Below is the innermost thoughts and creations of novelist and poet B D BECHTLE. Short stories, philosophy, previews, poems, rants-- you'll find it all here. Use the list of keywords on the sidebar to find what you're looking for. Follow the author here and on Twitter @BBechtlez. Be sure to share anything you like on social media, and don't forget to read the preview for the upcoming thriller THE BARD.
"It's fine to be weird... as long as you harness it in a way normal people can enjoy."
"Sometimes I wonder if my dreams are only just. Lately, I've started to look at those around me and feel like I've lost touch with reality somewhere along the way. My passion tells me otherwise, but when the world seems blind to your ambition...
Yes, it's one of those days.
You have to remember... those with the most confidence often have the most insecurities to hide. I'm not my brother; I'm a dreamer. The sting of reality is a pain known to all humanity, but it is felt the worst by those who live in a dream. I've come to terms with the fact that I cannot live a normal life. I'm not cut out for the world outside of my art. My false bravado can only compensate so much for the isolation and uncertainty. I want to shout in my native tongue and have someone understand me, but that's a wish without a chance for being granted.
I have an affliction that just so happens to be productive. But my affinity for art, is it an advantage? My passion boils, but it burns me. I'm a kettle filled with the finest tea sitting in a room of devout coffee drinkers. I can only make art, nothing else. Being normal is an impossibility. I'm not bragging, this is a lamentation! My hands are only meant for creation. Asking me to work a normal job... that's suicide."
SPOILER WARNING: This post will contain a tremendous amount of spoilers if you've yet to see Breaking Bad in its entirety. I suggest you do so now. Not for the sake of this post, but your own. (You'll thank me later.)
Aphrodite blew a kiss
Athena rose her sword
Diana went to bow her head
But fell on her knees instead
"What seperates us from the Mortals?"
She cried.
"If they live on as a god dies?"
"How can this world persist?"
"When upon the marrow we desist?"
"The sun burns on, the wine proceeds to flow."
"The men carry on, rituals continue..."
"They'll never even know."
Athena threw a sheild on the flaming son.
"The fates shall not spare us, as they had not the titans."
"As we came from them, man has come from us."
"Just as they outlive us, so too shall they be outlasted by their creations. Lost to Chronos' ghost... Just as we."
Aphrodite pressed her warm bosom upon Apollo's navel.
"Death for flesh you weep a not..."
"Yet for divinity you morn a lot?"
"We are not greater, meddling most."
"Guests mistaken for the host."
"I've tasted love, both man and god."
"Our superiority? A mere visade."
Persephone lurked out of shadow.
"Let us strike back."
"Repay treachery with a god's smack"
"If we die than so should they."
"Without us, their worship goes to decay."
Hera then decended with a deafening boom.
Her stern glare shook the room
Acceptance never suited her strong
Yet she knew her daughter wasn't wrong
"It would be all too easy to smite man."
"Such is our brother Hades' plan."
"You've grown so happy with your rapist."
"A devil now, no longer an escapist."
"Don't you look your mother in the eye."
"You've doomed us all to die."
The women threw his chariot
Let its horses squeel
Their tears turned to stone
Smashed into a spinning wheel
I've decided to do a different type of blog entry this time. A personal one. One that's ripped straight from my skull, still dripping with the residue of my raw emotions. Normally, the posts you see are a sculpture-- meticulously chiseled down. This however is a crude hump of clay. Untouched grey matter. Unadulterated. Unmoderated.
I'm not even typing this from my computer or tablet. It's from my phone. I sit alone in a car, basking in the cheeky flouresent street lighting. The only sounds I hear are crickets, passing cars and a lone isomniac gull's squawks. I'll be honest with you, there's no point I'm trying to make here. No sagicity I'm trying to pass on. I have no plan today. Any philosophy I happen to empart is a product of chance. Pure musery.
My life is currently in vitro, suddenly ripped out of Its comfortable state of flux. A great many things are flying at me at once. My book is nearing it's completion, its fourth and final rewrite ending. My home, my house... It will be nothing but a memory in a little over a week. I have a destination in mind, but there's so much uncertainty fogging my view of the future.
