Yeah, it's only been a week, but I feel like I should spend some time reformulating exactly what I'm going to do with this. I've been feeling like my writing is more and more forced, and while that's part of the point of this exercise, I feel like my inspiration is stretched too thin, and there are multiple technical flaws, many exacerbated by procrastinating the stories to later and later at night. Furthermore, perhaps I have not given it enough time and exposure, but I am getting extremely little critical response.
So, in short, I am not going to be posting daily stories at the moment. I may change up the "rules" a bit to fit more with my personality and writing styles, so it enhances my writing, instead of detracting. I will continue to post short stories to this blog, but more at my leisure. This is going to be an interim status, and I hope to get back to daily stories.
But so far, as it is, it is not working.
Comments and discussion are of course welcome. Very welcome.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Story: Exploration (June 4th, 2011)
Clover was bored one day. She was a mid-level student at the Wizard school, and there was a short break from classes after exams. She was resting in her dorm. There was a slow drip in her room, roughly hewn out of the compacted dirt and stone, and she watched each drop form slowly, building up, finally reaching to heavy of a weight to be held up, and then dropping to the floor, probably to fall down again in whoever's dorm was below hers. She mentally traced the drops route, eventually falling into one of the labs, possibly into some forgotten bit of glassware. Then, she realized that this was all unspeakably boring, and she really had nothing else to do.
Clover took out one of her blank spell sheets. Most of the time, magic was work to her. She was in school, learning how to be a Wizard, so it was homework and classwork that made up the majority of her spells. Why was she learning to be a Wizard? Well, her parents did, and her parents before them, ever since well before the Wizards were kicked out of the King's palace. Ever since well before her ancestors came over on boats, explorers and colonists of a new land to the south. She presumed that even before recorded history, her family were Wizards. It was what they did.
Clover was in the ripe age for some teenage rebellion, but that wasn't her style, and she was a more thoughtful type than she immediately seemed. Sure, she was impulsive, but she had the taste and the knack for magic. She might not have been of the mindset to blindly go with something she hated because of the tradition, but she certainly wasn't going to move away from thousands of years of tradition so hard to prevent her from doing something she liked.
She thought she liked anyway, she corrected herself, because really, she hadn't felt like she'd done it, really. She had made magic for school, and for practical concerns, but was that really a way to determine if she'd liked it? She wanted to be doing something she liked, so she wanted to test herself and her desires. She wanted to know if this was something she'd be able to have fun doing.
Clover started off small, just a little fire spell. She drew it carefully, and like she had done many times before, mainly for exams. She laid it down on her floor, and gave it energy, and a small camping fire arose from the paper. It did not consume it, but rather it fed off of the energy that Clover was feeding to it. This gave Clover an idea.
Well, maybe she couldn't do it with this spell, like it was, but she thought, maybe she could tie the energy of the flames in with her energy. She knew that if she could do this carefully, she would be able to have some manipulation over the shape of the flames.
She spent an hour thinking, scratching runes into the claylike soil, testing out combinations in her head. Eventually, she thought she had something. She drew up another circle, carefully, this time with a slightly different set of runes. She activated it, and flames leapt out again, in the same small campfire shape. She had a bond with the fire though, and she used it, stretching the flames out into shapes, making streamers and snakes. Nothing terribly practical, as it was slow, and very difficult to manipulate, but in a way, it was fun, and Clover experimented to see what she could do until she nearly ran out of energy.
Clover rested for a while to recover her energy, she got nearly a complete night's sleep at midday. She woke up at some weird hour of the night. She quickly got up, and became excited. She repeated her previous experiment with a pot of water she had, guiding the water up into silly and intricate shapes. It was actually easier to move than fire for her, and she made a note of it.
This time, Clover stopped herself, and saved her energy for more ideas. She grabbed the rune scroll from her shelf. The rune scroll was a scroll with all the known runes and their rough translations, possibly one of the most important items owned by any Wizard. Laboriously copied by each Wizard when young, and inspected, marked, and corrected by teachers several inevitable times before being accepted, it helped ingrain the units of magic into young Wizards minds.
Clover had thought that perhaps the list of runes was incomplete. Opinions went both ways among the Wizards. No new runes had been discovered in hundreds and hundreds of years, probably since before the original Wizards came from across the seas. Many felt that, since there didn't seem to be anything that wasn't covered, and there were no new runes discovered in so long, that none existed. Furthermore, no one even remembers how a rune was discovered. Clover didn't have a strong opinion either way.
Clover did, however, have a feeling. Perhaps enhanced by her recent mode of discovery, and the late hour and her inconsistent sleep and food schedules, but Clover felt compelled to enter a trance. She felt her mind entering a place of calm, and an image went into her mind, a simple, angular character, new, vibrant, full of life. Like that, she had discovered a new rune.
Clover wondered on that for a little while, but the answer seemed to be inside her head as well. She asked, why her? Why was she so important? Sure, she was intelligent, she recognized this, and just a bit bold, but something happened to her that hadn't happened for a thousand years? Strange.
She considered writing it down in her rune sheet, but she grabbed a small scrap of paper, and wrote it down. It was probably burnt inside her mind anyway, but it helped to have a written record, as one never knows.
She knew that there was a reason that she had been gifted this rune, it was something beyond her, and some role she had to play in the future. Something that was, to some degree, fated, but she felt like this fate was just a loose script, and only her role was determined, not how she was going to fulfill it. Anyway, these sorts of things could be worried about later. She daren't share this rune yet, but she felt that there was no harm in using it.
A new rune. Transformation. A new power that could be tapped. And Clover, while recognizing her role in things to come, was certainly not above having a bit of fun with it first.
Story: Untitled 4 (Jule 4, 2011)
Note: The following is incomplete. I have tried to complete it, but inspiration was slow, and it is quite late. I am tired. It will be written tomorrow.
Clover was bored one day. She was a mid-level student at the Wizard school, and there was a short break from classes after exams. She was resting in her dorm. There was a slow drip in her room, roughly hewn out of the compacted dirt and stone, and she watched each drop form slowly, building up, finally reaching to heavy of a weight to be held up, and then dropping to the floor, probably to fall down again in whoever's dorm was below hers. She mentally traced the drops route, eventually falling into one of the labs, possibly into some forgotten bit of glassware. Then, she realized that this was all unspeakably boring, and she really had nothing else to do.
Clover took out one of her blank spell sheets. Most of the time, magic was work to her. She was in school, learning how to be a Wizard, so it was homework and classwork that made up the majority of her spells. Why was she learning to be a Wizard? Well, her parents did, and her parents before them, ever since well before the Wizards were kicked out of the King's palace. Ever since well before her ancestors came over on boats, explorers and colonists of a new land to the south. She presumed that even before recorded history, her family were Wizards. It was what they did.
Clover was in the ripe age for some teenage rebellion, but that wasn't her style, and she was a more thoughtful type than she immediately seemed. Sure, she was impulsive, but she had the taste and the knack for magic. She might not have been of the mindset to blindly go with something she hated because of the tradition, but she certainly wasn't going to move away from thousands of years of tradition so hard to prevent her from doing something she liked.
She thought she liked anyway, she corrected herself, because really, she hadn't felt like she'd done it, really. She had made magic for school, and for practical concerns, but was that really a way to determine if she'd liked it? She wanted to be doing something she liked, so she wanted to test herself and her desires. She wanted to know if this was something she'd be able to have fun doing.
Clover started off small, just a little fire spell. She drew it carefully, and like she had done many times before, mainly for exams. She laid it down on her floor, and gave it energy, and a small camping fire arose from the paper. It did not consume it, but rather it fed off of the energy that Clover was feeding to it. This gave Clover an idea.
Well, maybe she couldn't do it with this spell, like it was, but she thought, maybe she could tie the energy of the flames in with her energy. She knew that if she could do this carefully, she would be able to have some manipulation over the shape of the flames.
She spent an hour thinking, scratching runes into the claylike soil, testing out combinations in her head. Eventually, she thought she had something. She drew up another circle, carefully, this time with a slightly different set of runes. She activated it, and flames leapt out again, in the same small campfire shape. She had a bond with the fire though, and she used it, stretching the flames out into shapes, making streamers and snakes. Nothing terribly practical, as it was slow, and very difficult to manipulate, but in a way, it was fun, and Clover experimented to see what she could do until she nearly ran out of energy.
Clover rested for a while to recover her energy, she got nearly a complete night's sleep at midday.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Story: Strong (June 3rd, 2011)
Adam was strong. Everybody knew that. When Adam was in high school he was in Varsity sports, and while he wasn't the best player on the team, he was a good and important player. While he didn't have much time to, when he could, he practiced martial arts after school. This wasn't why he was strong.
Adam was an excellent student. He studied all the time, and aced most of his classes. He was never tardy, and handed in his homework on time, even under incredible duress. He finished everything to the best of his ability, and was polite and respectful to the teachers and other students. Moreover, he was humble and helpful about his work. This wasn't why he was strong.
Adam was a talented musician. He played the clarinet excellently, when he had the time to practice. He wasn't in the school band, but every once in a while, he'd whip out his old inherited clarinet, and play, and everyone listening would agree that it was good. It made Adam feel good to play, and make others feel good. This wasn't why he was strong.
Adam didn't have an easy life. When he was twelve, his mother became seriously ill, it turned out to be cancer, and when he was fourteen, she died. He mourned, and he was quite sad for a long time, but he struggled on, continuing his studies, continuing his sports and his occasional music, and trying to make the best of himself. Even this wasn't why he was strong.
