Rant

[Writing Filter] December contest entry - Holiday Rush

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 23:25:25 GMT

The gimmick on this contest is to use three writing prompts from the archive of about 230 daily offerings as part of your story. 1500-3000 words, (mine is exactly 3000.)

I chose these three:

One
Shoppers bustled to and fro. Packages under their arms, bags held tightly in their grips. _So this is how the apocalypse begins._ He thought. _With a sale._

Two:
The car engine whined as he took aim and fired - the back window shattered in a galaxy of glass splinters and the snarling loup-garu tumbled from accelerating vehicle. "Shift!" he shouted over the ringing in he ears.

Gears snarled and the SUV lurched but then charged forward. "I've never driven stick before!" Kate shouted. Suddenly the vehicle shuddered again, great dents formed in roof and vicious inch long claws began to dig rends in the metal like it was butter.

Three:
The call connected. "Yes?" a voice snapped.

"This is Fox, chicken is on sale again."

There was a short pause from the voice on the phone. "Not at the grocers at 17th and Vine."

"I only shop at Green Street & Briar, but you have to get there before five, the store closes early. Its two bucks a pound, for your party, I'd recommend thirty pounds."

"Thanks for the tip, we'll consider it." The phone clicked and Fox sighed and shook his head. He slid another clip into his belt, two more knives into his boots, and checked his holsters. Satisfied with his preparations, he pulled on his trench coat and headed for the door.

We are allowed to edit the prompts down to fit into our stories, though it does have to be recognizable.

So, at exactly 3000 words, here is

“So, this is how the apocalypse begins,” Aleister said, watching the mall-going shoppers bustle to and fro, armed with glossy plastic bags. “With a sale.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Elsinore replied, peeling off her cap and smoothing down the crackling froth of fire engine red hair. “We’re only here to meet with the Oracle, not stop the end of all things.” She shuffled her feet, stomping snow from her boots. “…again.”

“The dreams were fairly specific, Else,” Aleister said, unwrapping a long, homemade scarf from his neck and revealing neatly trimmed, black goatee punctuated by a silver labret piercing. “The end of the world is effing nigh upon us.”

“I love it when you don’t swear,” she grinned, following him into Macy’s amidst the throng of shoppers. “It reminds me of when your mom would threaten to wash your mouth out with mugwort.”

“Let’s not bring my mother into this,” Al said, sliding sideways to avoid wayward elbows. “She’s still irate we’re not coming to Phoenix for Yule.”

“Like you said,” Else shrugged. “‘The end of the world is effing nigh’. It’s her fault we’re the good guys, anyway.”

“Oh, jiminy Christmas!” Al swore with all the venom of a cantankerous holiday elf. “She’s not here!”

Else dragged herself away from a display of jewelry to stand next to Aleister, glaring hotly at a pair of mannequins in snow gear.

“Neither of these is her?”

“They must’ve moved her over the weekend,” Aleister said, trying to look over the heads of the Macy’s patrons. “Goddess blessed Christmas Eve sales!”

Else stifled giggles and climbed up on the display, hooking one arm around the waist of an unmoving mannequin and shading her eyes with the other. “She might be over in Women’s. Or in the window displays by the door.”

“I’ll hit the windows,” Aleister said, helping her down before she caught the attention of the roving security guards. “You take Women’s. Do you have a token?”

“You bet,” Else nodded. “Watch out for the kneebiters.”

Aleister stopped in his tracks, looked around cautiously and then dropped his arms. “You mean children, don’t you?”

Else covered her face to hide her grin and waved him off. “Yes. Go on. The mall closes in an hour.”

“This is why I shop on eBay,” he muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pea coat and stomping off towards the windows near the exit.

Else spun on her heel and trotted back towards the deeper concentration of clothing and shoppers. Three separate mannequin displays peered down at her in an unsettling triangulation that left her feeling exposed. She fitted her snow goggles into place and peered at each mannequin askance from the corners of her eyes.

“C’mon Cassandra,” Else muttered, stepping around a line of shoppers. “Show me your face.”

Through the rubied lenses, just at the seam in the peripheral of her vision, a blond-wigged model flicked her painted gaze to Else and then back.

“Ahah!” Else crowed. She rummaged through her pockets, her gloved hand emerging with a plastic box of Tic-Tacks. With some finagling she was able to balance the box in the mannequin’s upturned hand.

“Alrighty, Cassie,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let’s do this. I invoke thee prophetess, in my time of need. I call upon thy gift and ask for your blessing of wisdom. Accept this token and heed my call. By Cthyria, so mote it be.”

The mannequin did not seem impressed.

“Hey,” Else whined. “I got you orange this time!”