My girlfriend is also going through a transition. While I'm beyond proud of her, I find myself ashamed of my own impatience and distance. Due to all my worries and stress, it's put me at an arm's reach. I've been so emotionally compromised, I've lacked the capabilities to behave as a proper boyfriend should. Between writing and working, I feel like I'm just not giving her enough time and love-- which gives way to a whole new array of worries. As unfair as it is, I hope she understands. I'm doing my best, but I'm aware of how lackluster that consolation prize is. I need her now more than ever, and yet I find myself needing to be alone.
If anything good has come out of this trying period of my life, it's perspective. Now more than ever I've come to realize how important my dream to be a full-time novelist is. It's my only anchor in this mad ocean of uncertainty called life. Though I'm still mired in stormy waters. My ambition will take me back to shore. I just need to wipe the salt water out of my eyes and keep rowing.
"We've got an unidentified fighter diving into the crossfire."
"Is it one of our boys?"
"Negative, sir."
"Who is it then?"
"The ship is reported as stolen. Its AUTO-HUD AR ID's aren't registered in any galaxies in this quadrant. It's actually just coming up on the screen as an image of a... middle finger."
"So it's hostile?"
"Not sure. We've yet to make contact, sir." "What are you waiting for? Engage. We cannot allow anything to endanger this mission. For the sake of the human race."
...
The food-covered pilot snickered, amused at the confusion his presence caused. He spotted a floating snack bag and clapped it with his chubby hands. The bag popped, causing salty green orbs to float about the obese slob's crammed cockpit.
"SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM."
The fat pilot gripped the ship's steering handles and skilfully swerved out of the path of an enormous destruction beam. The line of purple light blew up three ships behind him. He dodged three more such attacks while eating the salty floating orbs using only his mouth.
"This is Assistant to the Admiral Janek Pulitzen. You've entered an active combat zone between the GFHI and a hostile group of Pandolian seperatists. Promptly identify yourself or be destroyed."
"Ohhh! You sound SECK-SEEEEE! Babe you got video transmission on that shiny ship of yours? Nothing turns me on more than having a hot babe watch me kick maximum assage."
"Excuse me? I'll have you know I'm a respected fleet coordinator and a--" "Blah, blah, blah. Are you showin' me tits here or what?" "Over my dead body, creep. You are violating seventy-six counts of personal craft space regulation. Operating an unregistered and outdated space vehicle Piloting a fighter-class ship housing war-grade technology and weaponry. Entering restricted airspace. Harassing an GFHI officer. Refusal to--"
The interloper's space junk encrusted craft expelled an enormous cloud of radioactive pollution from its rearmost exhaust.
"Make that seventy-nine," the pilot jeered, speeding straight into the Pandolian vanguard.
The alien's ships were odd, resembling large glowing orbs. The blue bubbles fired tiny purple laser pellets at the dingy brown spaceship. The dirty ship activated its bottom thrusters at the last second and shot upwards. Missing, the two Pandolian ships were hit by their own fire. Their ships quietly popped-- immediately suffocating all inside.
"Under the Foreign Species Cooperation Act of 7840, you are to submit to the will of the Galactic Force of Human Isolationists. Remove your ship from hostile territory and dock with our flagship at once." "Sorry sexy, that act don't apply to humans and I'm as human as they come."
"How can we confirm your humanity? Your ship is not registered in any human galaxies."
"If you boot up that cam of yours I'll let you check. If you play your cards right, I'll even give ya proof of gender."
"Fine. I'm initiating visual communication, now. Gender verification is... unnecessary."
The ship's greasy windshield blipped and projected the face of a very professional looking young brunette in a white GFHI uniform.
"MMMMM... SEXXXXY!! Oh that uniform... Who knew extremists had such style? This will really get my juices pumpin'."
Seeing the grotesque blob of a man on screen, the girl's face contorted into reflect her disgust. Her lip trembled.
"..."
"What's wrong, baby doll?"
The pilot flew three loops around the rouge Pandolian fleet, causing three more incidents of friendly fire. He nearly crashed into a four ship wide cruiser, but pulled down at the last second.
"Your..."
"Don't forget that the video transmitter adds at least ten pounds."
"The Fat Asteroid..."
The admiral's assistant immediately cut off communication, ending both visual and audio contact.