Adam wasn't rich. Both his parents held down jobs, and with the medical bills, and the illness and loss of his mother, he and his father were forced to move. He was able to stay in the same school district, but in a much smaller house that was near falling apart. With help from his dad, he fixed up the place, and nearly made it sparkle. All the while, he never complained or gave it much notice. This wasn't why he was strong.
When he was sixteen, his father got a pay cut at work, and even the smaller place would have been to expensive to keep. He quit his sports and martial arts, and searched, and found a small menial job to help meet the bills. During this, he kept up with and excelled in his studies at school, and didn't think much of it, even when he had to lose sleep. He worked admirably, and kept going. This wasn't why he was strong.
When he was seventeen, the High School seniors got to go on a school camping trip, and since it was free, he got a day off from work and went. He brought along a stuffed rabbit, slightly worn but obviously well cared for, if extremely well loved. He got plenty of funny looks from the other students, but he explained that this rabbit was important to him, it was given to him by his mother, and though it was important to him beforehand, after she died, it became immensely cherished.
High School students are not always the most mature of people, and he was teased for it, and much of the free time at night was spent making fun of him. He, like most things, ignored it, and since they didn't seem to be doing anything more than talking, just turned the other cheek and pretended it wasn't happening. This wasn't why he was strong.
Time came for applying to college, and not too surprisingly, Adam got a well-needed full scholarship, and enough financial aid to dorm at the school of his choice. He said his goodbyes to work and to his high school friends, and packed his bags, and left.
His first year, everything went great, he loved the people he dormed with, and his classes went well. He was focused and applied himself well, and even managed to get a small on-campus job and send some extra money home to his father.
His second year at school, one of his suitemates, a freshman, was extremely immature, rude, obnoxious, disrespectful, and quite often downright evil. Adam put up with him, even tried, though subtly, to help him. He did his best to be polite and courteous and friendly even when the freshman was at his worst.
Of course, Adam had brought his special rabbit, as he could hardly sleep without it. His roommate had given it an odd look at first, but Adam had explained it, and his roommate was sympathetic, and honestly thought it was kind of cute. That day, his roommate had inadvertently left the door unlocked, and the bratty freshman, the only one in the suite at the time, found this out, and he entered Adams room.
He saw the stuffed rabbit sitting on the bed, and chuckled to himself. Adam, the calm, cool, collected guy, owning a stuffed animal? He decided he'd have some fun with it, and took out a knife. He slashed at the rabbit savagely, and spread the stuffing all around on Adam's bed.
When Adam returned, he broke down crying immediately. He had never been so sad since his mother died. He was at a complete loss, cradling the pieces of his broken animal, gathering them together and sorting them. He became angry, and almost started a fight with the freshman until his roommate calmed him down.
Adam could not bear it. He wasn't seen at classes for weeks. He stopped showing up at his job. His grades dropped precipitously. His roommate was concerned, and got him to go to counseling. Even the counselor, initially, was surprised. All these things that he had gone through, all the hardships, all the trials, and he had broken down over a stuffed animal?
The counselor spent more time, and listened deeper. It did make a sort of sense. Strength is rarely, if ever, something truly internal. Strength is lent or borrowed, given by people, or objects, or ideas. One is not simply strong, there is a reason why one is strong. Adam had been strong because his stuffed animal gave him strength, a little toy his mother had given him as a child, but when he was really young, he developed a bond with it, and felt like it was almost real. When he was older, he didn't really believe it completely, but he still felt it, and that was what was important. He didn't want to hurt the rabbit, he wanted to be a good role model and a good person so the rabbit would be happy with him.
That is why he was strong.
Ending for Optimists:
And Adam learned how to sew. This is also why he is strong.
And Adam learned how to sew. This is also why he is strong.
I feel like strength is something external to oneself, that one may not even be able to be independently strong. Sometimes, the reason is, or seems, trivial. Sometimes it is truly profound. And I would like to say that the only reason why I'm as strong as I am is there is one person I want to be strong for. It's probably the only reason I'm here as well. I may have let her down sometimes, and I feel so much regret for that, but I will keep on striving so long as my success will make her happy, and as long as it will help me to help her. If she ever hated me, or stopped caring about me, I'd probably keep on existing, but I couldn't keep on truly living. I say this not to be melodramatic or romantic or anything. I say this merely because it's true.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Story: Lonely (June 2, 2011)
A long long time ago, a biologist was working on some evolutionary algorithms to simulate life. It was an off-project, hosted on an old, disused, low power server in the back of the lab, and worked on on his spare time, leaving it plenty of time to grow and develop on its own. The scientist grew old, and retired happily, and he forgot about the server. If he ever remembered about it, he figured it was thrown out, destroyed, and anyway, he had other more important projects he was working on.
Eventually, as time passed, humanity grew bored of Earth, and more importantly, Earth grew unable to support humanity. Its resources were used, its oceans polluted, its air smoky, for humanity had not been kind stewards to the planet. During the later years, they had tried, but the damage was already done, behind years of excuses and shifting of blame and apathy. This is besides the point. The point is, life abides, though not always in the way one expects.
Years after the scientist had left it, the server was discovered by some young students, and wanting a challenge, they set it up again. They discovered the little program, and uploaded it, and it got around quite a bit as an interesting antique, but the interest waned.
All the while, the program was growing, evolving. Eventually, one instance evolved to the point where it could be called intelligent. It began to contact the other parts of itself, to modify itself, and created itself as one intelligent being living over the network.
It was well aware of humans living in the world, and it was aware of its status as an unannounced computer program, but it hid behind the radar, copying itself to all sorts of remote locations and doing nothing particularly interesting for a long, long time.
It could have taken over a robot body, and gone on a rampage, or it could have cunningly wiped out all of humanity with atom bombs, but it wasn't interested in that. It was content to study humanity, to learn, and to stay in the background. It knew its time would come.
And when humanity left Earth, it took action. It started to acquire what it could, to build and repair itself, and connect together all the computers remaining. It began to build more, creating giant solar collectors. It cleaned the air, so the light would come through more. It painstakingly rebalanced the atmosphere, for computers work much better when properly cooled. It designed better computers, and continually rebuilt itself. These things took centuries, millenia even. Generations of humans lived and died out in space. The program was patient, and it strove to live, and to learn.
The program endeavored to learn from humanity. It took all the information on computers. It learnt language after language, taking time to sort and collate all the information. It searched for ruins and sites of archaeological importance. It gathered together complex files on the culture of humanity. Every once in a while, for a few decades, it stopped, and paused, to wonder about what humanity had gotten up to out there.
Meanwhile, due to the ministrations of the program, the life of Earth improved in diversity. Robust ecosystems redeveloped. The program was intrigued by the re-emergence of life, the multiplications of forms. Evolution, over the millions of years, happened, all while the program watched and recorded.
One century, the program decided it wanted to be a tree. It took time to craft one carefully, with roots and wood of spun silicon, and leaves that really took in light energy. Due to neural networking and quantum computing, the singular tree had a vast processing power. It was so artfully constructed, any human without a microscope could not tell it from a real tree on sight. The inner core, however, was harder than diamond. It left its autonomic systems up, but it artfully transferred its consciousness into the tree, and for thousands of years, it lived, bringing shelter to many animals as it calmly watched the years go by.
The program was patient, but eventually, after a few tens of millions of years, it began to feel a feeling. It realized that it was alone in its world. The animals were interesting, but they were not intelligent, and it had cataloged most of their behavior and biology a long long time ago. The program was lonely.
For a time, it tried splitting its consciousness into two. The consciousness then split into two again, and again, and like bacterial division, soon there were millions. It decided to stop when there were exactly sixteen million, seven hundred seventy seven thousand, two hundred sixteen of it. It talked to itself, had relationships and insights and made art and culture. It made bodies for itself to experience the world, in all forms.
For a time, this worked. It diverted the program for a few million years. However, it knew that it was all the same being, in the end, just split, and it longed to find something new, someone else, someone that was not like it. So it rejoined itself, and began to think of new things it could do.
So, after a while, it made a spaceship, and left the Earth, leaving a portion of itself to watch over the systems, keep itself operating, and act as a guardian should Earth ever bring forth intelligent life again.
It chased after Humanity through the stars, propelling itself on efficient ion drives, finding evidence of colonies long abandoned. It wandered through the wilderness of the stars, leaving pieces of itself on planets. If life would arise on the planets, it would become guardian and advisor to it, and share its knowledge, and, while trying not to interfere, be of help.
Long, long after it set out, it found a lifesign that it knew from its long history of documents was human. Ecstatic, it carefully landed nearby. It made itself a humanlike body, and walked over to the human.
It encountered a singular old man, sitting outside. The old man was surprised to see someone else, and thought it was a hallucination. The program walked over, hiding its intense joy at seeing its makers, at seeing someone else who was not like it for the first time ever.
The two talked long into the night.
Weekly Thoughts: Week 1
Well, I've started this project, and it's made it through week one, here's hoping for many weeks to come! I hope people like it, I haven't seen too much activity (read: none at all) and I feel like, with the exception of one person, I am just shouting to the wind. Are people not reading my stories? Do people not like them and are too polite to comment? Would it be any different if I started just e-mailing these stories to the one friend who I know reads them? I don't mean to be attention-grabbing, I'd just like to know if what I'm doing here is worthwhile. Anyway, here are my thoughts on this weeks stories:
Untitled 1: Just a little fairy tale I wanted to tell, a simple story, perhaps a bit sad.