“Else.” Aliester’s dark voice behind her gave her a start and she whirled, one hand reaching beneath the voluminous bulk of her coat to the back of her jeans. “She’s in the window,” he said. “Come on, I need your help.”

Taking a breath to calm her heartbeat, Else moved her hands back to her sides and shot an icy glare at the mannequin. She snatched the candy mints from its plastic fingers before following Aleister through the pressing crowds. He lead her past the towering Christmas tree near the escalators, the plastic ornaments shivering as they swept by. Else snatched one of the glittering snowflakes from the plastic tree limb and stuffed it in her pocket spitefully.

Aleister interrupted the holiday window display like some gothic Santa Claus, turning the figure of “mom” from her Macy’s Christmas morning and placing his token Tic-Tacks in her hand. Else watched for security while his invocation buzzed behind her, the hairs on the back of her neck lifting in the presence of his magick.

“What is it you wish to know, Hypnatia’s son?” the mannequin Oracle said in a voice felt more than heard.

“The end of all things,” Aleister said, dropping into her cadence. “I have seen it in shadowed dreams, half remembered. I know only that it is in this place where the end shall come. I beg of you,” he continued, Else turning to the sound of his voice, tremulous where once it was curt. “Show us the truth and tell us how to stop it.”

“Ah, you are the seeress’ get,” Cassandra sighed, the scent of orange in the air. “But not so clearly does the veil part for thee. So little time there is to discern the pattern, to unravel warp and weave. But all threads part upon the edge of a knife, and at the bough’s breaking will thee see the light.”

The mannequin fell silent.

“That’s it?” Else asked.

Aleister shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “That can’t be it. That can’t be all you have for me!” He grabbed the mannequin’s head, his voice rising. “That’s not enough! You have to tell me the rest!”

“Al,” Else said, tugging on his sleeve.

“No, you don’t understand!” Aleister shook the mannequin, the plastic rattling. “I dream of every hell imaginable and all I’m ever told is half truths and catchy little verses that don’t explain anything!”

“Al,” Else repeated, watching the security guard making a bee-line through the crowd. “We’ve got to go.”

“I’m more than just a seeress’ get!” he shouted and the mannequin’s hand caught the edge of the fiber optic tree and sent it crashing to the display floor.

“Hey!” shouted the mall security guard, pushing past Else. “Get down from there!”

Aleister’s eyes cleared and he let go of the mannequin, the plastic figure rocking on her stand before resting upright, smiling at nothing. He climbed down from the display slowly, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. Else wound her arm around his elbow.

“We’re just leaving,” she said to the security guard, pulling Aleister towards the door.

“After that show?” The guard shook his head. “I don’t think so. You two get to come with me for some serious paperwork. You got any idea how much those things cost?”

“Hey, it’s totally Christmas Eve,” Else said. “Can’t we just buy a few gift cards and call it even? You know, show a little holiday spirit?”

“The Springvale Mall has a zero-tolerance policy,” the guard said, crossing his arms. “There’s a tiny, cinderblock office waiting for you. This way.” He gestured down one clogged artery of the department store walkway, leading to a door marked ‘private’. Else started walking, Al falling into step next to her.

“Want me to cause a scene?” she asked under her breath, adding bitterly, “I mean, not that you haven’t already.”

“We can’t risk getting thrown out,” Aleister said wearily. “The end of the world is happening tonight. If we’re stuck here waiting for the cops, then at least we’re here.”

“I’m packing,” Else growled quietly as the security guard used a keycard to unlock the door and pointed them down an empty corridor. “Conceal and carry notwithstanding, that’s a lot more attention then we want right now.”

“Why do you insist on carrying guns everywhere?” Al groused. “I know you spent a summer living with Captain Crazypants, but that’s no excuse!”

“Andrew is not crazy!” Else snapped. “Remember when those chaos demons broke through the veil at Samhain? You weren’t complaining then!”

“We’re at a mall, Else! Do you need that much muscle at Macy’s?”

“It’s the end of the effing world, Aleister!”

“Left,” the guard barked and they turned down a smaller hallway, a red exit sign casting blood light over the stark white paint.

“Look, whatever happens, we have to be here if we’re going to figure anything out.” Aleister shoved opened the door at the end of the hall, the sounds of the parking garage filling the small space.

“Huh,” Else said, looking out at the mall security SUV, the only car in sight. “That’s not good.”

The security guard shed his skin and roared.

“That’s worse.”

Else pulled the Nighthawk Custom 1911 from the holster at the back of her waist, snapping the safety and squeezing the trigger without taking the time to aim. The popping gunshots ricocheted thunderclaps throughout the garage, the werewolf folding over the .45 caliber impact before smoke obscured Else’s vision.