The portly pilot grinned ear to ear. The cruiser dropped a massive bomb down below. Rather than evade, the pilot ejected a stringy white goop into a space. He fired a radioactive pulse, causing the gook to solidify into a sloppy, pancake-like shield. The bomb bounced off the white shield and collided into the cruiser. The beat-up brown spaceship dove down even further, escaping a massive explosion that not only took down the cruiser, but the five fighters surrounding it. ... "Admiral Arkclaysx, I've identified the unknown craft..." "Well?" "It's the Fat Asteroid. I made visual contact with Regs Bilken. There's no mistaking him. Looks just as gross as the posters." "Son of a bitch... What's that psychopath doing here?" "The same thing he always does by the looks of it."
"..." "Admiral? What should we do? Pull out?"
"..."
"Admiral!?"
"YOUR MOM SHOULD HAVE PULLED OUT. Hyoohhhh!"
"Bilken!? This is a secure channel! How did you...?"
"Don't worry about that, baby. Just got back from the Pandolian CO's ship, and boy did that scaly mofo make me an offer. 300,000 damels. Yeah, I know. Coins? What a hassle! But no, I'm totally into that vintage stuff. Speaking of stuff I'm into, what kind of underwear you got on, babe?"
"You'd betray your own race for a mere heap of coins? Pathetic..."
"Do you know the exchange rate of damels to MWD? It's worth over a cool mil. That's nothing to shake a snake at. No, sir. Damels are classy as shit. Plus, they're all those old rest stop vending machines will take."
Assistant Admiral Janek fell silent. She looked down at her communicator, receiving a pulse inside her head. It was a message from the President of Unified Space Warp Affiliates-- the group holding the largest share in the GFHI. A message to her... a lowly space dog, from arguably the wealthiest man in the universe.
MSG:// 0:5456 - DONZA KEROGUN: Start a bidding war with the Pandolians. Allow it to rise to any amount. I will cover any expense. Do not attempt to outbid them. Stall the Fat Asteroid. Your reward will be great.
"We'll offer you 1.3 million MWD for your... services," Janek bid.
"Halls yar, we got ourselves a biddin' war," Regs Bilken, outlaw and pilot of the Fat Asteroid, cheered. "Let's put Papa Pandolian on the line, shall we?"
Janek stumbled back, suddenly face to face with the rough scaly face of the Pandolian Leader and the Regs Bilken's greasy jowls.
"Hope you don't mind me overriding that little block you set on visual communication," Regs laughed, licking crumbs off his face. "I just want to make sure I have your full attention."
Jenek hid her blinking wrist communicator behind her back.
"Gyurh som tonkeh shegale fanto don kegon," the commanding Pandolian croaked hoarsely.
"Speak Humandarin, idiot," Regs said. "You think this chick speaks your language? Of course not, she's part of an army of freaking bigots. Why do you think you guys are fighting in the first place?"
"Bigots!?" Janek echoed. "As if a man of your moral bankruptcy has any space to pass judgement."
"Do not deny ear to the Pandolian pilgrim's plea," the alien grunted. "I repeat: our offer is now double."
"HELL to the YES," the Fat Asteroid chanted. "You bubble boys got some deep ol' pockets. What now, my deliciously racist little muffin top? Does your company want to keep the Milky Quadrant human only, or will it let these big bad lizards come in and mine up all their asteroids?"
"Three million MWD," Janek replied.
The Assistant Admiral's high bid caused a stir on the Pandolian side, causing them to murmur amoung themselves.
Before the aliens could finish their bid, Janek but in with her own.
"4.5 MILLION," she burst.
The Pandolian shook its head and grinned.
"You do not lend ear for all plea. Pandolians bid four million... damels."
Janek's entire body shook, astounded that the small army of refugees had so much coin to spare. The Fat Asteroid's greedy eyes ignited with a tremendous green fire.
"HOLY CRAP ON A PANDOLIAN PANOLI! DING DING DING. WE GOT OURSELVES A WINNER. LOOKS LIKE I'M BUYING CHICKEN DINNER FOR ALL THE BABES IN BABYLON-SIX!"
"Calm down," the Admiral Assistant snapped. "You still haven't heard my counteroffer yet."
"No, that I have not," Regs said eagerly.
"10 million MWD."
The Pandolians laughed.
"What's so funny!?"
"This plea... it is made under a false tense," the Pandolian CO said, grinning.