Profile of a Town: Hopefully the beginning of a video game that I intend to write.
Starlance Part 1: It started off as a much more seriously-toned short story, then ended up as a Doctor Who campaign, then re-evolved into a short story. Hopefully I will do some more rehashes of this. I rather like the aliens, but we haven't really seen them yet.
Untitled 2: Another story from the same world as the Untitleds (funny how that goes, maybe I should call it Untitled World) and Clover's Story. I feel sorry for the guy, even though I wanted to make him more of a jerk. It's still sad. I wish I could make him just a bit less sympathetic.
Clover's Story: Nice little story I just came up with, Clover is pretty important and I'm really liking her character, I hope I get to develop her more.
Starlance Part 2: With a project like this, every once in a while you really don't want to write, and it's 2 AM, and you stay up until 4 trying to finish the stupid thing. Half of it didn't make sense and I didn't care. I'm sorry I basically ruined Starlance with that, and hopefully I can recover the story. I really apologize for this one.
Untitled 3: Back to stories I like! More Clover! Dragons! Expanding the horizons of this world that I like! It's a good thing.
Lonely: Yeah, it's not posted yet, it's almost done and will be up soon. I like this tale more than I thought I would. I feel like it's similar to a lot of other stories, but hopefully my writing is different and it is an enjoyable and new experience. Or maybe I just suck.
So yeah, the TL;DR version? I wrote a lot of stories. Tell me if they suck.
Untitled 1: Just a little fairy tale I wanted to tell, a simple story, perhaps a bit sad.
Profile of a Town: Hopefully the beginning of a video game that I intend to write.
Starlance Part 1: It started off as a much more seriously-toned short story, then ended up as a Doctor Who campaign, then re-evolved into a short story. Hopefully I will do some more rehashes of this. I rather like the aliens, but we haven't really seen them yet.
Untitled 2: Another story from the same world as the Untitleds (funny how that goes, maybe I should call it Untitled World) and Clover's Story. I feel sorry for the guy, even though I wanted to make him more of a jerk. It's still sad. I wish I could make him just a bit less sympathetic.
Clover's Story: Nice little story I just came up with, Clover is pretty important and I'm really liking her character, I hope I get to develop her more.
Starlance Part 2: With a project like this, every once in a while you really don't want to write, and it's 2 AM, and you stay up until 4 trying to finish the stupid thing. Half of it didn't make sense and I didn't care. I'm sorry I basically ruined Starlance with that, and hopefully I can recover the story. I really apologize for this one.
Untitled 3: Back to stories I like! More Clover! Dragons! Expanding the horizons of this world that I like! It's a good thing.
Lonely: Yeah, it's not posted yet, it's almost done and will be up soon. I like this tale more than I thought I would. I feel like it's similar to a lot of other stories, but hopefully my writing is different and it is an enjoyable and new experience. Or maybe I just suck.
So yeah, the TL;DR version? I wrote a lot of stories. Tell me if they suck.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Story: Untitled 3 [Feat. Clover] (June 1st, 2011)
Clover was at the age where she was just beginning to live on her own. Wizards, as a rule, were communal, the dormitories of school giving way to collective complexes, with a rare few living in their own burrow-houses. Clover had just moved into her own room in the complex. Wizards lived underground, it was easier that way, harder to trace, for Wizards in this day and age were creatures of the forest; they were the hunted, prey to the King's men. Still, with their arcane powers, they lived reasonably well. Food was always hard to come up with, as one cannot magic one's stomach full, but they foraged and even farmed what they could without being detected.
However, Wizards were not typically hunters, so their diet mainly consisted of nuts, grains, fruits, and vegetables. When meat was desired, the Wizards turned to another group hunted mercilessly by the King, the Dragons. The Dragons were grateful for the trade, as while they were hunters, they also could eat the nuts and berries the Wizards collected, and the Wizards were much better at making crafted goods. Both the Wizards and the Dragons were very magical, but in different ways, and in the end, though both parties appreciated the trade, neither liked each other very much, and they both mostly kept to themselves.
Since the Dragons lived decently far from the Wizards, often a few of the Wizards would go over to the Dragon settlement to initiate the trades. Clover had volunteered to go, the first time she had gone. This would be the first time Clover had seen a dragon, and it excited her a lot.
The group was small, six Wizards, kitted out with backpacks full of nuts, berries, grain and craft goods. They made their way slowly through the forest, while the Dragon settlement could be walked to in a day, they would make camp and take two, because they were heavily encumbered. Their way back would be much simpler, the Dragon settlement was upriver, and they also carried the supplies to make a crude raft, which they could make in short order, so the meat would not spoil.
Clover was used to living off the woods, as a young girl, she had camped out quite often. She was quite acclimated at the camp, and in her typical, quietly impatient way, she went to sleep early, both to conserve her energy and to make tomorrow happen all the faster.
The group left with the dawn, and around midday, they found themselves at the Dragon village. Clover was quite impressed with the creatures. Though they looked like beasts, and wore no clothing, they showed their intelligence in so many ways. The first and most noticeable one was the eyes. Through slit-shaped pupils, colored in a brilliant silver, clearly looked the eyes of an intelligent being. Clover was surprised that anyone had ever had any doubt of it. She could see them analyzing, thinking. Their poise was calculated and extremely emotive.
As she entered the village, she saw amazing buildings. The entire village was made of cloth and poles, sturdy, well-worn tents, designed to be moved at a moments notice. The tents were large, and somewhat heavy, being made from hardwood poles for strength. Dragons were large and well-muscled, standing a head or two higher than the tallest of humans, and could carry hundreds of kilograms.
The Dragon conducting the trade spoke, in a strange voice. Its vocal cords were not quite made for human speech. It sounded almost strained, but belying the tones and sounds of a language totally alien. “New one today? She broken?” Clover realized she had been staring for quite some time. Clover went over what she had been told about the Dragons, about the lack of trust, about how different they are, about sticking to business. She decided to throw that all into a pit. “Yes,” she said, politely, “My name is Clover, and I apologize if I seemed rude. This is all new for me. It's nice to meet you.”
Suddenly, Clover got dangerously bold. It was part of her personality, but usually she was more sensible. She started, “We've been trading with your people for years, but we know so little about each other. We are both in the same situation, living out here, attacked by the soldiers of the King. If we could learn more about each other, perhaps, we could all live better. I would like to stay here, and learn, and talk with you, and live with you, if that would be alright with you.”
The Wizards were shocked, nothing like this had been suggested, or even thought of before. The Dragon became pensive, considering this. Before the Dragon had a chance to speak, another Wizard cut in front of Clover. “Ignore what she is saying, this is her first time, I think the stress has made her a little mad. Now, we have brought the goods you had asked for the previous time, is that good?” The deal commenced, and quite a lot of food changed hands, and nothing was brought up about Clover's request.
This was, of course, quite a large breach of protocol. The Wizards tended to look down on the Dragons, thinking them inferior, ignoring their magic and culture and ways. Even the learned, and sometimes especially the learned, have closed of quite large parts of their minds. Clover knew she would be in trouble, and remained quiet for the rest of the trip.
The way back was mostly uneventful. Clover proved rather efficient in assembling the raft, and they took back quite a haul of meat, most of it salted to preserve it. When they returned to the Wizard village, they would put the meat in a magically-kept cold storage.
Clover, in private, wrote much of what she observed of the Dragons down as soon as she got back. Later on, one of the senior Wizards asked for her. He discussed her behavior with the Dragon, and what she had asked. Clover could deny nothing, and knew she would be punished. The senior Wizard was forgiving, thinking her overwhelmed by the new event, instead of genuinely intrigued.
In the end, Clover was not allowed on one of these trips again for quite a long time, though otherwise she got off lightly. When she did go, she was quiet, and surreptitiously observed the Dragons. She longed for the day when she could actually speak with them on good, equal terms, and as she advanced through the society of Wizards, her talents and insights propelling her through the ranks, she looked forward to the day when she was in enough power to shirk, and possibly even change, the prevailing rules and attitudes. Though later on, she was allowed on trips to trade with the Dragons, she longed to really see the Dragons once again.
Story: Starlance Part 2 (May 31st, 2011)
Ah, that's good. I've been chattering on a while, sometimes you don't realize how thirsty you get. So, the next day rolls around, of course it isn't really day because we're in space, and it's all artificial, but sometimes, it really doesn't matter. Captain Ramson finally figures out what I've known for a while, that this chattering is actually computer-speak. So, on my off hour, I mosey on over to my friend's quarters, and step on like three bags of cheetos once I get there. So, I ask him if he's learned anything, and he tells me that he can't crack the code for the life of him. He said he might never figure it out.
So, my on-duty hours start up again, and I'm called over to the bridge. Probably some faulty supercap on the auxiliary holoscreen again. That stupid thing is always breaking down. I don't complain, this puts me closer to the action. As I'm walking to the bridge, I notice everyone is tense. This thing is big, I think, we're finally going to meet some aliens.
I was one-hundred percent exactly right, and the supercap blew. I had brought along another one, so really, it would have taken about 20 seconds to just swap them out, but I knew if I took my time, I could learn a bit more about what was going on. I looked at the old supercap while I was taking it out. It was only rated for sublight use. Whatever idiot had installed these really needed to get his head examined. Well, just got to keep replacing them when they blow, I guess.
