VW for another character to drive.

novels via speech recognition

Here's the start of Chapter 25 of Roadside Attractions at the end of the World as interpreted by a speech recognition program/

chapter X. X. B. Because all the trees and are being

Yes "blues ball of strong and should winter wheat is quoting side. Use for those chemicals definitions you people's, genuine who breaks that you.
       the winter seven Jong stretching slowly and the looking around . "how?"
       "what?" Jesse look to brown we're only .
       "nothing. "he is more the peregrine trying to person . Your idea? "
       "he said it was small enough to avoid notice. And then you can pay. Can you? Could "
       winter grain . "probably." people all the weather over the holiday although this back home and, opening it, then put it back again. "enough for the meal. Good. " and
       "the very old is in question"
       " no no. It just means cronyism liable for below the place up a whole to I hope. All " feature wrong with the door. "I don't know any way."

Enjoy.

Another novel fragment

“You got a tattoo.”
       “There was also demons, the police, a fae --” I tried.
       “You got a tattoo.” She raised a hand, and for half a moment I thought she was going to slap me before she reached across the kitchen table and brushed some hair from my face, staring into my eyes. I tried not to squirm. “Show me.”
       I sighed and unwrapped the bandage on my left hand and showed her both palms. “They’re visible only if I want them to be.”
       “Because they're magical tattoos?” she said, but there was a tightness in her voice when she stared at my left hand.
       “How did you --?” I drew back and grandma blinked a few times.
       “I was joking. Or I thought I was,” she amended, then frowned and turned my left hand over, staring at my palm. “This?”
       I looked down and saw the faint outline of the tattoo glowing red. “Weird.” I concentrated and it faded away almost to nothing. “There. I guess using fire soon after getting this wasn’t the best idea.”
       “And it is?”
       “The new moon, the Eye of Horus -- closed -- and a phoenix reversed. It should basically make a framework for binding the angel and save me time and energy. It knows what I am, about the knife, and can probably seen the fire in me. I need another edge, or at least a moment of surprise.”
       She ran her fingers lightly over both palms, tickling my right a little in the process. “And it was worth it?”
       “Don’t know yet.” I pulled my hands away. “Probably not: it hurt a lot.”
       “You knew that going in.”
       It wasn’t a question but I nodded anyway. “I thought anything on my left hand would hurt a lot by default.”
       “You could have asked me.”
       “Would you have said yes?”
       Grandma was quiet for a few minutes, staring at my hands, then looked up and smiled wanly. “Probably not. But despite what you may have heard, it isn’t easier to get forgiveness than permission.”
       “Huh?”
       “It may seem easier, but you break a trust in doing so.”
       “Oh.”
       “And,” she added with a gentle smile, “sometimes when adults say no, it is for a good reason.”
       “‘People only grow to the extent they aren’t protected. Not by closing their hearts, but by the pieces they leave open.’” I quoted.
       She snorted. “Your father always was too poetic for his own good.”
       “You don’t grow if you’re sheltered. That’s what he meant. It’s not a bad thing to want to, but only for so long.”
       “Aiden. You’re only fifteen. You’re young enough to be wounded, yes, but are you old enough to heal?”
       Neither of us looked at my left hand. I smiled, or at least tried to. “I don’t know.”
       “I was young once, too. I took risks, did foolish things. All parents were children once, Aiden; as difficult as you might find it to believe, all grandparents were, too. I don’t know many things in this life, but I do know that we only grow by scar tissue, and most of us, if we had a choice, wouldn’t choose to grow at all.”
       “But --.”
       “Hush.” She took my hands in hers, lightly. “To be content in life, you need ignorance, Aiden. The world is full of evil and good, and I doubt either is stronger than the other, but it’s all too easy to see the evil. One act can make someone evil, but good is so many little things, all adding up in amounts so small we almost never measure them.”
       “Demons, grandma. They’re real, and they hate us. You want me to be ignorant of them and have the world end?”
       “No. But I think it would be better by far to be happy when the world ends than to be sad over your own life. Your parents had each other. They knew love. But you -- if you save the world and end up bitter, or sad, or lonely, what have you saved that was worth it?” She let go of my hands. “I don’t want your life to be like that, no matter the choices you make.”
       “But I’d save the world.”
       “I think it is generally better if our lives have meaning than that our deaths do,” she said dryly. “I’d rather you lived a full life, Aiden, and died in some random accident, than died a death in the cold and dark with no one to mourn, no one to attend your funeral.”
       “How many will attend yours?” slipped out before I could stop it.
       I stiffened, prepared for her to strike me this time, but to my surprise my grandmother laughed. “Oh, Aiden. Thank you.”
       “For what?”
       “Your parents would never have said that, never dreamed of it.”
       “I’m sorry --.”
       “Hush.” She raised a finger to my lips. “It was true. I am scared you will make the choice I made, Aiden. I’m an old lady who doesn’t even keep cats for company, who had no lover who remained, who made no friends I wasn’t too quick to renounce. But you are your parent’s son, too. And they could use people without hesitation if they had to, friend or not.” Son or not remained unspoken.
       “I don’t plan to.”
       “Of course you don’t. You’ll just let it happen, and pretend surprise when it’s over.”
       I scowled. “I’m not you. And I’m not them!”
       “I wish I could believe that.” She stood. “You don’t know how hard I wish that.”
       “I stood as well. “So, I’m being grounded or something?”
       “I think you’ve punished yourself enough. This time. But you can’t keep doing things like this. There are limits to how much a body can endure.”
       I said nothing.
       She began walking to the kitchen stairs, and turned and looked back. “You need to learn to bend, Aiden.”
       “I am an exorcist,” I said, holding her gaze. “We break before we bend.”
       And my grandmother stared at me for a long moment, mouth opening, but she closed it on whatever words she was going to say and turned out the light.
       I stood in the dark alone until she went upstairs so I could pretend I never heard her crying.