"Yeah, no crap," Regs said, changing his cheeky demeanor to a much more serious one. "Your group, the GFHI, is funded by special interest groups-- mainly human-lead corporations looking to eliminate competition from alien-run corporations. They don't even shell out a full million for services rendered. "
"What? How do you--"
"What's wrong, sexy? You prone to judging ships by their paintjob? My brain is the same size as my gut. That's how I've managed to get this far doin' what I do and stayin' alive."
"You use your unstoppable dogfighting skills and stolen tech to interfere in space battles and hold both factions hostage until one outbids the other... then you completely destroy the opposing side. You're a murderer, an extortionist and a thief. You don't have brains... you have reflexes and good ship."
Regs Bilken chomped a stray green puffball floating by and smiled.
"On the contrary, I tend to save lives," Regs corrected. "Fun fact: most of the conflicts I resolve involve a surrender. Instead of the loss of lives, money is lost."
"Greed can be good if the greater sum lies in the hands of the worthy," the Pandolian CO said. "While you war for a cause you do not fully understand, the Pandolians wish to simply make a peaceful life. A free existence. Eons of lightyears away, our planet Pandola sits in a remote corner of the Gunkryar Galaxy. It is cold and dark, relying on a the bubbling of phasomian--"
"Get to the point, grandpa," Regs said with a yawn. "This is an auction, not a history lesson."
The grizzled Pandolian leader nodded.
"We escaped tyranny only to face oppression. This 'Fat Asteroid' to us... is a beacon of hope. The savior of our entire species. All our collective life-savings, these damels, they are well spent... to save our lives."
"I don't care what that sentimental alien says, Fat Asteroid," Janek said bitterly, "you're still a greedy pig if you capitalize on war for your own gain."
"That's the price of business, babe," Regs Bilken laughed. "I only ask for money when my ship needs upgrading or I feel like splurging on some gourmet grub. It just so happens I need quite a bit for something, but I'm in no rush. Hell, normally I just do this for kicks. You're only bidding with money, but if you knew me you'd try something else. Catch my drift, sexy?"
"Something else? Oh God, you can't possibly mean..."
Regs Bilken blushed and started snickering like a girl-obsessed school boy. The fat pilot's laugh was extremely high-pitched and awkward... and always ended in a snort.
"Uron don korsh-korsh dykun don tago!?" the Pandolian roared furiously.
"It wouldn't be the first time," Regs smirked. "Or the twenty-third."
"Your race does not face danger," the alien protested. "I am not at understanding. What creature would value a reproductive act over great wealth?
"Um, me?"
Negotiations halted, abruptly falling silent. The only sound to be heard was Regs Bilken's creepily excited panting.
"If I show you my breasts, will you decimate the entire Pandolian fleet?" Janek asked softly.
"YUM TON KEEDO KOOGLA! Laugh worthy... There exists no man who would allow genocide just to see a pair of--"
"DEAL! HEHEHEHEHEH, SNORT!"
"KOOGLA TABU! DON NOKO KOOGLA KUMBA KO!!"
"That's quite enough of that," Regs laughed, booting the raging Pandolians out of the channel. "Mmm, let's see those chim-cham chillies, baby."
Janek faked a smile weakly, using every last ounce of her willpower not to vomit. Good thing Regs had kicked the Admiral from the channel. Her father would die of embarrassment if saw his daughter debasing herself in such a way. The Pandolian ships began to glow purple, preparing to mount a retreat.
"Hurry up girl, the Pandolians ain't gunna wait for your foreplay."
The young woman sheepishly tapped the yellow squares on her top, causing it to disappear.
"OH YEAH BABY, LINGERIE! WE GOT OURSELVES A DIRTY FLIRTY. MMMMM...."
"Ugh..."
Assistant Admiral Janek Pulitzen's hand hovered over her bra, vehemently opposed to exposing herself to such a horrid man.
"C'mon, baby... Don't fight it... Show Daddy Bear the way to the honey trees. Let the Bees out of the hive. Or are they D's? Oh boy, I hope they are... Heheheheh. SNORT!"
Janek's face crumpled up, no longer able to stomach the outlaw's disgusting behavior.
"PEZT, PEZT... KOOOOOOM!"
The image of the Fat Asteroid's face turned to static and the line went dead.