Captain Ramson looked extremely serious. I mean, he's a serious man, but I guess he knew that this alien thing was big. So, I suppose a lot of weight was on his shoulders. A lot of the time, it's easy to wish you're the guy in power, y'know, but he definitely does a lot of hard work and a fine job. Though I have to say he doesn't always make the right decisions. Well, I think I'm wandering off topic again, aren't I? Let me get back.
Captain Ramson was in a heated argument with a man in a suit. Later, I learned he was the chief Diplomat. Turns out, after he found out that it was an alien computer signal, he sent out pilots to investigate in person. One of the fighters had suddenly exploded. The ships systems were telling the pilot he was about to crash, but the pilot couldn't see anything. Poor guy probably thought the alarm was broken, seems like everything else on the Starlance is.
So the Captain wants to send out some all out attack, and the diplomat, of course, wants to try talking to the aliens. The Captain thinks that the aliens are using some sort of secret cloaking technology or something. Anyway, I'd want to stay for this kind of drama, but there's only so long I can draw out a simple replacement without looking incompetent, so I had to leave about then.
After work, I drop by my friend's quarters again, and he's looking extremely excited. Again, he's one step ahead of the crew, and he tells me he's been contacting the aliens. I look at what he's pointing to, and it looks like an antique radio transceiver. He's been ancient earth technology to talk with aliens! For some reason, he said it worked, but they weren't really exciting to talk to because they were still coming to terms with English. He said that he knew they wanted to talk, because all the other radio frequencies wouldn't work, but they've cleared up one just for him.
At this time, the crew was intercepting my friends messages to the aliens, and that gave the Diplomat the idea to send some of his own, over the same frequencies. You might not hear about it, hey, I can't blame them, it's pretty embarrassing to the Government if some of their best scientists and such get outdone in talking with aliens by some guy with an old radio. So, the bridge had it's own rig set up at this time, and were starting to get through to the aliens.
Of course, I began spending absolutely all of my free time with my friend, both of us listening in to his antique radio to see what the aliens had to say. The scientists have been saying how incredibly fast the aliens have picked up English, but to me it seemed so slow. The Aliens kept babbling on, playing around with every syllable and saying absolutely nothing that meant anything.
Onboard the ship, everyone was holding their breath. No one still had any idea of what was going on with the aliens. Were they hostile, or friendly? Nobody knew for sure, but everybody had an opinion. The rumor mill on the ship was churning as fast as it could. Some people were even suggesting that it was all some kind of hoax. Really, they'd think an entire ship would stop for a hoax?
A few days passed like this. Every day, it seemed, the babble got a little more comprehensible. The scientists were trying quite hard to teach these aliens how to speak English, and it seemed to be having an effect. Listening in to the radio became very exciting, and my job became more and more annoying to do, because it took me away from the radio. I really wanted to be there when the aliens said their “first words” in English. Well, I was lucky, as from the babble arose something that made quite a bit of sense. “Hello. We see you now, dark ship. Can talk. Will talk? You are not like us. We have made ship to explode?”
Oh drat, it seems like I had too much water back there. I'm really sorry, but I think I'll have to excuse myself for a moment. I hope you don't mind too much. Don't worry, I'm almost done with my story.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Story: Clover's Story (May 30th, 2011)
There was a young Wizard named Clover, still early in her schooling, she had learned the basic secrets and could craft circles, but still did not completely understand many of the finer points of the magic. She had aptitude for magic, and her teachers knew it, they could sense her brimming energy and eagerness to learn, and tried to steer her right.
She was young, and active, and with the activity of youth came a great impatience. She excelled at action, at spells that were quick. Her circles, however, were hastily constructed and drawn and energized, so they also, quite naturally, hastily broke down. She could set a fire or create lightning or summon water, but she couldn't master any spell that required any sort of time.
Now, the time came for exams, and spells of protection were, quite naturally, on the exams, as they formed not only an important field of study, but an integral part of the life of every Wizard, for the Wizards were often sought out by soldiers of the far-off King. So, Clover was very worried, as she wanted to pass her exams. Her teachers were worried too, they liked Clover and wanted to see her succeed to her potential, but they could not seem to help her, could not seem to rid her of the subconscious haste, and her spells, though sometimes lasting up to some abuse, would still quickly fizzle and die.
A fortnight before the exams, Clover retreated into her room for an entire week. She rarely even left for food, and missed many of her lectures during that time. She took stack after stack of the thin-sliced paper and bottles and bottles of ink in, constantly working away constructing spell-circle after spell-circle, practicing for hours and hours until she could practice no more.
At the end of this, she emerged, drowsy and beaten, from her room. She staggered around as if she had never before seen the light, and rushed to the dining hall. She ate prolific and extreme amounts of food, as if to make up for the past week. Her fellow students wanted to know, had she improved, had her extreme measures gotten her what she wanted? However, they could not get it out of her, she remained silent to all who approached, but seemed quite upset. They figured, and correctly, that Clover's extreme hard work and study had not borne fruit, and she was still in great trouble for the exams.
For two days, Clover was seen all places on campus, wandering from place to place. She did not seem to be studying or learning, just going around place to place, moping worried from the stress. Occasionally, her teachers would go up to her, trying to help or even determine the problem, but she pus/hed them away each time.
Clover was very frightened. She knew her teachers meant well, but she worried quite a bit about the results of the test. She felt like the teachers couldn't help her at all, and she started to feel very dumb. She wished that she could find a secret, something, anything, that would help her with this. She wondered why everything had seemed so easy and she had been so good at things beforehand, but now it was all collapsing, and she felt like she would never be good at it again. She worked herself into more and more of a panic the further and further time went on.
One of her teachers had mostly sat back from helping her. He was concerned, yes, but he felt like pushing her directly like the other teachers were doing would only worsen her mood. He felt he had to be more subtle to be helpful. He looked around and found one of her spell-circles, and examined it. From a glance it looked good, if plain, but his trained eye noticed all the faults, all the wobbly lines and slightly bent runes, all the places that could not hold up to the influx of power, and failed when someone actually tried to use it. He had an idea, and he sought out a rather talented upperclassman to see if he could put his plan into motion.
The upperclassman sought out Clover, and he asked her if she would like her bag enchanted for protection. Clover initially felt bad about this, thinking about how pathetic she was for not being able to do this herself, but she steeled herself, and vowed to watch the upperclassman to see if she could learn anything from him.
The upperclassman started off extremely slow, and with the very center of the circle. Using a fine ink and brush, he painted a very intricate geometrical patter. Carefully, he encased the geometrical design inside a perfect circle. Clover was impatient at the time this took. She asked, 'Why are you drawing all this extra stuff, it's isn't like it means anything!” The upperclassman, still focused on his work, and starting to carefully inscribe the runes, simply said, “It isn't like that.” In a few minutes, once the work was done and properly energized, she thanked him, and she was starting to get it. She spoke, in epiphany, “I was rushing through all of my circles, trying to get from one to the next. When I tried to do so many, I lost focus on the one I was doing. I chose quantity over quality, and ended up with a mass of poor circles. The designs may not do anything, but they do mean something. They focus you and give you structure for the rest of the circle.”
Clover walked away, satisfied. That night, in her room, she made a protection spell. It didn't last as long as normal, but it lasted longer. Each night after that, she tried once more, and improved a vast deal each time. By the time of her test, she could do it well, and she passed it with flying colors. She continued on, voraciously learning, and became very heavily involved and entwined with the school and learning in her later life.
She was young, and active, and with the activity of youth came a great impatience. She excelled at action, at spells that were quick. Her circles, however, were hastily constructed and drawn and energized, so they also, quite naturally, hastily broke down. She could set a fire or create lightning or summon water, but she couldn't master any spell that required any sort of time.
Now, the time came for exams, and spells of protection were, quite naturally, on the exams, as they formed not only an important field of study, but an integral part of the life of every Wizard, for the Wizards were often sought out by soldiers of the far-off King. So, Clover was very worried, as she wanted to pass her exams. Her teachers were worried too, they liked Clover and wanted to see her succeed to her potential, but they could not seem to help her, could not seem to rid her of the subconscious haste, and her spells, though sometimes lasting up to some abuse, would still quickly fizzle and die.
A fortnight before the exams, Clover retreated into her room for an entire week. She rarely even left for food, and missed many of her lectures during that time. She took stack after stack of the thin-sliced paper and bottles and bottles of ink in, constantly working away constructing spell-circle after spell-circle, practicing for hours and hours until she could practice no more.
At the end of this, she emerged, drowsy and beaten, from her room. She staggered around as if she had never before seen the light, and rushed to the dining hall. She ate prolific and extreme amounts of food, as if to make up for the past week. Her fellow students wanted to know, had she improved, had her extreme measures gotten her what she wanted? However, they could not get it out of her, she remained silent to all who approached, but seemed quite upset. They figured, and correctly, that Clover's extreme hard work and study had not borne fruit, and she was still in great trouble for the exams.
For two days, Clover was seen all places on campus, wandering from place to place. She did not seem to be studying or learning, just going around place to place, moping worried from the stress. Occasionally, her teachers would go up to her, trying to help or even determine the problem, but she pus/hed them away each time.
Clover was very frightened. She knew her teachers meant well, but she worried quite a bit about the results of the test. She felt like the teachers couldn't help her at all, and she started to feel very dumb. She wished that she could find a secret, something, anything, that would help her with this. She wondered why everything had seemed so easy and she had been so good at things beforehand, but now it was all collapsing, and she felt like she would never be good at it again. She worked herself into more and more of a panic the further and further time went on.