“Drive!” Else screamed, the sound barely registering in her ears.

Aleister fell against the side of the SUV, throwing open the door and jumping into the front seat. His hands reached for keys that were not in the starter but likely were attached to the discarded belt, pants and flesh of the security werewolf who was scrambling after Else. Al swore a line of PG-rated invective, pointed his finger and shoved it into the starter assembly.

“Aesir bring the spark of Mjolnir!” he incanted. The resulting static discharge threw the werewolf from the door, Else barely escaping the jolt as she tumbled onto the bench seat behind him. The creature’s scream was lost in the roaring of the engine.

“Go!” Else yelled, popping the clip and pulling another from the recesses of her coat.

Aleister hit the gas. The car didn’t move.

“Anytime,” she added, clearing the chamber and sighting down her arm to the back of the SUV. The back window shattered in a galaxy of glass splinters and the snarling werewolf tumbled from the rear hatch. "Shift!" she shouted over the ringing in her ears.

Gears snarled and the SUV lurched forward, tires squealing on the cement. "I've never driven stick before!" Aleister shouted, a line of smoke coughing between his lips. Suddenly the vehicle shuddered, great dents formed in roof and vicious inch long claws began to dig rends in the metal like it was butter.

“We’re so effed!” Else said. “Got any silver?”

“My labret!” he shouted, navigating the twisting paths of the parking garage. A line of brake lights glared before him. “Now!”

Else winced and reached to his face, grabbing the delicate jewelry below his lips and yanking upwards. He cried out as the roof of the SUV peeled back like a sardine can. Else jammed the slippery labret into the muzzle of the Nighthawk and extended her arm to the canine face full of teeth snarling down to take her hand.

The gun discharged with a crack and a squeal. Where once was fur and fang now gaped the three foot clearance to the cement support beams. Aleister slammed the brakes, the SUV fishtailing before coming to a stop just shy of the first row of frosted cars.

“Ow,” he said, stalling the engine and then holding his hand over his face. “Effing ow.”

Else stood on her seat and looked through the now convertible top of the SUV. The asphalt behind the car was streaked with blood, a set of padded footprints leading away at a sprint.

“What the fudge are werewolves protecting the end of the world for?!” Else screamed, startling a pair of teenagers on the way to their car. Else slid back down into the SUV, thumping open the glovebox to find the first aid kit.

“Muscle,” Aleister said carefully. “At Macy’s.”

“I saw something hiding in the mannequins in Women’s,” Else said, unwrapping a piece of gauze and setting it to his bleeding chin. “It must have blown the whistle on our investigation and called the puppy to take us out.”

“Ow,” Aleister replied. “Even with your fantastically convenient arsenal,” he said. “Werewolves are a tall order for just the two of us.”

“And the mall closes in half an hour.” Else freed a Band-Aid and handed it over. “I’m going to call in some backup.”

“Who?” Al asked, hissing as he applied the bandage.

“Captain Crazypants,” she said. “Who else do you know carries silver shot on a regular basis?”

“Do I need to tell you how bad an idea that is? Andrew’s an ex-military, paranoid freak!”

“That’s not true!” she defended, flipping open her cell phone.

The call connected. "Yes?" a voice snapped.

"This is Fox,” Else said, wincing. “Uhm … chicken is on sale again."

There was a short pause from the voice on the phone. "Not at the grocers at 17th and Vine."

"I only shop at the Springvale Mall,” she said. “But you have to get there before five, the store closes early. Its two bucks a pound. For this party, I'd recommend thirty pounds."

"Thanks for the tip, we'll consider it." The phone clicked and Else sighed and shook her head, returning the phone to her pocket and searching for her last clip.

“Nice code,” Al said over the bandage. “Do you have to talk like that in person, too?”

“Only over the cell. Ok, so he is a paranoid freak,” she admitted. “But he can handle the beasties that would eat us for Christmas dinner. Howzabout we make with the brain-teasing instead of debating my choice of suppressing fire?”

“You mean untangling the impossible verse of a plastic prophetess?” he said, flexing his charred index finger. “What’s there to noodle? We’re not smart enough to save the world.”

“Fer Chriskringle’s sake, would you stop it with the melodrama!” Else demanded. “World saving is old hat for us. Apocalypse, a-schmoka-lypse. Let’s make with the planning before the big guns get here and we look all silly.” She succeeded in pulling the clip from her pocket along with the glitter-dusted Christmas ornament shaped like a snowflake.

Aleister’s eyes rolled over black. His hand snatched out at Else and grabbed her by the throat, yanking her across the seat and up to his face. She yelped, her legs banging the gearshift and causing the SUV to lurch. She twisted in his grasp and brought the Nighthawk to his temple just as his other hand clamped down on her waist.

