Helvetica vs. Arial

Helvetica vs. Arial: perhaps the strangest fighting game ever made.

Another Contest

I just found out that Writingcompetition.com is having a 250 word fiction contest whose deadline is fast approaching, so the next few stories will all be 250 words (or less), and start with the words "So now it's finally over". I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with that, but I don't make the rules. Cheers! Oh yeah, and I'll be back with the pulp stories again as soon as I get a good one for the contest.

The Florentine Gambit

Thomas Aquinas, while attending a banquet with the King of France, reported burst out in a loud voice "That'll fix the Manicheans!" The King summoned a scribe, saying "Go and write down whatever that man tells you." Aquinas never ceased his intellectual struggles, even at meals. In that vein, I have transposed the philosophical battlefield to the real with he help of a flexible interpretation of history and a little magic.

The two gigantic spider engines appeared on the horizon, lumbering on immense iron legs. One broke off and moved closer to the walls of the great city. Gouts of flame erupted from a thing tube in its belly, washing over the defenders like the fires of hell itself. There was a staccato roar as cannons in the gate tower opened fire, driving the spider engine away from the city.

In a secret chamber deep in the crypts of the Duomo of Florence, a thin-faced young man addressed his fellow leaders gravely. “Your cannons are keeping them at bay for now Da Vinci, but they will not stop the army that is marching north from Rome.”

The distinguished elder he addressed only nodded and smiled enigmatically.

“It is worse than you think, Niccolo,” a third man said, “my brother, the Pope, is besieged by the heretics at Ravenna. He will not come to our aid.”

Machiavelli’s eyes darkened at this news. He did not relish an alliance where he was obliged to treat the religious authorities as equals, but at this juncture, their fall could well mean his own. “I have sent agents to Alexandria. Even now they have penetrated the secret library. We will discover how the Manichees acquired the magic for the war machines. That will swing the tide.”

“That’s good, Niccolo,” said the aged engineer, “very good, but I think we need a little something to help us out in the meantime.”

“You have a suggestion?”

“Just a little something I have been working on.” He placed a sheaf of papers on the table. The other two men leaned close. Machiavelli was not the mechanical genius Da Vinci was, but even to his eyes, the intent of the device was obvious. A great armored turtle crawled across the page on metal wheels. It bristled with pikes and guns. At the center, surrounded by a maze of gears and pipes, a small company of men worked an array of levers.

“Da Vinci,” he whispered, “you are a wizard!”

“Not a wizard,” Leonardo replied, “a scientist.”

Futuristics : Monorail Transportation Gallery

Futuristics : Monorail Transportation Gallery

"While everybody else talks about monorails, Seattle's building one!"

Link thanks to Philaros

Librarians Against Bush

Librarians Against Bush


Believe it or not, I would have preferred something more along the lines of "Librarians For Freedom" or something with a more positive, non-partisan bent. Even after Bush is gone, many of the issues will still remain for us to deal with: xenophobia, freedom of speech, etc.

Down for the Count

LA CityBEAT / Valley BEAT: "At around 8:50, Soubirous's campaign manager, Brian Floyd, received a call from an election observer in Temecula informing him that the vote count had been stopped - apparently by Registrar Mischelle Townsend herself. The reason was not made clear. So Floyd and another Soubirous campaigner named Art Cassel jumped into a car and drove to Townsend's office to investigate. Sure enough, the counting area appeared to be near-deserted. But then they noticed two men huddled at one of the vote tabulation computers. "

Danziger Cartoons

Danziger Cartoons

Freakin' Hilarious

JibJab

People have been sending this to me all week. I finally got it to work and it's the freaking most hilarious thing I've seen in a long time!

Conch Shell or The Perils of Lucid Dreaming

This isn't really a pulp story, though it contains some of the elements of pulp: a strange sort of a whodunnit, a saturnine villain, a deathtrap... Nevertheless, I'm generally pleased with the result. Thanks to Milo for the phrase.

Satycus Arnd looked at the gift again. It was, he had to admit, attractive in its very simplicity. Pearlescent white, it resembled nothing so much as a simple shell carved in ivory. It emitted a faint sound of surf. According to Delucar, one of his senior apprentices, the sound enhanced sleep. Young Delucar showed promise, Satycus thought, if only he weren’t so quiet.

In the dream, Satycus was in a library, but not one he’d ever seen before. It was a single corridor that ascended in a gentle curve to the left from bivalve doors of carved horn until it was lost from sight. Idly, Saticus selected a volume, a lesser work on plant infusions. He flipped the pages and was delighted to find a previously unknown foreword by none other than Viridian himself. He licked his lips at this prize. By the time he woke, he had browsed his way several shelves down the spiral.