Fragment from novel.

      “Angels are not demons. We have no issue with killing, or bodies, or gore. But it is hard to tempt with virtues as angel do when people are scared and terrified. So they shunt people, as you called it. No mess, no fuss, no body to find ... at least not in their lifetime.”
      “But Nicole was murdered. And Daniel. So whoever is doing this told the angel to kill, and it put both Tammi-Anne and Jennifer somewhen else. But they’re after some kind of revenge, enough to have demanded it leave bodies.”
      Mr. Peterson nodded. “The angels do not pay attention to this world as we do. They just toss people through time, finish what they were present for, and leave. We often find uses for those put out of time.”
      “So they’re both dead, then?”
      “Quite likely. Or famous, rich, reviled. It would depend on the kind of skills they had, what they could truly bring of the the present to the past.”
      “Cellphones?” I said dryly.
      “How cute. No. They have many uses that do not involve the destruction of this world. Ringtones, on the other hand.” Mr. Peterson smiled. “We convinced one person put out of time to invent them.”
      “Okay, now I know you’re just trying to pull my leg.”
      “1993,” the demon said calmly. “We also caused the actual Noika Tune to be invented in 1903 to ensure ringtones would exist. Tárrega ran away three times during his childhood, and no one truly knows why. Even with impaired vision he saw what his father really was, though never what was planned for his music.”
      “This is, seriously, how demons try and destroy the world?”
      “We use the angels cast-offs for other methods as well. The black death was caused by nanotech from a boy in 2112.”

Two Ficlets

Bigfoot is Evil

"Do you have to video everything?"
"Think Blair Witch, Karen!"
"Think: We're lost, and you're using a VHS camcorder. Why didn't you just lug along a slide projector?"
"We're both on edge but this video will make us Famous!"
"Dave, everyone knows there's no such thing as Bigfoot!"
"You saw the tracks!
"And I've seen people fake crop circles, Dave."
"Think outside the box, Karen. Has anyone told Bigfoot it didn't exist?"
"No, but this is a giant bear-person you are talking about. What if it was real?"
"Pardon?"
"Wouldn't it eat people?"
"That's just silly. Bigfoot would just be an animal, Karen. You can't expect me to believe Bigfoot is evil! Karen? Screaming won't get you out of carrying the equipment. Karen? This isn't funny, Kar ...."


Trapping the Bigfoot

"I don't believe it. The first Bigfoot captured, Henderson. They said it couldn't be done -- I even said it, but you captured it!"
"I just set a trap that can capture anyone."
"You must explain this to me. What kind of food can trap any creature? I've never heard of such a thing."
"Did you ever read comics?"
"Henderson?"
"See? I used this."
"You captured the Bigfoot with a Hostess Fruit Pie?"
"It worked, didn't it? Ah, waving it around might be unwise."
"Henderson, this is science! Your joke is not -- dear god, it broke the cage!"
"I told you not to wave Hostess at it! Throw the fruit pie or lose your hand!"
"She just ate it. Whole. Did you see those teeth?"
"She's choking! The wrapper. You never took off the wrapper!"
"She was coming right at me, Henderson. I didn't think. I didn't ... how do you Heimlich the Bigfoot? Christ, she's dying. You know what this means?"
"You murdered the greatest advance in cryptozoology ever?"
"No. Well, yes, but we can't tell anyone. Ever. They'd never believe about the Hostess Fruit Pies."