“Al,” she said voicelessly, thumbing the safety.

“… Else,” he replied, and crushed the ornament in his hand. The plastic snapped and shattered with a sucking sound. A gasping tingle of magick swept over her neck, peppering her skin with gooseflesh and causing her to shudder. Aleister sighed and sagged, letting his fingers slip from her throat.

The SUV rolled into a parking barrier with a crunch.

“I’m okay,” he said after an exceedingly long silence. “The reliquary …”

“Christmas ornament?”

“Yes. It was infused with negative emotion and power.” His shoulders shook involuntarily. “So much power.”

“Are you,” Else said, swallowing. “Are you … all here? I don’t think I could handle another big-bad Al routine. The first time-”

“Was the last time,” he said, finally bringing himself to look in her eyes. “No more. You can put the gun away, Elsie. I won’t hurt you, ever … again.”

She snapped the safety into place and removed the handgun, the impress of the barrel remaining on his cheek. “You promised me …” she said quietly, looking away. “Once …”

“Elsie,” he said, reaching to touch her face.

“Hey kids,” a deep, vibrato of a voice interrupted with the knock of a shotgun barrel against the window.

“Andrew!” Else cheered and threw open the door, sliding off Aleister’s lap and throwing herself into the arms of the lean, shotgun wielding man in a Santa hat. “How did you get here so fast?”

“Shopping for your Christmas present,” he said, hugging her one-armed while looking over his shoulder.

“Is it ammo?”

“It is now.” He reached into the satchel slung at his side and dug out three clips. “Now you’ve only got seven rounds of silver, so make it count.”

“Ten-four,” she said, gleefully reloading.

“What’s the plan, Spooky?” Andrew asked, peering back into the SUV. “You look like you got run over by a reindeer, boy.”

“I’ve had better holidays,” Aleistar said darkly, pulling himself free of the wrecked SUV and shaking the plastic shards from his hand. “The Christmas tree at Macy’s is full of evil reliquaries sucking up negative energy.”

“Bad mojo rising,” Else said. “Apocalypse now-ish.”

“Nice,” Andrew said, straightening his hat. “How do we stop it?”

“Uhm … we don’t know,” Else said, looking back at Aleister. “The Oracle was less than forthcoming with strategy. If they have one werewolf on the payroll, you can imagine what else is pulling for the end-of-all-things.”

“‘So little time there is to discern the pattern, to unravel warp and weave,’,” Aleister recited. “‘But all threads part upon the edge of a knife, and at the bough’s breaking will thee see the light’.”

“Wow, you remembered all that?” Else asked.

“Seeress’ get,” he said, pointing to himself. “We don’t have any time at all. But if the prophecy is true, we don’t need time, just a big knife.”

Andrew slid a machete from the sheath at his back, the blade ringing. “This big enough?”

“Overcompensating?” Else asked idly.

“Sweet baby Jesus in a manger!” Aleister shouted suddenly. “‘Bough’s breaking’, how could I be so dense? It’s the tree! It must be a focus for a summoning ritual. That’s what I’ve been dreaming about this whole time.”

“You sure about this, Al?” Else asked, stepping over to his side and lowering her voice. “We’ve got one whole shot at this.”

Aleister gave her a smile. “Put on our grinchin’ shoes, Elsie,” he said, pushing off the SUV and taking her by the hand. “We’re stealing Christmas!”

I wins!

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 14:00:37 GMT

I won the November writing contest on Plotstorming.com.

Go me.

Good news and bad news all in one

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 03:12:51 GMT

My wedding dress no longer fits.

It is too large. Like, way large.

Woo!

So I wore something else for tonight's Halloween party. Pics to come.

Birthday pics

Sat, 05 May 2007 19:50:29 GMT

I finally uploaded pics from the awesomest birthday ever, hosted by paintedskies and nakedstage.

My cake had bugs and a ninja on it!

paintedskies and I are scary.

Demon possession takes place during the opening of presents.

Until there is naught but evil where once the birthday girl remained. Shortly after this photo, my head began spinning around and I vomited forth flowers and kittens.

Good times.

Need for Lyrics

Wed, 31 Jan 2007 03:04:19 GMT

I've been called to help write a campy, 80's metal song to be performed by our D&D crew about ... well, D&D. I need lyrics. You're creative! You can help!

I want to work the phrase "I crit on eighteen or better" in there.

"I see by your bling that you are a holy man."

"Do they smell large?"

"What's that, girl? Timmy's awakened a lightning elemental?"

"These are boots of you-can't-track-me-bitch."

"Half-Orc Barbarian: Taking the damage so you don't have to!"