The students were jumpy that day, and Satycus was in a temper. Everywhere he went in the halls of the Lyceum there were whisperings and hurried migrations lest one find himself the target of undeserved wrath. Satycus stumbled his way irritably through the day, rings under his eyes, his hands trembling slightly. It was a great relief to fall finally into bed.

In the library, Satycus felt rested and clear headed, even vigorous. “Now where was that pamphlet on stellar observations?” he thought. “No matter, there are more interesting things, I’m sure, just a little further in.”

The headmaster shook his head and regarded the riot of papers strewn across the lecturer’s desk. “Satycus,” he said patiently, “this isn’t comprehensives, you know. It’s just a minor colloquium. A small talk should be sufficient, a review of gemstone induction, perhaps?”

The pale, drawn figure digging through the disordered manuscripts didn’t seem to hear him. “I just need a little time,” Satycus growled, “I’ve got an idea, you see, well, many ideas actually. I’m on the verge of something great, something that touches every area of knowledge. This is vitally important, as great as Koraq’s matrices, you understand?”

“Yes, yes,” the headmaster said resignedly, “take all the time you need.” And he turned away sadly. He would have to find someone else to address the colloquium. “Perhaps that promising youngster,” he thought, “what was his name? Delucar.”

The dream was familiar by now, even expected. It had been many nighst. Satycus wasn’t sure how many. He had explored the dream library with increasing interest, even hunger, finding more and more incredible volumes. Translating the insights contained therein into waking comprehension was proving difficult, but Satycus was sure he was near a breakthrough soon and regain the headmaster’s respect.

Yes, something definitive was demanded. He began to pull books off the shelf. “Drivel!” he exclaimed, dropping a book at his feet, “Pure drivel! If only there were a catalog, I could find what I need.” And then, an idea dawned. Surely if there were a catalog, it could only be found at the center of the library. That was where Satycus would put it, if it were he. He had explored some distance around the great spiral corridor, but he had never found the center. He set out at a trot. The trot became a jog, and the jog, a run. Soon he’d left the doors out of sight. In time, they faded even from his memory.

“It’s truly a pity about your predecessor,” the headmaster was saying. “The doctor has some hopes of waking him, but I’m afraid I don’t share his optimism. He’s beyond our help now. We’ll have his things cleared out of here. I trust the chambers are to your liking, Mr. Delucar?”

“Yes,” purred the youngest lecturer of the Lyceym Arcanum, examining a small ivory carving with some interest, “they shall be splendid.”

2004 Results

Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest


An international literary parody contest, the competition honors the
memory (if not the reputation) of Victorian novelist Edward George Earl
Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873). The goal of the contest is childishly
simple: entrants are challenged to submit bad opening sentences to
imaginary novels.

Homestar Runner - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Homestar Runner - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Next Movement

I want to thank all those who've been giving me words and phrases to write from. It's been a long time since writing was this much fun for me, so I hope you've all been enjoying it too. Writing the 101 word stories has been a particular blast, but the world moves on. I'm still stuck for a theme for my Eberron novel proposal, so to try and joggle my brain into action, I'm going to try to apply a pulp theme (loosely defined) for my next five stories.

Federal Charges Filed Against Stargate Fan

Stargate Information Archive - Federal Charges Filed Against SG-1 Archive

"His online friendship with other Stargate fans across the globe was portrayed as an international conspiracy against the MPAA. And perhaps most disturbing of all, it was later revealed that the FBI invoked a provision of the USA Patriot Act to obtain financial records from his ISP. "

So you still think you only need to worry about the Patriot Act if you're a terrorist? If this holds up, then being a member of any significantly sized group, even a group as informal as the fans of a TV show, may result in your rights being reduced.

Satrap

I don't go in for this "optimistic" science fiction. Human nature's a mess, that's what I say. An interesting thing about the word "Satrap". A Satrap was a regional governor in the Persian empire. It's also the first time in history where we see a person with kingly power whose right to rule isn't connected in some way to the gods.

Coswell found the aliens charting a deep star on Antares’ rim. They were bemused by the human. “What is this ‘peace’ you offer? Surely all intelligent species are friends?” For 100 days the travelers enlightened the human with the fruits of a culture a million years old. Then, putting him on his ship, vastly accelerated his way home. When Coswell addressed the world, nations strained to hear. “They are strong,” he said, “and mighty beyond belief, but they will share their gifts, they won’t destroy us, provided only one thing – I and only I shall be their representative.” So it goes.

The New Pantagruel

The New Pantagruel

The New Pantagruel, a quarterly electronic journal, is challenging the National Review and the National Review Online to an "all-staff Wing Chun or lumberjack style wrestling match." And that's just the beginning. The New York Times featured the irreverent web journal in a July 17 front-page article, "Young Right Tries to Define Post-Buckley Future," around up of new thinkers who are redefining what "conservative" means. "Conservative is a word that is almost meaningless these days," editor Caleb Stegall says. "It tells you almost nothing about where a person stands on a lot of questions."