...
"What the hell!?" Regs shouted into his mic. He darted his ship back, narrowly evading another hit.
"Babe, are you there!? Did you see who sucker punched me?"
"..."
"Bah, that shot must have busted my communicator! Screw my luck. I was totally about to see some boobs..."
The Fat Asteroid's windshield blipped, showing he was receiving another call.
"Mmm... yeah! You're back, babe. I can't wait to see what letter we're working with. What have you got for me? "
Rather than breasts, the image of a still faced man with long white hair, pale blueish skin and big green goggles appeared on screen. The man was decked out in sleek white leather attire, adorned with detailed steel plating. The entire cockpit was ominously dim, lit only by the green glow given off by the ship's touchpad control panel.
"A quick death," the man replied coldly.
"I should have known you were behind this," Regs muttered, attempting to dodge the rapid fire of laser blades being fired at his beat-up brown junker. "I knew she was bluffing. Stalling me. I just ignored it cus she was hot as hell."
"Incorrect, the man who issued your bounty is 'behind this,' Bilken."
"Well, if you want to get technical about it..."
A ship suddenly came into view, turning off its cloaking device. Rather than a massive warship, the craft appeared to be no bigger than a recreational space cycle-- a black speeder module made for fast travel. The typically peaceful vehicle had been heavily modified, making it into a lightning fast killing machine. It housed only one weapon, a micro-compressed laser blade blaster. The ship's owner had decided to allocate the majority of its resources into evasive and boosting capabilities. The weapon itself actually borrowed power from the thruster system, meaning it had to slow down to make strong attack, or make rapid sweeping attacks at close range. It was a ship the Fat Asteroid met in combat many a time, though in various incarnations.
The ship's name: RS-VPX.mrk.7. Better known as the Response. Piloted by the half-human half-Xeli bounty hunter... Xylo Exodus.
"Do not attempt an escape, Fat Asteroid," Xylo warned coldly. "A time-space stasis barrier has been cast around the entire battlefield. This time, there shall be no warping away. There will be no escape. Only consequences."
Regs Bilken bit his tongue and tapped away at the various buttons on his chair. Two pods opened from the side of the Fat Asteroid firing off a barrage of missiles large enough to wipe an entire army.
"I know better than to run from you, asshole," Regs replied, spewing out more white goo. "The only thing faster than your 'Response' is your dad's sexual stamina."
"Incorrect, my father is a Xeli," Xylo said sedately, effortlessly dancing through wave after wave of missiles. "Our race only mates one xox out of the annual cycle, or 2.5 of your 'months.' Thus we develop a--"
"Yeah, and you take after him because you have no concept of what goddamn joke is," Regs scoffed, firing a laser at each glob of gook, evaporating them.
"Incorrect, I am still half-human," the bounty-hunter asserted, landing a brutal, laser-tipped ram to the Fat Asteroid's hull. "I understand humor. You simply lack the ability to execute an amusing quip."
"I'll execute YOU, you little bitch."
The Fat Asteroid and the Response clashed again and again. While neither ship could land a significant blow to the other, the Response's quick, weak strikes were steadily whittling down at the Fat Asteroid's shields. It was only a matter of time before Xylo outlasted Regs... and he knew it.
...
"Submit, Bilken," Xylo ordered.
"Pass. I know you want to salvage all the nifty gadgets on my ship for yourself, and I just can't let you have that pleasure."
"..."
"If I'm going to go out, I'm gunna do it being the biggest asshole possible.
"Dying as you lived."
"You know it, bitch," Regs Bilken laughed, popping open a minifridge. He pulled out a large frosting-rich pastry. "Now if you don't mind, I'm gunna commence dying as I lived."
The Response's engines revved deafeningly loud, his thrusters primed and ready.
"So be it."
Xylo attempted to land the coup de grace on his longtime rival, but he found his vehical unable to boost at all. Instead of a fatal dash and slice, the Response chugged forward at a snail's pace. The black speeder collided with the Fat Asteroid with a tiny tap.
Regs Bilken had his cake and ate it too, smirking all the while. He soaked in the bounty hunter's silent dismay, savoring each savory moment.
"Whasfst's wffong, Exoffdus?" Regs taunted with his mouth full.
He swallowed a hearty gulp of moist cake.