"I approach the Circulation Desk of the damned."

"Altheras blesses her faithful with mini fridges."

and ...

"Bigby's Crushing Purple Nurple."

Marcon 2007

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 17:25:57 GMT

We’re going to Marcon this year.

We consider not going every year, and then change our minds just after the deadline for the really good pre-reg rate. So yeah, Branden will be GM-ing, I will be dressing up and trying to feel comfortable at parties, and there will be much with the geeking of out.

If you think you'll be there, let us know! We can nerd out together.

Another pics post

Sat, 09 Dec 2006 03:12:47 GMT

A few random pictures from my life await behind the .

Our first ever real Christmas tree.

Edit: Only now to I notice my kitten Eowyn at the foot of the tree being possessed by SATAN!

Yes, Virginia. There is a Jellyfish.

Our not-so traditional mantle.

The kitty Orthanc, all decked out. You can see the pillar outside the window matches, too. *glee*

The adorable, surviving rats; Usagi, Minako and Rei.

All hail the hypno-cat.

No shit, this was my first time back at church in five years. Isn't my mom fabulous?

Thank you for peeking 'neath the cut!

PBS Porno

Sat, 09 Dec 2006 02:16:29 GMT

Celtic Woman = aural sex.

Pretty ladies, pretty voices. *ecstatic shudder*

No name kitty, please help!

Sun, 12 Nov 2006 00:06:27 GMT

Branden and I just adopted a new cat today. We love her so much and she is sweet as can be. Trouble is, we have no idea what her name is. Suggestions?

I thought the reflection in this pic was really neat.

MUST SEE!!!

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 01:49:49 GMT

If you live in or around the Columbus, Ohio region you have no excuse not to come and see this exhibition.

"We have not forgotten, Mr. President"

Wed, 13 Sep 2006 12:57:09 GMT

"...broadcasting live from above a desolate and still demolished Ground Zero, Olbermann delivered a stirring eight minute commentary indicting the Bush Administration's shameful and tragic response to 9/11."

The article.

The video link.

Half a lifetime ago, I worked in this now-empty space. And for 40 days after the attacks, I worked here again, trying to make sense of what happened, and was yet to happen, as a reporter.

All the time, I knew that the very air I breathed contained the remains of thousands of people, including four of my friends, two in the planes and -- as I discovered from those "missing posters" seared still into my soul -- two more in the Towers.

And I knew too, that this was the pyre for hundreds of New York policemen and firemen, of whom my family can claim half a dozen or more, as our ancestors.

I belabor this to emphasize that, for me this was, and is, and always shall be, personal.

And anyone who claims that I and others like me are "soft,"or have "forgotten" the lessons of what happened here is at best a grasping, opportunistic, dilettante and at worst, an idiot whether he is a commentator, or a Vice President, or a President.

However, of all the things those of us who were here five years ago could have forecast -- of all the nightmares that unfolded before our eyes, and the others that unfolded only in our minds -- none of us could have predicted this.

Five years later this space is still empty.

Five years later there is no memorial to the dead.

Five years later there is no building rising to show with proud defiance that we would not have our America wrung from us, by cowards and criminals.

Five years later this country's wound is still open.

Five years later this country's mass grave is still unmarked.

Five years later this is still just a background for a photo-op.

It is beyond shameful.

At the dedication of the Gettysburg Memorial -- barely four months after the last soldier staggered from another Pennsylvania field -- Mr. Lincoln said, "we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract."

Lincoln used those words to immortalize their sacrifice.

Today our leaders could use those same words to rationalize their reprehensible inaction. "We cannot dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground." So we won't.

Instead they bicker and buck pass. They thwart private efforts, and jostle to claim credit for initiatives that go nowhere. They spend the money on irrelevant wars, and elaborate self-congratulations, and buying off columnists to write how good a job they're doing instead of doing any job at all.

Five years later, Mr. Bush, we are still fighting the terrorists on these streets. And look carefully, sir, on these 16 empty acres. The terrorists are clearly, still winning.

And, in a crime against every victim here and every patriotic sentiment you mouthed but did not enact, you have done nothing about it.

And there is something worse still than this vast gaping hole in this city, and in the fabric of our nation. There is its symbolism of the promise unfulfilled, the urgent oath, reduced to lazy execution.

The only positive on 9/11 and the days and weeks that so slowly and painfully followed it was the unanimous humanity, here, and throughout the country. The government, the President in particular, was given every possible measure of support.

Those who did not belong to his party -- tabled that.

Those who doubted the mechanics of his election -- ignored that.

Those who wondered of his qualifications -- forgot that.