The Pantagruel's an odd bird. It's part cardinal and part mockingbird, but it acts like a gadfly. How much of the aspects of each it will really embody remains to be seen. Even odder than its morphology is its choice of perch. The Pantagruel looks for that peculiar spot between the empty promise of modernity and the dissolution of the Western church (with a predictably large "W" and a provocatively small "c"). Yes, it caught my attention instantly.

Trying to understand what they're about by jumping in is a little daunting. Even on their forums, the words run thick, with many posts that read like articles in themselves. This is "print out" territory, as opposed to "listlessly browse while I wait for someone to send me email."

To get a look inside the Pantagruel's mind, look at this press release quoted above, but to really see what they're about, you'd do better to look at Caleb Stegall's welcome message.


Many thanks to Dougievan for bringing this to my attention.

Keeping it Real in the Dual Pines Trailer Park with Cordoba

I decided to use Philos' ersatz phrase 'Keep it together Cordoba', just because the name Cordoba seemed to imply a rather self-satisfied fellow who lives in a trailer park. This is only one of Cordoba's many adventures.

Those UFOs shouldn’t’ve taken the roof off Cordoba’s vintage airstream. The whole park gathered to watch Cordoba, cussin’ an’ drippin’ (he’d been in the shower), swear his vengeance. So Cordoba lay wait in a lawn chair, sleeping under an American flag, six pack to the left, shotgun to the right. When we heard shooting, we came runnin’. There’s Cordoba, lyin on his butt, soaking wet. “Is that beer all over you?” I asked.

“T’aint beer, that’s UFO blood.”

Legend still lives, how Cordoba fought off a flotilla of UFOs. Me, all I know is, I ain’t seen one around since.

Good blue-pencil editing becomes a lost art

USATODAY.com - Good blue-pencil editing becomes a lost art: "As we look for a new Atkins diet, let's eat our own shoots, leave the leaves and develop a stylish new sense of verbal thinness, once called wit."

Link found by Orkgrrrl, and dedicated to Philaros

"My Beef With Big Media" by Ted Turner

"My Beef With Big Media" by Ted Turner: "How government protects big media--and shuts out upstarts like me."

An interesting read, via philaros

Palimpsest

For Nelsad's word.

The protesters in somber array surprised me. “MindWriting is Murder!” And I doubted. But serious men in gray suits formed around me, and I was in. “The process,” the doctor began, “lets you make a truly new start.” I toned out his voice. What would the new me be like? Would I like orange? Liver? How would he decide,  given this? He, I hoped, would sympathize. The assistant asked, by law, “Are you of sound mind? Has anyone coerced your choice?” I answered the minimum required. Before they put me under, I only asked, “Will I forget her?”

Ronstadt's Vegas Comeback?

E! Online News - Ronstadt's Vegas Comeback?

Linda Ronstadt's banning from performing at the Aladdin Hotel's made some headlines lately. It's been reported that Ronstadt was banned for praising Michael Moore, although it seems the banning may have had just as much to do with the near riot she apparently incited with her comments. Anyway, that's not why I'm blogging this. I'm blogging it because now the Aladdin has offered to invite Ronstadt back... as long as she does a duet with Michael Moore. We do indeed live in amusing times.

Advent of the Monster

The science fiction monster in this story is a little more familiar, but still terrifying. This is for Miked's phrase 'carbuncle'.

Prozac washed down with red wine, back and forth between kitchen and living room -- nothing in the fridge I want, no music I like. Compromise: radio low, more wine. But now a spider surprises me, defiantly guarding the corkscrew. Why did I leave it just there? "OK, it's just a spider. Get a grip on yourself." Big as my thumb, eyes carbuncular, a real science fiction monster, hirsute feelers tasting the air to embrace the awed heroine, me. For minutes, I stare.

Then, I crush it. Later, I make bread without washing the counter; inadvertently swallow bits of my fear.

Seattle Weblogs

Seattle Weblogs: "Once upon a time, Seattle was the Jet City. The jetliners we built and launched here were, in some ways, the first Internet -- connecting all the countries of the world into a global community. The shimmering future of our 1962 Space Age World's Fair never happened -- but Seattle still brings the world together on-line."

Birdsong

Here's a my first 101-word story. This one's for John P, who, I imagine, knows what it's like when a bird wakes you up in the middle of the night.