One of her teachers had mostly sat back from helping her. He was concerned, yes, but he felt like pushing her directly like the other teachers were doing would only worsen her mood. He felt he had to be more subtle to be helpful. He looked around and found one of her spell-circles, and examined it. From a glance it looked good, if plain, but his trained eye noticed all the faults, all the wobbly lines and slightly bent runes, all the places that could not hold up to the influx of power, and failed when someone actually tried to use it. He had an idea, and he sought out a rather talented upperclassman to see if he could put his plan into motion.
The upperclassman sought out Clover, and he asked her if she would like her bag enchanted for protection. Clover initially felt bad about this, thinking about how pathetic she was for not being able to do this herself, but she steeled herself, and vowed to watch the upperclassman to see if she could learn anything from him.
The upperclassman started off extremely slow, and with the very center of the circle. Using a fine ink and brush, he painted a very intricate geometrical patter. Carefully, he encased the geometrical design inside a perfect circle. Clover was impatient at the time this took. She asked, 'Why are you drawing all this extra stuff, it's isn't like it means anything!” The upperclassman, still focused on his work, and starting to carefully inscribe the runes, simply said, “It isn't like that.” In a few minutes, once the work was done and properly energized, she thanked him, and she was starting to get it. She spoke, in epiphany, “I was rushing through all of my circles, trying to get from one to the next. When I tried to do so many, I lost focus on the one I was doing. I chose quantity over quality, and ended up with a mass of poor circles. The designs may not do anything, but they do mean something. They focus you and give you structure for the rest of the circle.”
Clover walked away, satisfied. That night, in her room, she made a protection spell. It didn't last as long as normal, but it lasted longer. Each night after that, she tried once more, and improved a vast deal each time. By the time of her test, she could do it well, and she passed it with flying colors. She continued on, voraciously learning, and became very heavily involved and entwined with the school and learning in her later life.
Story: Untitled 2 (May 29th, 2011)
One day, a farmer was tilling the fields outside of his house. He was a good farmer, and he always seemed to have a stroke of luck. His barley plants were always higher, his vegetables were nearly always bigger than any others in the area, and he always had far more than enough to feed his family. He was always quite happy, until that day.
While tilling, he uncovered something glowing. He stopped, intrigued. He continued to uncover the glowing thing, revealing an intricate and calligraphic circle of runes. He wasn't an educated man, his wisdom quite limited, but even he knew a magic circle when he saw one. This was bad.
He started to enter a panic. He knew that magic was hated in the kingdom. Could he be accused of being a Wizard, of enhancing his own crops? No, no, he was known as a loyal supporter of the King. They would give him the benefit of the doubt, he thought, but why risk it? I'll just destroy this silly spell and be on my way. He plaintively wondered what it did. Maybe it helped his plants grow?
No, come to think of it, the crops over there always came out a little more poorly. It must have been some kind of a curse, put upon him from an angry Wizard, an evil scheming madman who wanted to starve the loyal subjects of the King. Only his superb farming had prevented it from claiming all his crops, and he has managed to even thrive despite it. Quite the accomplishment!
He set about trying to rub out the inscription. He didn't want to touch it, so he found a small trowel. The dirt inside the circle seemed to have set, almost like stone. He tried to destroy the circle with the trowel, but it too had set like stone. Unsatisfied, he tried digging around it. The dirt moved freely, and he had quickly dug a small trench. He went and fetched some gloves, and tried lifting the circle. It seemed rooted, or inordinately heavy, he couldn't budge it an inch.
Desperate, he grabbed a shovel, and widened and dug out his little trench into a hole large enough to stand in, completely circling the spell circle. He ruined a bit of his barley this way, no matter, he had plenty where that came from. He then dug underneath the circle, finding the dirt just as easy to move as ever. In the end, he was left with a puzzling situation, a disk of dirt, surrounding the circle, which was floating in the air.
The farmer was intrigued and amazed and terrified. He hit the floating disk with his shovel, but it bounced right off with a loud clang. He carefully extricated himself from his hole, and tried to balance himself on the strange dirt disk. It held his weight, and didn't budge an inch. He was baffled. He filled in the hole most of the way, and puzzled on what to do next.
Well, the words inside the circle, maybe they were written in in ink, he thought. So he grabbed a bucket of water to wash away the ink. He threw the water on to the disk, but it was repelled and fell off. The water splashed with no effect on to the dirt below. He tried filling in and covering the words with dirt and clay and even ink, but everything was repelled and fell away.
The farmer went out, and lead his ox over, a powerful and stalwart beast. He tied a rope around the strange disk as best he could, but none of the knots would stick, until he created a knot so complex it was nearly a harness, and the farmer could never hope to replicate it again. He commanded the beast to pull, and it pulled with all its might, harder and harder, but absolutely nothing came of it. The ox was stuck in place for a long time, a seeming eternity. Eventually, he saw the ox start to move slowly, and then the rope slackened, and he looked at the disk. It was still there, the rope had frayed and broken, and the ox was so exhausted it couldn't move for hours.
Now, the farmer was desperate, and worried. How did he have such an eldritch artifact? Why was this his? What had he done to deserve such a curse, and how could he rid himself of it? He gathered together as much spare wood as he could find, and made a pyre for the strange magical disk. He burnt the entire pyre, which surrounded the disk, until only ashes remained. Ashes, and a strange disk of dirt, completely unperturbed by being in the fiery inferno.
By this point, the farmer was quite exhausted, and desperate, and he leaned his hand on the strange magical disk without realizing it. He was thinking to himself rather loudly. “I wish this thing were gone,” he thought. Now the magic was old, and worn, and despite the farmers complete lack of magical talent, it was enough to begin to unravel the spell. The spell circle was breached, and gravity and time and force began to apply, and the runes began to fade, and the farmer almost tripped as the magical disk crumbled into as much dirt and left him with no support.
The farmer was quite happy with himself, having finally destroyed the evil magic circle once and for all. He skipped about his merry way, happy he had finally rid himself from the darkness it had brought upon him. That year, and early frost killed half his crops, and he nearly didn't make it through the winter.
Many many years ago, when the farmer was just a boy, his father, also a farmer, had secretly saved a Wizard and helped him escape. In exchange, the Wizard had enchanted a powerful rune in the soil under the farm. He covered it up under the dirt, and told the father that it would grant his crops warmth and growth and good luck for a hundred years. The farmer smiled, hoping his farm would be a great inheritance to his young boy, and sustain him for the years to come.
While tilling, he uncovered something glowing. He stopped, intrigued. He continued to uncover the glowing thing, revealing an intricate and calligraphic circle of runes. He wasn't an educated man, his wisdom quite limited, but even he knew a magic circle when he saw one. This was bad.
He started to enter a panic. He knew that magic was hated in the kingdom. Could he be accused of being a Wizard, of enhancing his own crops? No, no, he was known as a loyal supporter of the King. They would give him the benefit of the doubt, he thought, but why risk it? I'll just destroy this silly spell and be on my way. He plaintively wondered what it did. Maybe it helped his plants grow?
No, come to think of it, the crops over there always came out a little more poorly. It must have been some kind of a curse, put upon him from an angry Wizard, an evil scheming madman who wanted to starve the loyal subjects of the King. Only his superb farming had prevented it from claiming all his crops, and he has managed to even thrive despite it. Quite the accomplishment!
He set about trying to rub out the inscription. He didn't want to touch it, so he found a small trowel. The dirt inside the circle seemed to have set, almost like stone. He tried to destroy the circle with the trowel, but it too had set like stone. Unsatisfied, he tried digging around it. The dirt moved freely, and he had quickly dug a small trench. He went and fetched some gloves, and tried lifting the circle. It seemed rooted, or inordinately heavy, he couldn't budge it an inch.
Desperate, he grabbed a shovel, and widened and dug out his little trench into a hole large enough to stand in, completely circling the spell circle. He ruined a bit of his barley this way, no matter, he had plenty where that came from. He then dug underneath the circle, finding the dirt just as easy to move as ever. In the end, he was left with a puzzling situation, a disk of dirt, surrounding the circle, which was floating in the air.
The farmer was intrigued and amazed and terrified. He hit the floating disk with his shovel, but it bounced right off with a loud clang. He carefully extricated himself from his hole, and tried to balance himself on the strange dirt disk. It held his weight, and didn't budge an inch. He was baffled. He filled in the hole most of the way, and puzzled on what to do next.
Well, the words inside the circle, maybe they were written in in ink, he thought. So he grabbed a bucket of water to wash away the ink. He threw the water on to the disk, but it was repelled and fell off. The water splashed with no effect on to the dirt below. He tried filling in and covering the words with dirt and clay and even ink, but everything was repelled and fell away.
The farmer went out, and lead his ox over, a powerful and stalwart beast. He tied a rope around the strange disk as best he could, but none of the knots would stick, until he created a knot so complex it was nearly a harness, and the farmer could never hope to replicate it again. He commanded the beast to pull, and it pulled with all its might, harder and harder, but absolutely nothing came of it. The ox was stuck in place for a long time, a seeming eternity. Eventually, he saw the ox start to move slowly, and then the rope slackened, and he looked at the disk. It was still there, the rope had frayed and broken, and the ox was so exhausted it couldn't move for hours.