"Something gumming up the works?"
"..."
"Xylo, you're fast, I'll give you that... but you're oh so careless."
"..."
"Plytanium. That's what the goop is called. It's an experimental weapon made by the Vridianites. They gave it to me as a gift for settling their dispute with Syphlons five months ago. That's 2 of your 'xoxes.' Cool stuff. Starts out flabby and mushy... but when exposed to a certain type of radiation it completely solidifies. While you were busy dodging missles, I dusted the stuff all around us. I missed you on purpose, not wanting to prematurely harden the plytanium. I let the radiation from your engines do that job. The way you sped around... I knew you'd completely total your ship."
Xylos eyes narrowed. His hands began to tremble.
"Yeah, asshole, your whole ship is utterly useless now... leaving you to float helplessly in space. Even if you somehow find a way out of this, you're still fucked. You'll never get the plytanium out of your engines. Time to start from square--"
Xylo ended transmission.
The fat pilot frowned, polishing off the last of his cake.
Behold, the first few pages from a future novel, Soup or Hero? An unusual twist on the age old boy finds super powers and saves the day cliche. Each day he gains a random set of powers (or weaknesses) from a 'homeopathic' soup fed to him by the New Age Healer/Therapist/Guru/Etsy Enthusiast his zany Woodstock-wannabe mother makes him go to for his supposed case of depression. Weird, funny, introspective and a little awesome-- this creative story will entertain all ages. (Well, one's that can read at least.) While I won't show you any of the awesome cool parts, because that bit of the writing is still in progress--and put off until I finish the last rewrite of The Bard-- this will give you a hint of the kind of style I'm writing it in.
Enjoy!
- B
There once was a boy, as there always is. Ordinary in every way. Loving family. Rosy cheeks. That sort of thing. It would seem most stories start with a boy, don't they? Well, aside from those ones who start with girls.
What made this boy special enough to have a story told about him? Nothing, actually. He wasn't strange or unique in the slightest bit. Nor were his early years compelling, tragic or inspiring. He lived a normal childhood filled with ice cream, race cars and Saturday morning cartoons. He made friends with another little boys. One better than others. He'd found a best friend.
The boy went to school and had decent grades. Little above average, below at times, too. He wasn't perfect. No boy is-- though his best friend seemed to be. He was quiet enough though, and stayed mostly out of trouble. As boys often do, he grew. His parents' relationship grew as well. Unfortunately, apart. As most boys do, he got over it. Learned to live with it. One day, his father passed away, or so his mother said. According to Facebook, he got remarried. But who's to say who's word is right?
Everyone expected the boy to be depressed when his best friend died. Committed suicide by jumping in front of a bus. "It's not your fault," they told him. To which he replied, "I never said it was." As he progressed through his adolescence, the boy became more and more distant. His teachers became increasingly concerned. His friends became few... then none. His mother began to worry. Worry so much. The boy? He stayed relatively the same, though notably quieter.
By the time the boy entered his teens, the sympathy had died down. His classmates saw his isolation as an invitation to bully him, though they never went too far. His mother became increasingly worried, and her mental state waned. Not that it had been in such great shape to begin with.
And that's where our story begins. The world is not in danger, nor a damsel. Just an ordinary boy with ordinary issues. Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on how full your glass is-- he would soon find himself with an extra ordinary in his life.
...
"Sun is shining in the sky. There ain't a cloud in sight!
It's stopped raining. Everybody's in a play. And don't you know...
It's a beautiful new day!"
The boy's eyelids drew open, glaring at the obnoxious painting of a sun on his ceiling.
"Hey! Hey!"
He whipped his sheets off, ready to obliterate the accused alarm clock.
"Running down the avenue, see how the sun shines brightly in the city!
On the streets where once was pity... Mr. Blue Sky is living here today!
Ahahhaa!"
"Where is it...?" he groaned, rifling through his dresser drawers. "Where the heck did she hide it today?"
"Hey! Hey!"
"Hey... yourself," the boy growled, dumping his dirty laundrey out of the hamper.
"Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why you had to hide away for sooooo long! Where did we go wrong?"
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"
The boy found the alarm clock sitting in an air duct. A metal grate protected it, screwed tightly onto the wall.
"Hey, you with the pretty face.