You hear many noises in a space station. Laudman knew them all. He'd practically designed the thing himself. The squeak started slowly. It bothered him, interrupted his sleep, spoiled his meals. The others thought he was neurotic, heard nothing. But meticulous, he suited up anyway, inspecting the hull, every inch. There was nothing. He became a bore, bringing up the sound at exercises. Twice more he suited up. But you can't trace a sound in space. The third time out, a short in communications killed all aboard. The rescue ship found Laudman clinging to the hull, oxygen deprived, raving about birdsong.

The hysterical skies?

Salon.com Technology | The hysterical skies

The WomensWallstreet.com article Terror in the Skies, Again by Annie Jacobsen caused a bit of s tir on the blogosphere. I saw it, ready it, and decided not to blog it because it looked like more unsubstantiated hearsay and paranoia. It turns out I was right. The sinister figures in this case were nothing more than a band of Syrian musicians hired to play at a hotel.

Enchantment Interrupted

I have these bad days where I hate everyone, particularly everyone in the coffee shop. Usually on those days a little wanton destruction slips into whatever I'm writing. This is one of those pieces. Thanks to Sebbiem for the phrase.

Her insanely perfect sepia hair with perfect streaks of taupe fell maddeningly from the crown of her brow. Her ridiculously perfect nose pointed at me unfailingly. Her flawless lips said, "and this one contains a powerful spell of personal power. That's why when I'm coming in a door and someone else is coming out, they always step aside for me." She pointed at an intricate tattoo hovering above the midpoint of her breasts. I was momentarily entranced by the spell of her words and I looked closer. I thought it looked like a lust-crazed octopus trying to strange a chrysanthemum. Lyman and Sara nodded enthusiastically, hanging on her every word.

I leaned back. "That's because you're stealing their politeness," I said. I probably should have just kept silent, but there's something when people start throwing witchcraft around my coffee shop that gets to me a bit.

"What are you talking about?" she asked. Lyman and Sara frowned at me over their decaff lattes.

"Politeness is a source of energy," I explained, "like most cultural artifacts and conventions. Stepping aside and allowing someone else through a door is a mode of the energy of politeness. You spell is actually interrupting that flow and turning it into power. So you see, it's a sort of theft isn't it." I wasn't sure it was entirely true, but I suspected I might be on the right track.

She looked at Lyman and Sara. "Magic is the power of the universe. It never steals, only creates. It is opposed to ignorance and doubt. There are always people who are afraid of that kind of power."

I drained my coffee carefully. "Oh look," I said, "I'm out of coffee." I stood.

There is a special power in all things brewed and burned and roasted. Animals know how to drink the water and eat the fruit. Angels, I'm given to understand, subside on nothing at all, or maybe harp music. Only humans brew.

The Arabs invented mathematics on a diet of strong black coffee. The Sumerians discovered beer and civilization in the same flash of intuition. There's probably a good story about soy sauce too. Roasting is preparation. Brewing is transformation. And every school kid learns about fermentation, but I'm digressing. I don't know any real witchcraft, but I do know enough to fortify myself with strong brewed substances when there's magic in the offing. "Fix me a triple," I said, "and a glass of water."

By the time I got back, Lyman was glassy-eyed. Sara's head was lolling. I carefully poured the glass of water over the girl's head. "Oops," I said, "I'm so clumsy!"

She screamed and sputtered, but of course the enchantment was ruined. She called me a lot of names, but I don't remember what they were. For my part, I was charming, apologetic. I offered to buy her a coffee. She stalked out, her hair looking like a wad of damp bullrushes, her feet leaving mildly magical puddles across the floor. Nobody casts spells in my coffee shop, and nobody calls me ignorant.

101 Words

The Bellingham Weekly is holding a 101 word story contest. That means that entries must be 101 words or less. I've always loved short short stories. When they work they are the most rarefied form of fiction possible. So I'm going to make my next 5 stories 101 words or less, and enter the best of them into the contest. And just to make it fun, I'm going to try and write them all with a Science Fiction theme. We'll see how far I get.

Never get Caught in Traffic Again

Yesterday I had to honk my horn twice in a 10 block drive because someone fell asleep at the light. Traffic on the bridge is driving me crazy. Maybe that's why my response to Philaros' phrase "two ton Teuton" came out the way it did.

Welcome to your war machine. In a few moments, you're going to enter the exciting world of impulse assisted cybermecha combat. But first, a few works about your new 2026 Crusader XT Mecha. If you're a first time user, please view the "So you want to be a mecha pilot" instructional video.

All versions of the Crusader weigh in at 2 tons unloaded and with a dry reactor. For this reason, they are classified as Light Combat mechas. While some owners are embarrassed to pilot a platform in the light classification, there are actually several advantages to owning a mecha in this category.