History teaches us that nearly unanimous support of a government cannot be taken away from that government by its critics. It can only be squandered by those who use it not to heal a nation's wounds, but to take political advantage.

Terrorists did not come and steal our newly-regained sense of being American first, and political, fiftieth. Nor did the Democrats. Nor did the media. Nor did the people.

The President -- and those around him -- did that.

They promised bi-partisanship, and then showed that to them, "bi-partisanship" meant that their party would rule and the rest would have to follow, or be branded, with ever-escalating hysteria, as morally or intellectually confused, as appeasers, as those who, in the Vice President's words yesterday, "validate the strategy of the terrorists."

They promised protection, and then showed that to them "protection" meant going to war against a despot whose hand they had once shaken, a despot who we now learn from our own Senate Intelligence Committee, hated al-Qaida as much as we did.

The polite phrase for how so many of us were duped into supporting a war, on the false premise that it had 'something to do' with 9/11 is "lying by implication."

The impolite phrase is "impeachable offense."

Not once in now five years has this President ever offered to assume responsibility for the failures that led to this empty space, and to this, the current, curdled, version of our beloved country.

Still, there is a last snapping flame from a final candle of respect and fairness: even his most virulent critics have never suggested he alone bears the full brunt of the blame for 9/11.

Half the time, in fact, this President has been so gently treated, that he has seemed not even to be the man most responsible for anything in his own administration.

Yet what is happening this very night?

A mini-series, created, influenced -- possibly financed by -- the most radical and cold of domestic political Machiavellis, continues to be televised into our homes.

The documented truths of the last fifteen years are replaced by bald-faced lies; the talking points of the current regime parroted; the whole sorry story blurred, by spin, to make the party out of office seem vacillating and impotent, and the party in office, seem like the only option.

How dare you, Mr. President, after taking cynical advantage of the unanimity and love, and transmuting it into fraudulent war and needless death, after monstrously transforming it into fear and suspicion and turning that fear into the campaign slogan of three elections? How dare you -- or those around you -- ever "spin" 9/11?

Just as the terrorists have succeeded -- are still succeeding -- as long as there is no memorial and no construction here at Ground Zero.

So, too, have they succeeded, and are still succeeding as long as this government uses 9/11 as a wedge to pit Americans against Americans.

This is an odd point to cite a television program, especially one from March of 1960. But as Disney's continuing sell-out of the truth (and this country) suggests, even television programs can be powerful things.

And long ago, a series called "The Twilight Zone" broadcast a riveting episode entitled "The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street."

In brief: a meteor sparks rumors of an invasion by extra-terrestrials disguised as humans. The electricity goes out. A neighbor pleads for calm. Suddenly his car -- and only his car -- starts. Someone suggests he must be the alien. Then another man's lights go on. As charges and suspicion and panic overtake the street, guns are inevitably produced. An "alien" is shot -- but he turns out to be just another neighbor, returning from going for help. The camera pulls back to a near-by hill, where two extra-terrestrials are seen manipulating a small device that can jam electricity. The veteran tells his novice that there's no need to actually attack, that you just turn off a few of the human machines and then, "they pick the most dangerous enemy they can find, and it's themselves."

And then, in perhaps his finest piece of writing, Rod Serling sums it up with words of remarkable prescience, given where we find ourselves tonight: "The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices, to be found only in the minds of men.

"For the record, prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy, and a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own -- for the children, and the children yet unborn."

When those who dissent are told time and time again -- as we will be, if not tonight by the President, then tomorrow by his portable public chorus -- that he is preserving our freedom, but that if we use any of it, we are somehow un-American...When we are scolded, that if we merely question, we have "forgotten the lessons of 9/11"... look into this empty space behind me and the bi-partisanship upon which this administration also did not build, and tell me:

Who has left this hole in the ground?

We have not forgotten, Mr. President.

You have.

May this country forgive you.

Miracle

Mon, 11 Sep 2006 19:43:20 GMT

Nezumi-chan is a fancy rat. Branden adopted her shortly after I got my apartment in Reynoldsburg. A co-worker’s was threatening to feed her to a snake if no one took her in. Her name was a placeholder until we came up with a better one, and since we never did she remained most unpronounceable for our friends and family.

I never really dug Branden’s rats. I’m a cat person. Tiny clawed and clammy feet crawling around my neck don’t do it for me. But I tried to be supportive and find the cute side of vermin. It was easier with Nezumi-chan, since she was so adorable and cute when we first got her. Much cuter than the homoerotic antics of Branden’s balls-dragging boy rats Poke and Peek. She would chase our fingers up and down her cage and dangle from the wire ceiling like Lara Croft. She never squeaked, either.