Now, the farmer was desperate, and worried. How did he have such an eldritch artifact? Why was this his? What had he done to deserve such a curse, and how could he rid himself of it? He gathered together as much spare wood as he could find, and made a pyre for the strange magical disk. He burnt the entire pyre, which surrounded the disk, until only ashes remained. Ashes, and a strange disk of dirt, completely unperturbed by being in the fiery inferno.
By this point, the farmer was quite exhausted, and desperate, and he leaned his hand on the strange magical disk without realizing it. He was thinking to himself rather loudly. “I wish this thing were gone,” he thought. Now the magic was old, and worn, and despite the farmers complete lack of magical talent, it was enough to begin to unravel the spell. The spell circle was breached, and gravity and time and force began to apply, and the runes began to fade, and the farmer almost tripped as the magical disk crumbled into as much dirt and left him with no support.
The farmer was quite happy with himself, having finally destroyed the evil magic circle once and for all. He skipped about his merry way, happy he had finally rid himself from the darkness it had brought upon him. That year, and early frost killed half his crops, and he nearly didn't make it through the winter.
Many many years ago, when the farmer was just a boy, his father, also a farmer, had secretly saved a Wizard and helped him escape. In exchange, the Wizard had enchanted a powerful rune in the soil under the farm. He covered it up under the dirt, and told the father that it would grant his crops warmth and growth and good luck for a hundred years. The farmer smiled, hoping his farm would be a great inheritance to his young boy, and sustain him for the years to come.
Story: Starlance Part 1 (May 28th, 2011)
In the deep, dark, inky blackness of space, there flew a shining silver ship, emblazoned on it's side, the USS Starlance. Like a bullet she soared on, except she wasn't being fired at anybody, just kind of going on, and who fires a bullet through ink? Also, space isn't really inky black anyway, ink sort of shines, and space doesn't shine, it's completely matte. There are stars though, and those do shine, but not in the way ink shines. I don't think ink undergoes nuclear fusion.
Can I start over? I wasn't exactly chosen for my writing skills. My names Robert, and I'm one of the many maintainence guys keeping the USS Starlance running. Sure, I can write pages on the bad wiring in sector 12, but a narrative? It's all this flowery, flowing, ambiguous language. I think I can weave a pretty good yarn, though, and hey, if I can't make something out of what just happened on the Starlance, I don't think there's any hope for me at all. So, I think I'll just tell it like it happened.
About a week ago, the Starlance was on its normal mission, exploring the not-exactly-inky blackness of space. Pretty boring. There's really nothing out there. Some planets, some moons, zooming off, taking atmospheric samples, marking off worlds for colonization. It's like we don't have enough worlds to colonize, we've got them by the bushelful by now, but hey, I'm not the one who makes the policy, I just fix things when they break down.
I remember like, a few months ago, when there was all this hubbub in the scientific sector about finding a planet with life on it, and they sent probes down and took a sample and brought it up. I waited around, pretending to fix a nearby relay. Finally, they brought it out, in a little glass globe, and it looks like some sort of sandwich condiment. It's just some red slimy stuff, and everyone's all excited.
So, when I heard about what had appeared on the long range scanners, I kind of expected something like that again. We'd go into an uproar for a few days and the scientists would have their champagne and they'd bring up some sort of purple slime for us to see. Then everything would die down and the scientists would dissect it under a blacklight and tell us exactly how this new form of slime absolutely revolutionizes the study of slime. If we probe the whole galaxy, we'll collect an entire rainbow of slime.
Anyway, as I'm sure you know it was exactly not what I was expecting, but the first thing that happened was that deafening noise. It came through on most of the intercoms, so we had to shut power to them. Apparently, the ships communications were also picking it up, and so we had to shut them off. The whole area was filled with the dreadful noise, like a billion wasps right in your ear.
So, I go and see my friend about it, because he knows about all sorts of stuff, and he is busy in his quarters, which he's filled all to the top with computers. He never has the lights on, and I'm always tripping over wires in his place. Somehow, though, he's managed to snag cheetos and mountain dew from the ships food machines. He's pretty amazing like that. So, I go in, and he seems really excited, and he's playing out that horrible screechy noise over and over again and has like a billion things on all of his computer monitors. He tells me that he's pretty much made sense of what that noise meant, and started rattling on about aliens.
Now, you might be saying, well, the crew of the Starlance didn't know what the noise was for another day even. I tell you, if I even suspected that my friend in his cheetos stained quarters knew something that the captain and all the scientists didn't, I would have told them immediately, though probably while laughing. I figured that they had figured this all out hours ago, but, hey, your tax dollars at work.
So, yeah, my friend knew about the aliens, but he didn't know everything yet. He told me that this noise was some sort of signal, but it wasn't from anything from Earth. It was a completely different sort of system, or something. He said that it was all over, that it seemed like some sort of machine code for computers. He said this computer was so huge, it had to be put on a lot of different planets, and this noise was the computer talking to itself. I asked him who would want a computer that big, but he must have not understood what I was saying, because he acted like I was talking blasphemy.
So, I walked back over to the maintainence depot, all the while musing about this big alien computer. Who would need such a huge computer? Maybe it was trying to figure out how to attack us best. I know aliens wouldn't be like in the movies, but sometimes you can't help thinking that they're all out to invade us.
Since the intercoms weren't working, there was a lot of work to do putting up wires and tin cans and such so that people could talk to each other floors away. Usually they just ring me up on my wrist when someone wants me to go somewhere, but now I had to go over to the depot, and all the work orders had to be submitted by hand, and it was just a mess. So I did my best to try and connect up everything and hopefully we'd be working again.
Hey, do you mind if I go over and get a glass of water? I didn't expect this story to last this long, and my throat is getting a bit sore. Anyway, most of the rest of that day, I was just hard at work, so it isn't terribly exciting. Don't worry, though, we'll get to the good bits soon.
Can I start over? I wasn't exactly chosen for my writing skills. My names Robert, and I'm one of the many maintainence guys keeping the USS Starlance running. Sure, I can write pages on the bad wiring in sector 12, but a narrative? It's all this flowery, flowing, ambiguous language. I think I can weave a pretty good yarn, though, and hey, if I can't make something out of what just happened on the Starlance, I don't think there's any hope for me at all. So, I think I'll just tell it like it happened.
About a week ago, the Starlance was on its normal mission, exploring the not-exactly-inky blackness of space. Pretty boring. There's really nothing out there. Some planets, some moons, zooming off, taking atmospheric samples, marking off worlds for colonization. It's like we don't have enough worlds to colonize, we've got them by the bushelful by now, but hey, I'm not the one who makes the policy, I just fix things when they break down.
I remember like, a few months ago, when there was all this hubbub in the scientific sector about finding a planet with life on it, and they sent probes down and took a sample and brought it up. I waited around, pretending to fix a nearby relay. Finally, they brought it out, in a little glass globe, and it looks like some sort of sandwich condiment. It's just some red slimy stuff, and everyone's all excited.
So, when I heard about what had appeared on the long range scanners, I kind of expected something like that again. We'd go into an uproar for a few days and the scientists would have their champagne and they'd bring up some sort of purple slime for us to see. Then everything would die down and the scientists would dissect it under a blacklight and tell us exactly how this new form of slime absolutely revolutionizes the study of slime. If we probe the whole galaxy, we'll collect an entire rainbow of slime.
Anyway, as I'm sure you know it was exactly not what I was expecting, but the first thing that happened was that deafening noise. It came through on most of the intercoms, so we had to shut power to them. Apparently, the ships communications were also picking it up, and so we had to shut them off. The whole area was filled with the dreadful noise, like a billion wasps right in your ear.
So, I go and see my friend about it, because he knows about all sorts of stuff, and he is busy in his quarters, which he's filled all to the top with computers. He never has the lights on, and I'm always tripping over wires in his place. Somehow, though, he's managed to snag cheetos and mountain dew from the ships food machines. He's pretty amazing like that. So, I go in, and he seems really excited, and he's playing out that horrible screechy noise over and over again and has like a billion things on all of his computer monitors. He tells me that he's pretty much made sense of what that noise meant, and started rattling on about aliens.
Now, you might be saying, well, the crew of the Starlance didn't know what the noise was for another day even. I tell you, if I even suspected that my friend in his cheetos stained quarters knew something that the captain and all the scientists didn't, I would have told them immediately, though probably while laughing. I figured that they had figured this all out hours ago, but, hey, your tax dollars at work.
So, yeah, my friend knew about the aliens, but he didn't know everything yet. He told me that this noise was some sort of signal, but it wasn't from anything from Earth. It was a completely different sort of system, or something. He said that it was all over, that it seemed like some sort of machine code for computers. He said this computer was so huge, it had to be put on a lot of different planets, and this noise was the computer talking to itself. I asked him who would want a computer that big, but he must have not understood what I was saying, because he acted like I was talking blasphemy.
So, I walked back over to the maintainence depot, all the while musing about this big alien computer. Who would need such a huge computer? Maybe it was trying to figure out how to attack us best. I know aliens wouldn't be like in the movies, but sometimes you can't help thinking that they're all out to invade us.
Since the intercoms weren't working, there was a lot of work to do putting up wires and tin cans and such so that people could talk to each other floors away. Usually they just ring me up on my wrist when someone wants me to go somewhere, but now I had to go over to the depot, and all the work orders had to be submitted by hand, and it was just a mess. So I did my best to try and connect up everything and hopefully we'd be working again.