The Crusdaer mounts the same reactor as the Dynakil Grognard Assault Mecha. Having this larger reactor in a smaller frame means the power-to-weight ratio and acceleration are vastly increased. And the lower profile means you won't stand out as a target for annoying sniper attacks on the battlefield.

How did we get such a powerful reactor on a light frame? The scientists at Dynakill Systems never rest. Our patented MechGard technology shields the pilot's most important internal organs without burdening the powerframe with excess weight.

The Crusader doesn't skimp in the armaments department either, mounting two omni-vulcan antipersonnel cannons. A 16 foot tungsten tipped chainsword will make even the most heavily armored opponent think twice. The optional lightning shield is also recommended for customers expecting combat in dryer climates.

The Crusader is the perfect mecha for private landholders needing to patrol their holdings, or fulfill a mandatory fealty oath through military service. It also makes a great first mecha and is bound to be a popular coming-of-age gift this year. Talk to your local sales rep about gift wrapping.

Yard Sale

This is the "yard sale" story requested by Jeremy. Tony has a lot of story ideas lined up, so he farmed this one out to me.

 
Uncle Max believed he was a divvy. A divvy (thought by some to have originated from “diviner”) is someone who goes to yard sales, and finds treasures, not junk. Divvies then sell the treasures for much more than they paid at the yard sales.  Mom said that Uncle Max was not a divvy, he was a yard-rat, but she was his younger sister and had never forgiven him for trading her Beatles records for a Larry Santos painting that had turned out to be a fake. Uncle Max never apologized. “Art does not apologize,” Uncle Max said. “Why should I?”

I was not a divvy. I was the fool who got cajoled, conned, and coerced into going along with Uncle Max to his yard sales so that he could have his arms free to bargain while I carried his so-called treasures. “I’m not doing it, Uncle Max” I said each Sunday. “That armchair I had to drag all the way to your house did not come from the parlor of Teddy Roosevelt’s brother. You lied to get me to do what you wanted.”

“I elaborated to encourage you where simple brute strength might have failed,” Uncle Max corrected. “How was I to know that Teddy didn’t really have a twin brother named Freddy?”

 “You’re supposed to know your history.”

“You are a sucker for the details,” Uncle Max said. “Look at it this way—it might be junk, it might be treasure, but who are we to judge?”

“You are!” I said. “You’re supposed to be the divvy.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Uncle Max said. “See, what would I do without you, kid?” 
 

 

Experimental Film

So a guy walks up to an ATM...

The new video by TMBG.

Tentham's Landing

This story is for RogerT's phrase 'The Magnificat'. I can't say I'm particularly happy with this one. Whatever there was going on in my brain when I started it didn't really come out in the story. Sorry, sometimes it's a misfire. I hoped to get a good one for this phrase, too. Maybe that's why it didn't work out.

O vaulted memory, stir my heart. Wipe the veil of years from my eyes and show me in reverie what once mine eyes perceived and show me the truth of years.
-- Cevestie Prayer

I remember this about Tentham's Landing:
- The heat
- The dust
- The whine of jets as the cargo haulers lift and land
- The stink of a million soul shanty town.

Tentham's Landing, a fathering of scrap metal huts, canvas tents, and ad-hoc landing fields huddled around the massive bulk of a New Kharkasian Industries planet reactor, trade station, and Guards outpost. We used to have a joke in the guards. "What are the Guards on Tentham's for? Answer: to guard the Guards station." Every day another 100 dust suckers die of hunger or disease in Tentham's Landing. A handful more are killed by the military police or each other. In the same time almost twice as many arrive. Out of all those, maybe a half dozen a week will find work on a tramp freighter and get off world. So with all that, you'd think another birth wouldn't make much difference, least of all to me.

It was a night patrol, which I don't have to tell you is the worst sort. There were five patrols down South Boulevard every day, and even so we had to send a bulldozer down once a week just to keep the road clear of squatters and wide enough for a cargo flit. Command called it "local population relations", but we called it "gook patrol", and carried a fusion blaster.

Yeah, there was a birth. That's for certain. I'm not sure I know much else about it. I never thought... There's something about a baby being born that means, well, no matter how many firefights you've been in, how many times you've been shot at, a baby being born, it means something. I don't know why the gooks there were kneeling, but I'm not ashamed to say I knelt too. They're not as ignorant as they look.

I finished my hitch a little after that and shipped out. I took a position on a free trader. I still wonder if maybe someday I might see that kid that was born. It doesn't seem likely. Life isn't long or illustrious if you happen to be born in a box shelter on Tentham. On the other hand, I can't help but wonder.

What is Talislanta?

I'm posting this because someone saw that I have Talislanta listed as an interest on my mostly inactive Livejournal, and asked how I heard about it, do I still play, etc. A lot of my other friends know I'm a Tal fan, but don't know the game itself.
 