Fast forward to last month. Nezumi-chan, now our only rat, loses weight rather quickly and gets stuck in the tower of her castle in her cage. Two weeks ago, I notice she is dragging herself around her cage by her forepaws. After careful observation and research, we come to the conclusion that she is old and experiencing paralysis as is usual with elderly rats.

Any dying creature pulls at my heartstrings like no cute ‘n cuddly baby fluffball can. So I set up a regimen of high-protein, high-calorie feedings (peanut butter and pretzels, morning and night,) daily bathing, (she likes to play in the water) and physical therapy. Every night when I come home from work I wash her off in the sink and gently work her back legs while her fur is drying. I take each clammy, clawed foot between my fingers and rotate her joints like she is riding a bicycle. I stretch and push her legs, constrict her toes and even give her spine a gentle rat massage to stimulate blood flow.

Friday evening we sat outside enjoying the sunset and I looked down at her peanut butter smeared whiskers, tiny feet in my fingers, and realized I was projecting all of my maternal impulses onto a dying rat. And I told her thus while she chewed on her teeth, a sign of relaxation in rats, and that I wasn’t certain how wise it was to tie my emotions so closely to the fate of a dying rat. I apologized for not getting to know her like this sooner, because she is a beautiful rat, even when underweight and gimpy.

She gave me a squeak of contentment in response.

This morning I went in to check on her, as always preparing myself to see her stiff and lifeless. Instead, I saw her sitting on her haunches. This is irregular recently, since she can’t support her weight on her back legs and instead lies on her back or drags herself around Rambo-style. I called her name and she darted over to the side of the cage and climbed up the side to greet me.

I screamed for Branden. He thought she was dead and came running to help, only to see me pointing and gaping. Nezumi-chan promptly fell off the side of the cage and toppled a few times, but her legs were moving behind her, scooting her along as they had failed to do for the last two weeks.

Who says love doesn’t heal all wounds?

Now she is still going to die and probably sooner rather than later. Her legs are working, but only at about 30%. Still, this has to be the most beautiful validation I’ve ever experienced. My love and devotion is not worthless nor misplaced. And when it comes time, I won’t absolutely suck at being a mom.

Steve Irwin

Tue, 05 Sep 2006 22:33:55 GMT

Sleep well, fair Queenslander. May crikeys of crocs sing thee to thy rest.

You will be missed.

Brief interlude

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 00:07:43 GMT

Hi!

I'm not dead. In fact, I'm doing well. The condo is lovely. My heath is improving. My job is shit-crazy and I'm realizing how much I love it. Branden isn't quite so enamored with the job or the condo, but we go about these things differently. I hate that sometimes.

My father and I totally jerry-rigged my brake pedal after the rubber grommit on the lever disintegrated and caused the brake lights to remain lit. We used a metal clip and duct tape. All is well in the universe.

For the first time in a year, I love my friends. I mean, I love them with wreckless abandon. I feel like I can proudly display the "My Friends Kick Ass" sticker. I'm going to miss them so much when we leave for Seattle. Thinking of it brings me to tears. A year ago, I was desperate to leave everyone in Ohio behind. Now I don't want to imagine being without them.

Cable TV has introduced me to the National Geographic Channel, and allowed a reaquanitence with Discovery, TLC, Animal Planet, and the endless reruns of ST:TNG on TNT. Ah, nerdity.

I'm becoming someone new. Or maybe I'm discovering someone I used to be. I can't really say much about her yet, other than that she works very hard for what she wants. I'm taking up an old friendship with the challenge of life. It's been a long, long time.

Oh, and I fell in love with Revolutionary Girl Utena, but only the last ten or fifteen episodes. The series is great and all, but the endgame is the best.

I'm not online very often and thus not keeping up on my friends list at all. If you need me to know something important about your life and your world, please e-mail me. Or better yet, call me up. And if you need my contact info, just shoot me a reply.

I miss you, too. You're hawt.

Looking for info

Mon, 17 Apr 2006 19:21:48 GMT

I'm putting the word out for a film/video production company. Jain Americas needs to distribute footage of how the forklift operators unload and tally a sea container and drop the boxes. We need to find a production company to film it, loop some voice over, edit it together and help us burn a few DVDs to send to our distributors.

Can you reccomend one? We're on a serious budget here, so college-level is doable.

geek-google

Thu, 06 Apr 2006 19:07:50 GMT

I just googled a RPG character name of mine and found out Else Cole is a scientologist!

And sadly, I don't think anyone on my friends lists knows who I'm talking about. Except for marrowbourne, dirtylittlecity and denelian, who were all a part of the Mage game, of course. Duh.

X-posted to else_cole for shits 'n giggles. And I stole back my only personal-art-with-emo-music-lyrics icon from her old LJ.