Two poems

Just two poems written on break today.

#1

"My god!" he said, and words
I did not know,
face stained with longing,
skin-toned skin blemished
with failed dreams

and we stood out by the ocean
looking for nothing, his tears
adding a few drops -- less
ripples than a pebble

and I said the worn stones must
believe in spite of evidence
they would not erode away

"The tide comes in. Always,"
he said, rough, almost harsh
(so much depends on almost)

I imagine, I said, the stones hope
it won't come tomorrow --
few things are certain
beside sunsets being beautiful

and we waited watching the tide
transform the beach, washing away,
and he almost smiled.

"Maybe tomorrow," to the tide,
the ocean, the stars, me,
and you.


#2.

I held the poem for
an hour, supper
calling, feeling
it die to potatoes
& gravy & a mash of stuff.

The few that remain
(barely a turn of phrase)
surrender to desert
never to be known.

Stomach growls, sated;
heartburn later coming
from sorrow, soothed
by late night snacks.

Stream of consciousness bit

You know.

Others may guess, stabbing lonely questions into the ever dark. Not you. The only thing relative are relatives. The absolute is you. The absolut, perhaps. A fist into a brick wall. There is a fable-tale about the energy in a brick, you let it loose, enough to shatter cities, but one thrown, just so, through a certain window, would do the trick just the same.

Everyone stopped making sense. People speak, but all words are lies. People act, but they are only marionettes to the unconscious mind within. The squamous depths, and all abysses: inward. All try journeys are inside. To travel in the outer world, to leave one place for another -- to shed a skin! -- and all that's sought is escape. We travel not to find, but to give up, to forget, to flee. The things we seek to lose more important than those we find.

And you know the secret of the Great Chiefs is that they need not be real to have influence. And you know this is the secret of God, who is the wizard in Oz. Only as real as dreams. Only as true as beauty. Metaphors carry us, wind-swept, but soon we exit, needing not to drown, hopping, and you know

what we hope to, hop to, and your silence, in your silence, is (the) only hope.

The Last Easter

People were crying in the streets
mom's hand closing the blinds
slapping me light across the face

"I told you to keep it closed,"
she whispered; her eyes were like mine
when I saw the monster in the closet

I'd never seen mom afraid before
but it somehow made me strong
like chocolate makes me happy.

"Why is everyone sad, mommy?"
"They aren't ... sad," she said
and laughed, clown-like, not funny.

"They're hurting themselves!" I said
because I could hear the moaning
and screaming and all the loud shouting.

(Mom would have told us to be quiet,
sternly, by now; their moms must be
screaming to, or maybe not afraid)

"The Lord has returned," mom said,
and: "An actual Good Friday."
Her smile odd, crooked, sad. Funny.

"Mommy?" I said. I knew about Jesus
from Sunday School, and how he'd return,
but everyone sounded wonderfully afraid.

"We all hope He has rose-coloured glasses,"
mom said, nodding to the door outside.
"Your father says only the heathens will be spared."

"Where is daddy?" I said. "Is he okay?"
Mom just stared at the door, holding
my hand too tight, saying nothing.

"I guess this means no Easter Bunny?" I said.
"I liked chocolates," when mom looked at me.
And she laughed and laughed and laughed

And she hugged me, so tight, as if I'd break,
or she would, and she laughed again and
told me she loved me, so much, and didn't let go.

Fragments of Something

"There is more than just being your blade, my lord."
"Then what good are you?" he asked.
I sheathed the blade in my heart in reply.


My master said, "A sword is not a weapon.
Your sword should be drawn, swift, like claws, teeth,
a threat; a promise of harm to pause action for thought."


I was asked, "Why does your sword not kill?"
And I smiled. "The way the Fallen struggle
to avoid a return to grace."


Shadows see things people do not, moving through dark.
I asked: "How was that not wrong?"
I was told: "If it cannot be defiled, it is not sacred."


Unless it springs from silence, no action is pure.
A voice will only define that,
a love merely embrace it.

Well, that was a bust

Gloaming, that is. There was the novel I wished to write (A) and the novel I was writing (B). Attempts to convinced B to be A failed, twice. Rewrites failed so I'm shelving the idea at present until I can figure out what I need to change: amusingly, I think I need to ditch the Gloaming aspect entirely, and probably Adrian's family as well, as they currently stand.