I've know about Tal for years, as my buddy Philaros has long been an active member of the Talislanta community. But I didn't actually become closely interested in it until I met feng, who also happened to author the 4th edition of the game. By the way, Tal 4th edition is one of the most gorgeous RPG books I've ever seen. I strongly recommend you bug your local game store to carry it.
 
Tal belongs to the "deep setting" school of RPG design. Although it's a fantasy world, it was designed in almost direct contradiction of the superficially Lord of the Rings-esque D&D. Tal has dozens of races, cultures, and environs, each of which is radically distinctive from the others.
 
I'm not currently playing Tal, but I actively follow it. My close friends know that since the Orklet was born, my gaming has been drastically reduced. I've also turned away from gaming to concentrate more on writing. In fact I have a two-thirds complete Talislanta novel manuscript. Although I've been on break from it for two months, it remains an active project.
 
As an interesting aside, I've been looking at the latest D&D campaign setting, Eberron, and I'd almost swear that whomever designed it was familiar with Talislanta. There's a definitely a bit of a Talislanta flavor to the whole project. Effort has been made to give the geographic regions a more distinct flavor. The rigidity of the alignment system has been removed and a wider range of gameplay styles are actively encouraged (including pulp, swashbuckling, investigative, diplomatic, and so on). And of course there are the flying ships. I'd be interested if anyone who's familiar with both systems agrees with me.

By the way, "I, Robot" isn't "I, Robot"

The Templeton Gate - Authors - Harlan Ellison - I, Robot Screenplay
"PLEASE NOTE: The upcoming film starring Will Smith is not based on this screenplay, and from what I have read was not even originally based on Asimov's stories. Instead, changes were made to the new script to add the elements of Asimov's Laws of Robotics and acquire rights to use the title."

Harlan Ellison's screenplay for I, Robot has long been viewed as a triumph of sci-fi screenwriting. Unfortunately, for a number of reasons ranging from legal entanglements to studio blindness, it has never been made.

The War-Torn Novel

It appears that Wizards of the Coast is having an open competition to choose the third novel for their new Eberron novel series. Since Eberron is a fusion fantasy/pulp setting with a dash of noir, you can bet I'll be submitting a precis. The upshot, however, is that my story writing is likely to move a little more slowly over the next month as I work on my Eberron outline. That doesn't mean I'm going to stop altogether, though. In fact, my next story, "The Magnificat" is almost done!

Wind Shear

This one's for Sebbiem's phrase "poor phone reception". I can't say I'm entirely happy with it. Maybe it needed to be longer, but there is a story there at least.

The desert sky plays tricks on you at dawn. It can be another world. But Bobby Stee didn’t know this. The desert sky, predawn, glowered a menacing red eyebrow that curled its irritation through a dim sky over an umber row of hills. But Bobby Stee was sure he saw the lights of what he was sure was a gas station just on the edge of sight, so he up and left behind his dead hulk of Ford Fairlane and started walking. The lights were lost in the rising of the sun long before he got there. The only feature of the landscape was the already hot line of black asphalt he walked and a row of sun-baked poles topped by a wire.

Those promising lights had vanished in the dawn, but Bobby kept on, sure he must be closer to it that back to his car. But concerning what “it” was, he was mistaken.

A phone booth – that was all. He tried to contain his disappointment. As his tired legs carried him closer, he observed something strange. He was almost certain the booth was occupied. As he watched, he thought he saw the dark figure he thought he saw hang up the phone, wait, then answer the phone again. He was not mistaken.

The man in the booth was dressed in black – a long coat, a tan hat, shades. His umbrella leaned against the booth. Absurdly, there was not a building in sight, not a car. Moved to politeness byu the oddity of it, Bobby waited patiently. Scraps of conversation drifted through the glass: “88 degrees, rising towards noon”, “clouds”, “snow level dropping to 2800’”. Was he a weatherman or something? When the man hung up again, Bobby knocked. The weatherman opened the door and stared at him blankly.

Bobby motioned to the phone. The weatherman frowned, but he stepped out. “By quick,” was all he said. Bobby dialed 0. “I’d like to make a collect call.”

25 minutes later, it wasn’t going so well for Bobby. “Then call the highway patrol or something,” he said, “Their number must be listed at least. Yeah, I’ll stay on the line. No, I can’t call myself; I don’t have any money, remember?” Bobby felt a tap on his shoulder. The strange pleading look in the weatherman’s eyes made him pause. There were dark clouds, he noticed, in the sky behind him. He wondered, isn’t that unusual in the desert? He turned back to the phone.

10 minutes later, the gusting wind was making the booth shake. Bobby looked up. The weather man looked really worried now. He motioned anxiously towards the phone. He reached for the receiver.