Hey, do you mind if I go over and get a glass of water? I didn't expect this story to last this long, and my throat is getting a bit sore. Anyway, most of the rest of that day, I was just hard at work, so it isn't terribly exciting. Don't worry, though, we'll get to the good bits soon.
Story: Profile of a Town (May 27th, 2011)
The sun shone on the abandoned, dusty plain. Little vegetation would grow here, and even the beasts and monsters of the surrounding forests rarely tread on the loose, crumbly soil. The winds whipped through harshly, and the dust was fashioned by it into tiny projectiles. Every once in a while, a fearsome beast of the forest would duck out into the wasteland, chased by an even larger predator, or wishing to cross over the land, but besides those, life in the wasteland was uneventful, removed from the wilds of nature and from the politics of lands and city-states.
Even armies rarely crossed the flat wastes, for the wasteland was between city-states in the great Confederacy of Perdonia. Peace had reigned within the borders of Perdonia for quite some time now, the greater part of a millenia, however, at it's borders had long raged a war. The Kingdom of Lortha, a mighty and warlike power, had strove to relieve Perdonia of some of its outer territory. In doing so, Perdonia awoke like a sleeping giant, and the two powers have been locked at a stalemate since.
Sprouting up like mushrooms in wet soil, this dry crumbly dust brought forth a crop of rebels. Instead of gilled caps grew rough barricades made from the timber of the forest, and in place of roots, series of wells and pipes sought water under the surface to try and make the ground fertile, or at the very least habitable. War had changed Perdonia, and the constant drive to produce an army to fight had eroded what freedoms they had. Those who could not, or would not support the war effort were not tolerated. While deserters, pacifists, and those who could not be put to use were not killed, they were also not supported, and left to die outside the protective walls in the forests, deserts, and wastelands, at the teeth and claws of wild beasts.
Perdonia had been warring for a decade by now, and on the tenth anniversary of the war, an uprising was planned. The support ran deep, as war, especially protracted war, wears down most people. While the thoughts of uprising and rebellion spread like a weed, the information also found its way into those who were sympathetic to the government, and some platoons of the military were called in to keep the peace at home.
Those who were behind the revolt, mainly a skilled and clever group, also had their spies. They knew that, while On the eve of the planned uprising, they fled, escaping into the wilds with whatever they could carry on whatever carts they owned or stole. Without its leadership, the uprising failed to occur, and life in Perdonia went on as normal.
The revolutionaries fled to the wastelands in haste, and set up and encampment to protect against the winds. Those that knew how to hunt and forage were sent into the woods to gather sustenance, and the few mages of the group set out trying to find water or creating spells to protect and feed the growing town. All the rest gathered their supplies, and began collecting themselves to build a town.
While the town did not thrive, it struggled on, constantly growing with the latest group of deserters and outcasts. Food was short, but not at the levels of starvation, and the deserters brought in weapons and skills that were useful in hunting. Farms were set up, and the soil improved, and the dust slowly changed to a fertile state.
The government of Perdonia, though aware of the formation and growth of the town, was relatively unconcerned. Only very few Perdonians fled to the town, and the town kept to itself. Life was much harder in the town, so only those Perdonians who had no choice would go there.
The little town grew for many years, becoming more and more established. Still, there was always a raggedness, a sort of ad-hoc nature to the town. Though there were some stone buildings, the majority was put up in haste out of whatever materials were handy. Farms grew, ever transforming the soil to fertility, but the wasteland was vast, and there was still a great deal of dust. Large walls surrounded the town, not to protect it from anyone but the dust.
With the growth grew leisure time and culture, and the art of the town grew and evolved unto itself, for many of the artists had fled here. There were many bars and stages for musicians, and almost every indoor surface was covered in murals and art. Musical instruments were cobbled out of whatever materials handy, timber harvested from the forests, parts of the many beasts, and whatever was around. Though the instruments were often crude, the musicians hands coaxed beautiful melodies from it, and in its own way, the dusty cobbled together town became a quite vibrant place.
The war raged on far away, continuing in a stalemate for decades. War influenced the growth of Perdonia, and it grew even further apart from the town forming inside her. Ever more focused on the growth of the military, the Perdonians took some quite large risks. Even the mages began to worry, for they felt their neutrality might be breached. Perdonia embraced and attempted to control the more unstable, eccentric inventors, and use the creations of these madmen against Lortha.
About four decades after the founding of the town, and around five decades after the war had started, a young soldier fled to the town, a quite usual occurrence. He appeared to have left hastily. Like many of the soldiers, he was brandishing a spear and still wearing his armor, though with the painted insignia of Perdonia hastily scratched out. He also held, close to his heart, a deep secret. He heard many stories while in the army of this place, a town that would accept deserters. Most said it was terrible, with many starving people on the streets. To his observation, it was certainly no great capital, but it wasn't any slum either. He swore he even heard some quite beautiful lute strains in the background. Like most soldiers, he made a beeline straight to a local bar, and ordered a very stiff drink, wondering what kind of currency they accepted.
Even armies rarely crossed the flat wastes, for the wasteland was between city-states in the great Confederacy of Perdonia. Peace had reigned within the borders of Perdonia for quite some time now, the greater part of a millenia, however, at it's borders had long raged a war. The Kingdom of Lortha, a mighty and warlike power, had strove to relieve Perdonia of some of its outer territory. In doing so, Perdonia awoke like a sleeping giant, and the two powers have been locked at a stalemate since.
Sprouting up like mushrooms in wet soil, this dry crumbly dust brought forth a crop of rebels. Instead of gilled caps grew rough barricades made from the timber of the forest, and in place of roots, series of wells and pipes sought water under the surface to try and make the ground fertile, or at the very least habitable. War had changed Perdonia, and the constant drive to produce an army to fight had eroded what freedoms they had. Those who could not, or would not support the war effort were not tolerated. While deserters, pacifists, and those who could not be put to use were not killed, they were also not supported, and left to die outside the protective walls in the forests, deserts, and wastelands, at the teeth and claws of wild beasts.
Perdonia had been warring for a decade by now, and on the tenth anniversary of the war, an uprising was planned. The support ran deep, as war, especially protracted war, wears down most people. While the thoughts of uprising and rebellion spread like a weed, the information also found its way into those who were sympathetic to the government, and some platoons of the military were called in to keep the peace at home.
Those who were behind the revolt, mainly a skilled and clever group, also had their spies. They knew that, while On the eve of the planned uprising, they fled, escaping into the wilds with whatever they could carry on whatever carts they owned or stole. Without its leadership, the uprising failed to occur, and life in Perdonia went on as normal.
The revolutionaries fled to the wastelands in haste, and set up and encampment to protect against the winds. Those that knew how to hunt and forage were sent into the woods to gather sustenance, and the few mages of the group set out trying to find water or creating spells to protect and feed the growing town. All the rest gathered their supplies, and began collecting themselves to build a town.
While the town did not thrive, it struggled on, constantly growing with the latest group of deserters and outcasts. Food was short, but not at the levels of starvation, and the deserters brought in weapons and skills that were useful in hunting. Farms were set up, and the soil improved, and the dust slowly changed to a fertile state.
The government of Perdonia, though aware of the formation and growth of the town, was relatively unconcerned. Only very few Perdonians fled to the town, and the town kept to itself. Life was much harder in the town, so only those Perdonians who had no choice would go there.
The little town grew for many years, becoming more and more established. Still, there was always a raggedness, a sort of ad-hoc nature to the town. Though there were some stone buildings, the majority was put up in haste out of whatever materials were handy. Farms grew, ever transforming the soil to fertility, but the wasteland was vast, and there was still a great deal of dust. Large walls surrounded the town, not to protect it from anyone but the dust.
With the growth grew leisure time and culture, and the art of the town grew and evolved unto itself, for many of the artists had fled here. There were many bars and stages for musicians, and almost every indoor surface was covered in murals and art. Musical instruments were cobbled out of whatever materials handy, timber harvested from the forests, parts of the many beasts, and whatever was around. Though the instruments were often crude, the musicians hands coaxed beautiful melodies from it, and in its own way, the dusty cobbled together town became a quite vibrant place.
The war raged on far away, continuing in a stalemate for decades. War influenced the growth of Perdonia, and it grew even further apart from the town forming inside her. Ever more focused on the growth of the military, the Perdonians took some quite large risks. Even the mages began to worry, for they felt their neutrality might be breached. Perdonia embraced and attempted to control the more unstable, eccentric inventors, and use the creations of these madmen against Lortha.
About four decades after the founding of the town, and around five decades after the war had started, a young soldier fled to the town, a quite usual occurrence. He appeared to have left hastily. Like many of the soldiers, he was brandishing a spear and still wearing his armor, though with the painted insignia of Perdonia hastily scratched out. He also held, close to his heart, a deep secret. He heard many stories while in the army of this place, a town that would accept deserters. Most said it was terrible, with many starving people on the streets. To his observation, it was certainly no great capital, but it wasn't any slum either. He swore he even heard some quite beautiful lute strains in the background. Like most soldiers, he made a beeline straight to a local bar, and ordered a very stiff drink, wondering what kind of currency they accepted.
Story: Untitled 1 (May 26, 2001)
In the early days of the Great School of Magic, there was a mighty Wizard. The Wizard was well known among his peers, and taught his students well, and everyone liked him. There was one Wizard in the School, around as old as the Great Wizard, who had almost no magic in her. Her craft was fine, and she could inscribe the runes even better than most, she could not give them much life, and her enchantments often crumbled in short order.