I miss her.

*emo*

Last chance

Tue, 14 Mar 2006 14:49:39 GMT

Job Opportunity

Our ad on ColumbusJob.com is live and resumes are coming in. If you want in on this action, go here and leave me a comment letting me know to look our for your application.

Job Opportunity

Wed, 08 Mar 2006 13:39:34 GMT

Jain Americas (my workplace) is expanding. We need a new customer service person. 2 years experience in customer service minimmum. Phones, filing, sales, use of Microsoft Office and Access a major plus. West side of Columbus, 70 at 270, M-F 8:30-5, overtime as needed. Benefits after 90 days. Probably $10/hr to start.

Leave a comment if you're interested or know someone who is. We'll be advertising in the newspaper soon and thus inundated with applicants. The poeple here would rather go through referrals.

LKH

Wed, 01 Mar 2006 21:49:23 GMT

I don't really know how to feel about LKH's Anita Blake Vampire Hunter being adapted for comics.

On the one hand, they are starting with the first book and adapting from there, which was when the writing was decent and the story was good, her alternate reality intriguing and fun to read about.

On the other hand Laurell K. Hamilton is such a hack! I hate what she has done to her books and her characters! Anita Blake reminds me of the heroines I wrote for when I was 14! She can do anything and everything and everyone wants her. Oh, and since she has to be spunky and independant, all figures of authority have to give her shit for being a woman. All this on a backdrop of deviant sexual decadence where no one does anal.

I'll be poor Lau got smashed on absinthe at a LARP and some La Sombre threw it in her ass.

Request for aid

Wed, 01 Feb 2006 15:09:54 GMT

Columbus folks, my company is tired of our IT company letting us and our network down. So we're shopping for a new one. We have two servers, looking at getting a third. We have a multi-user terminal system as well as a wireless network. We require weekly maintenance and on-call status for problems. Jain will require a lot from an IT business, but we'll pay for it.

Can anyone point me in a direction or reccomend someone?

DeCONpression 2006 photos

Tue, 24 Jan 2006 14:32:05 GMT

And this is utterly geek-drunk.

More DeCON photos here.

Fri, 06 Jan 2006 21:06:59 GMT

I wasn't expecting this today.

I've been hired in as a salaried employee at a rate of $12 an hour, effective January 1 2006, at full benifits.

Oh, and they changed their name to Jain (Americas) Inc, so I wasn't lying there, either. ;)

Despite all I've learned, terror grips me anew.

Groan up

Mon, 02 Jan 2006 08:10:55 GMT

I feel better about my family.

My brother upped and moved away from us about three years ago to live in New Jersey with his girlfriend Tracy. I hated her, for no real specific reason, other than that she was stealing my brother away from me. Tonight we had a chance to mend that relationship, and I am honestly glad they are together, in love and happy.

It took seeing that genuine connection for me to get over my long-time bitterness compeltely, (though it was "in the works" during my period of contrition after giving up on Wolf.) I saw in them my own love and life with Branden. We both of us have relationships that started on less-than good terms, but developed nonetheless into something strong and beautiful. I love my brother and I love his girlfriend and I hope they finally decide to marry. I still remember where we came from, but it is behind us.

A part of me hopes that my path with Branden will cross again with Wolf and Ashlie, and such growth and understanding, (and distance,) will lead us to a similar mending and respect. But it's easier for me to say these things than to make good on them. Pain is still fresh. Perhaps we need another two years ourselves to get over our collective egos.

Either way, Tracy and I are back on good terms. I'll be pestering Jason to make an honest women of her. :) I think I'll start calling her near-sister in-law.

Goddess got back

Sun, 25 Dec 2005 07:48:27 GMT

I created a little goddess from the Sculpey He'er gave me for Yule. My goddess has a very large butt and a pleasantly swollen tummy and a little cleft between her legs. She also has no face. I didn't realize how spiritually clarifying this would be for me.

Creativity, this is the way I pray.

Annual review meme

Thu, 22 Dec 2005 15:48:04 GMT

Last sentance, first entry of the month. I think it paints an interesting picture, myself.

January
Happy New Year to everyone, in this world or the next! Watch the hands, though …

February
I think I disenchant too quickly.

March
Bring on the dancing ladies!

April
Oh please, won't someone amuse me? I'll be ever so grateful.

May
I’m just well worn.

June
I think we’ll do this again next year.

July
The ingredients were there, but it came out shit soup.

August
And I can't finish one on my own on any realistic timetable.

September
I'm going to go crawl into my husband's lap now.

October
Discovering we were right behind at the intersection was the best.

November
Oh, I beat Resident Evil 4 today, too!

December
*squee anyway*