“No way, man, wait your turn!” The weatherman grabbed Bobby’s shoulder. “Please…” he whispered, but Bobby shoved him away.

5 minutes later, the sky was roiling. Bobby was having a hard time hearing over the howling wind. Reception was bad. The hills were lost now in clouds of dust and debris. Bobby hung up the phone. “Fine, you can have it…” he began, but the weatherman wasn’t looking at him. He was staring sadly at the sky. Bobby looked up. He stared in wonder as the funnel cloud descended with astounding speed upon a tiny phone booth, and two tiny figures.

It came from IKEA

Here's an idea. Let's make a role-playing game where we replace the Dungeons and Dragons alignment system of good vs. evil and law vs. chaos with one where the poles are consumeristic vs. frugal and taste vs. kitch. We'll call it IKEA.

Tom the Dancing Bug

Salon.com Comics | Tom the Dancing Bug

Maybe I'm just punch drunk tired, but this seems really amusing to me right now.

Real stories by ITPros

IT Pro Stories

I wouldn't normally blog a Microsoft site for humor purposes, but here's a great page I encountered in the course of perfectly legitemate work-related activities.

Tired?

The orklet is sitting on her mat, playing with a yellow block, a Hello Kitty bag and two cheerios. For the last three days up until this morning she's had a fever of up to 103. Yeah, I guess I'm tired.

The Cathedral and the Bizarre

"Romance doesn't work for virtual worlds. Sex does, but romance doesn't. If you start out with the former, you rapidly end up with the latter."
--Richard Bartle, "Designing Virtual Worlds"

I'm tired of getting Sogol's junk mail. It's been over five years since the philosopher last stayed with me, yet his junk mail keeps following me around. Maybe that's just as well - not the junk mail, but the fact that I haven't seen him. Sogol's an unpredictable spirit at best, a disruptive influence.

By a lucky chance, I have a quantity of Sogol's papers left behind after his last whirlwind tour. He also left behind a letter naming me executor and translator of any writings left in my possession. They are essentially mine to disburse as I wish. Milo's phrase was "a supplemental chapter on pornography", and Sogol has written quite a bit on pornography. So, without further fanfare:

Infamously, online gaming + romance = pornography. And why not? In the mis-named "Real World", achieving anything approximate to pornography in ones actual life requires an enormous amount of energy and effort and may be, for the bulk of persons, impossible. Does this then categorically define online worlds as fantastical? And what does this say about the other interactions these worlds offer: commerce, adventure, combat.

St. Augustine theorized that the inability of man to control his erection was evidence for the flawed character of human nature, which raises some intriguing questions about the facts of human performance in the Garden. It also suggests some disturbing parallels between the Garden and the MORG.

This brings us to our key issue in this chapter: is the Internet merely the Book of Life with a supplemental chapter on Pornography? In this world of tears, we can, it seems, build an online paradise of limited scope, but this again begs the question, "is it wise?" Beware the Bartles, who hide in the net of the knowledge of good and evil, nursing a covert anthropology, whispering much of what might be, but nothing of what ought.

Sogol's a genius, but some of what he writes is absolute drivel.

I am the Appetizer King

I have discovered that I am the appetizer king. For example, tonight I made a chicken satay with peanut sauce that was really quite good. It's not that my appetizers are superior, though they are certainly good, it's that I enjoy the appetizer so much. I understand the essence of the appetizer. A friend of mine (whom some of you know) is the acknowledged master of cooking ridiculous quantities of excellent meat. I am the king of the appetizer.

update: I am not longer the "apetizer" king. I am now the "appetizer" king. Thanks to Philaros, the daimon of copy editing.

Counterterrorism officials look to postpone elections

USATODAY.com - Counterterrorism officials look to postpone elections

"Newsweek said DeForest Soaries, chairman of the U.S. Election Assistance Commission, wants Ridge to ask Congress to pass legislation giving the government power to cancel or reschedule a federal election. Soaries said New York suspended primary elections on the day of the Sept. 11 attacks, but the federal government does not appear to have that authority."

Our political system does not realy on altruism or goodwill. It presumes that politicians are many times ambitious people. At best, it seeks to channel that ambition into the service of the people. At worst, it seeks to channel it into the battle to win and hold public office.

Out political system makes it hard to hold and keep power. This is because ambitious people will do whatever is in their power to get it. They will use whatever tools and tricks are available. Even in the United States, election trickery is not uncommon. It seems to me to be particularly unwise to give arbitrary oversight of a Federal election in progress to any person or group. If this is done, it will be used for political purposes; perhaps not now, but eventually.

How to make a tony.dowler.com

Ingredients: 5 parts intelligence 5 parts humour 1 part energy

Method: Add to a cocktail shaker and mix vigorously. Serve with a slice of fitness and a pinch of salt. Yum!