Even back in her days of schooling, her talents and weaknesses were apparent, as she was excellent at work with her hands, in the craft of the magic circles and the inscriptions of the runes. Her skills extended to lesser crafts, from the mending of fabrics to the making of pottery, and she tried her hardest to make herself useful.
Her schoolmates, despite seeing her skills, would taunt her for her ineptitude in the magical arts. They would inscribe their rough circles upon their clothing to mend it, and conjure up bowls and urns from the native clay, and though their clothing would soon tear again, and their pottery would crumble to nothingness after mere days, they refused to let her use her talents, as they conspired to make her feel worthless.
The Great Wizard, then nearly a boy, saw her and went over. He said, simply, “I see you mending your clothes, and I have torn my favorite robe. Though my magic is strong, it cannot hold as well as nice firm thread, and your talents can make it like new again. Would you do me the honor of repairing it?” He handed over the fabric, and the other Wizard, her heart running over with joy, accepted this, and quickly began to work.
Thus began a strong friendship between the two. They passed notes in classes, helped each other with exams, and spent much of their time with each other. They became so well attuned that he could power her runes, and he greatly admired the subtlety of her inscriptions. Her spellwork, after all, was of the highest quality, it was merely that she had little energy to throw behind it. He provided the energy, and she the skill, and together they were more able than either could be individually.
The Great Wizard was also a great learner, as most are, and before long, he had picked up much of the nuance of the other Wizard's craft. The other Wizard grew resentful, she no longer felt needed. She began to grow apart from the Great Wizard, and though he tried to stop it, he was still young, and inexperienced, and he could not. The bonds of friendship were broken, and she began to keep to herself, mending fabrics and making pottery, which was grudgingly appreciated by the Wizards of the town.
The Great Wizard grew up, and became a teacher, and well respected. He often looked back to the time he shared with the other Wizard, but he kept his sights in the present. He had many students to teach and much work to do. He regretted the past, but still could not see how to re-enter her heart. Though successful, and wise, and learned, the emptiness this created remained within his heart.
One day, the Great Wizard discovered that his magic had left him. With his magic went the respect of the School. Though he was still skilled in the craft of magic, he could not apply it, and he was stripped of his position. No one listened to his advice, though it was the same advice. No one even wanted to talk. The lingering emptiness quickly turned to despair, and in his desperation, he reached out to the other Wizard from long ago.
He found her in a mean little burrow to the side of the complex. She had been scratching out a living on her skills, and though her pottery and clothing were the finest available, she still garnered no respect. He announced himself at her entrance, “It is I, your friend from long ago. I had great power, but I never used it to help you. Perhaps it was a punishment that it was taken away from me.”
She came to the entrance, in a state of disarray, one hand holding a scrap of fabric. “Why should I believe you?” she asked, “This may just be a ploy you made, to trick me into liking you again. You always were clever. You came back to me just because you lost your skills? Where were you all this time?” She started to sob, and her voice rose in anger and pain. “Why did you abandon me? Where were you?” she cried, revealing a knife in her other hand. She stabbed quickly, the blow landing on his leg, a deep gash. “Now, use your magic to heal yourself!” she exclaimed.
The formerly Great Wizard summoned up every ounce of restraint he had, and remained calm. He merely said, “I really can't.” Seeing what she had done out of anger, the other Wizard became horrified. She did the only thing that made any sense to her, and like a piece of fabric, she tried to join the skin together, to slow the bleeding and to help him heal.
After she sutured him, both Wizards entered a state of calmness. They discussed for a while how they felt. She told him of her resentment for his increasing ability, and her fear of becoming worthless once again. He told her that she would http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2212504836635501558always be better at the craft of spells, that her work was the finest he had ever seen. He told her even if there was someone better, she would still mean as much to him as before, as they were partners and friends, and without each other a hole had grown in each of their hearts.
The Great Wizard did not ever regain his powers, but he lived the rest of his life in a small burrow near the school with his closest friend, and he was happy.
Even back in her days of schooling, her talents and weaknesses were apparent, as she was excellent at work with her hands, in the craft of the magic circles and the inscriptions of the runes. Her skills extended to lesser crafts, from the mending of fabrics to the making of pottery, and she tried her hardest to make herself useful.
Her schoolmates, despite seeing her skills, would taunt her for her ineptitude in the magical arts. They would inscribe their rough circles upon their clothing to mend it, and conjure up bowls and urns from the native clay, and though their clothing would soon tear again, and their pottery would crumble to nothingness after mere days, they refused to let her use her talents, as they conspired to make her feel worthless.
The Great Wizard, then nearly a boy, saw her and went over. He said, simply, “I see you mending your clothes, and I have torn my favorite robe. Though my magic is strong, it cannot hold as well as nice firm thread, and your talents can make it like new again. Would you do me the honor of repairing it?” He handed over the fabric, and the other Wizard, her heart running over with joy, accepted this, and quickly began to work.
Thus began a strong friendship between the two. They passed notes in classes, helped each other with exams, and spent much of their time with each other. They became so well attuned that he could power her runes, and he greatly admired the subtlety of her inscriptions. Her spellwork, after all, was of the highest quality, it was merely that she had little energy to throw behind it. He provided the energy, and she the skill, and together they were more able than either could be individually.
The Great Wizard was also a great learner, as most are, and before long, he had picked up much of the nuance of the other Wizard's craft. The other Wizard grew resentful, she no longer felt needed. She began to grow apart from the Great Wizard, and though he tried to stop it, he was still young, and inexperienced, and he could not. The bonds of friendship were broken, and she began to keep to herself, mending fabrics and making pottery, which was grudgingly appreciated by the Wizards of the town.
The Great Wizard grew up, and became a teacher, and well respected. He often looked back to the time he shared with the other Wizard, but he kept his sights in the present. He had many students to teach and much work to do. He regretted the past, but still could not see how to re-enter her heart. Though successful, and wise, and learned, the emptiness this created remained within his heart.
One day, the Great Wizard discovered that his magic had left him. With his magic went the respect of the School. Though he was still skilled in the craft of magic, he could not apply it, and he was stripped of his position. No one listened to his advice, though it was the same advice. No one even wanted to talk. The lingering emptiness quickly turned to despair, and in his desperation, he reached out to the other Wizard from long ago.
He found her in a mean little burrow to the side of the complex. She had been scratching out a living on her skills, and though her pottery and clothing were the finest available, she still garnered no respect. He announced himself at her entrance, “It is I, your friend from long ago. I had great power, but I never used it to help you. Perhaps it was a punishment that it was taken away from me.”
She came to the entrance, in a state of disarray, one hand holding a scrap of fabric. “Why should I believe you?” she asked, “This may just be a ploy you made, to trick me into liking you again. You always were clever. You came back to me just because you lost your skills? Where were you all this time?” She started to sob, and her voice rose in anger and pain. “Why did you abandon me? Where were you?” she cried, revealing a knife in her other hand. She stabbed quickly, the blow landing on his leg, a deep gash. “Now, use your magic to heal yourself!” she exclaimed.
The formerly Great Wizard summoned up every ounce of restraint he had, and remained calm. He merely said, “I really can't.” Seeing what she had done out of anger, the other Wizard became horrified. She did the only thing that made any sense to her, and like a piece of fabric, she tried to join the skin together, to slow the bleeding and to help him heal.
After she sutured him, both Wizards entered a state of calmness. They discussed for a while how they felt. She told him of her resentment for his increasing ability, and her fear of becoming worthless once again. He told her that she would http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=2212504836635501558always be better at the craft of spells, that her work was the finest he had ever seen. He told her even if there was someone better, she would still mean as much to him as before, as they were partners and friends, and without each other a hole had grown in each of their hearts.
The Great Wizard did not ever regain his powers, but he lived the rest of his life in a small burrow near the school with his closest friend, and he was happy.
Announcement: The Short Story Project
I have decided that I should make more of an effort in writing and being creative.
I previously posted this on another website with slightly different rules, but here's the ground rules for the current incarnation:
I reserve the right to modify these details to reflect changing situations in my life, but I will try not to, and try to keep this honest. I may edit previous entries to reflect changes in naming and titling, and other minor grammatical and spelling errors, but I will try to preserve the content (changing it, of course, in a separate edit post).
The topics are completely open, but I'm sure a lot of them will end up being sci-fi and fantasy.
I will label each one with relevant world/universe information when I get around to it. I have 5 stories already created which I will be formatting for posting today, so there will be a 6-fold update today.
I previously posted this on another website with slightly different rules, but here's the ground rules for the current incarnation:
- I will write a short story, part of a short story, or possibly a chapter of a novel or novella (this is planned during NaNoWriMo) each day, posted by 6:00 AM Eastern Time the following date.
- These are to be first rough drafts. A feature may appear later where I incrementally edit stories, to be done in parallel with writing new ones.
- Until, and including June 1st 2011, the stories are to be at least 1000 words in length. This minimum will increase at a rate of 10 words per day until it reaches 2500 words in length (Ideally, Oct. 29, 2011). There is no maximum.
I reserve the right to modify these details to reflect changing situations in my life, but I will try not to, and try to keep this honest. I may edit previous entries to reflect changes in naming and titling, and other minor grammatical and spelling errors, but I will try to preserve the content (changing it, of course, in a separate edit post).
The topics are completely open, but I'm sure a lot of them will end up being sci-fi and fantasy.
I will label each one with relevant world/universe information when I get around to it. I have 5 stories already created which I will be formatting for posting today, so there will be a 6-fold update today.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)