Username:

Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com

Raiding the High Lemon Fields of Arcadia

The phrase that inspired this story was "The taste of lemons", submitted by Sebbiem. Not much else to say about it. By the way, I hate stories with dragons in them, which is why it's a mystery to me where this story came from.

In the dawn light, Barger can remember the taste of lemons, sharp as Sunday, true as the moon. He sights down the back of Cascal, high Flight Dragon, and edges him around so his nose is pointing straight at the rock wall, just to the right of the waterfall. Yula and her mount Salyx are behind him and to his left. She’s chosen a cautious approach, but not Barger.

All at once, the wall is right in front of him. He heaves on the reins with all his strength. The waterfall roars in his ears and he feels spray on his cheek. Then a powerful updraft grabs Cascal in its hands and the two are surging upwards. Barger knows this trick well. The Farm Guards don’t.

The Farm Guards don’t know what hit them when Barger swings over the ridge. One manages a string of shots from his pulse rifle, but Barger is already across the perimeter, into 150’ tall jungle rank with vines as thick as his waist. Through a gap he glimpses Yula pacing him. She’s grinning, too. They are invincible.

And then the world rears up and hits Barger hard in the chest, blowing the air from his lungs and hurling him to the ground. He’s been caught in a whiplash; careless. Stunned, he kicks and tries to free himself from the ropy bonds, tastes blood in his mouth. A Farm Guard is bearing down on him, his war mask a leer of iron teeth. If this one had a rifle, Barger’d be done, but he doesn’t. But Barger is weak, and he can’t draw a proper breath. He tries to roll into a better position, to get away from the guard.

Then Cascal wheels through foliage, strafing the guard with claws open. But the guard raises his adze, cutting Cascal along the side. Barger is partially free now, and he kicks at the Farm Guard’s knees. The guard is thrown off balance and falls backwards. Barger is on his feet. Cascal swoops low, and Barger is up on his back again.

Yula laughs at him as they weave and dart through the trunks, leaving the ambush far behind, but Barger isn’t amused. Both he and Cascal are injured, though not seriously, he realizes. Then, all is forgotten as they break from the wall of trees. Below them stretch miles upon miles of lemon fields. The return trip won’t be easy. The Farm Guards will be expecting them, but they are young and cunning and willing, and until then they have the lemons.

By the way, it turns out that Sebbiem, who originally provided the suggestion that I elicit story topics to stimulate my writing, has been doing this for ages on his livejournal.

Salon.com Technology | Great big green monster mansions

Salon.com Technology | Great big green monster mansions

"En route to a Vancouver, B.C., conference on recycled products a couple of years ago, green-building consultant Kathleen O'Brien struck up a conversation with her Bangladeshi cab driver, who wanted to know what kind of green features to incorporate into his house. 'He asked, 'Should it be wood, should it be steel?'' said O'Brien, who helped create Built Green, a landmark residential green-building program in Washington state. 'I said: 'If you do one thing, build it small.'"

There's a powerfuly prejudicial attitude that dictates you ought buy as much house as you can afford. Living in a house that's probably too small for us, I can see why this attitue prevails. But a house can be too much just as easily as too little, and ultimately a small house with the right layout might be the way to go.

Now if I could just remove the fireplace, I'd be able to have the perfect kitchen.

The Battle of the Also Rans

Salon.com News | Dean hits Nader where it hurts

"Howard Dean wasted little time getting to the point in a debate with third-party presidential candidate Ralph Nader on Friday. After listening to Nader's standard posturing about how only he can save the Democratic Party and the nation from the 'corporate interests' that have consumed politics and government, the former Vermont governor struck hard: 'Ralph, I think you're being disingenuous about your candidacy this year.' "

By chance I heard the last 15 minutes of this debate on the radio the other day, and I can aver it was a real humdinger. Nader and Dean both went at it like pros: with respect for their opponent, but without pulling any punches either. I'm not sure that dean gave Nader the beating that the Salon article seems to imply. The most amusing moment was when the moderator asked why is it, in our culture, that an atheist or a woman can't run for president. Nader's response was a plug for his recent book. Dean responded by promoting his Web site. A good laugh was had by all.

Link thanks to Orkgrrrrl

Gmail Invitations?

Is there anyone out there with a Gmail invitation to spare? And while we're on the topic, I can give Orkut invites to anyone who knows me and who's interested.

As Slow as Possible

classical music - andante - 639-year-long performance of john cage's as slow as possible adds two notes: "In an abandoned church in the German town of Halberstadt, the world's longest concert moved two notes closer to its end Monday [5 July]: Three years down, 636 to go. "

Link thanks to Philaros