Welcome to the human race!
A celebration. Mr. Blue Sky's up there waiting, a
nd today is the day we've waited for.
Ahhahh!"
Determined, the boy searched his room for a blunt object. He found a hammer in his closet, left from his mother's most recent renovations-- which just so happened to be the closet itself. He gripped the handle and grinned, primed for retribution.
"Hey there, Mr. Blue! We're so pleased to be with you. Look around, see what you do?
Everybody smiles at you."
"CLANG!"
"Mr. Blue Sky..."
"CLANK!"
"Mr. Bluuuuue Sky..."
"Chink."
"Mr. Blue--"
"DIE," the boy roared, bashing the clock to bits.
Great, I took too long today... I don't have time to shower...
The boy changed his clothes speedily and rushed to the kitchen table where his mom had already laid out... 'breakfast.' He eyed the gelatinous green substance warily, picking up his fork. He used his utensil to prod the blob, tempted to check for a pulse.
"Mom?" he called out loudly.
No response.
"MOM, WHAT IS THIS?"
"..."
"MA!?"
The boy's next step was to check the fridge for a note. Lately, his mother had been so frequently absent (doing who knows what) that he'd begun to check for notes before even yelling her name. Her antics had gotten him particularly miffed that morning however, and he'd called out in the hopes he'd be able to let her have it.
He walked up to the fridge and sighed.
Why can't she just believe in cellphones? Seriously. It's not like they're a religion or non-vegan... or whatever. It's a phone that you carry. Nothing evil about that.
The fridge had already been covered in old notes and countless tacky magnets, making the boy's job of deciphering his bizarre mother's message all the harder. (And him all the later for school.) Eventually, he managed to piece the puzzle of sticky notes together to form a full message.
"Dear Mango,
It's me, your mom! Hi! How's your morning? Full of smiles, sunshine and pondering of the possibility? Sorry I'm not here to receive your compliments about how creatively delicious my mashed green intimation eggs and tofam is! I had to go out and buy more alarm clocks since yours always seem to break. You'll have to bear with me until the exorcist I booked is free. Poltergeists are lower on her list of priorities. I think. Have fun at school, and remember not to believe everything the books say. Want some smile news? You got it! I arranged for you to meet with a healer friend of mine after school today! That way you won't be bored while I'm out working my new third job.
Love yourself,
Mom
PS. The note is not from yourself so don't be confused. I'm just adding a creative spin to letter writing and adding encouragement. These notes are all from me."
Manny! Why can't she just call me Manny!? More alarms? Doesn't she get it? And now I've got to see anotherone of her nutty hash-pipe hitting yoga buddies who thinks they can heal the depression I don't even have... Well, at least we have a lab today.
“Truly,
Jean-Luc?” Fleurette snapped. “You opt to save my life, only to end it shortly
after!?”
I made no
reply. The girl knew full well that death via my hand was a much more merciful
demise than the one that awaited her.
“Reserve
your pity for someone else, Im. I am not like you, deaf to the value of life.
The terms of my death have meaning to me.”
“Engaging
the foe leaves you no chance for survival. Your odds at a successful retreat
are equally dismal.”
“So be it,”
the maid said sharply, holding up her pistols. “If I am to fall, I wish to do
so in battle. Let me die defending Lady Etienne, repaying my debt to the
Pasiphae’s… and the rest of the settlers I’ve damned. I want to give my life to
Lyonnais, the land I betrayed by opposing you.”
Yeah, you heard me right. And no, I don't mean this in some kind of sexual-masochistic 50 Shades of Grey kind of way. Pain is the most important part of your story-- fictional or otherwise.
Though I've always pretty considered hardship to be the most vital ingredient in a successful story, it was only recently that I pondered the extent of it and that truly meant on existential level. With my book nearing the completion of its final draft, my thoughts turned reflective and philosophical. I thought to myself, "Why am I such a jerk to my characters?" Not to spoil anything, but I hurt them-- brutally so-- time and time again. Why did I do this? If am the God of my story and I love my characters deeply, why do I torment them so?
Simple. I had no choice. They were born to amuse a reader... and the other way to do that is make them writhe in agony. I know it's cliche, but there really is no gain without pain. My story would be blank without adversity. The protagonist wouldn't be the man he is without loss, nor would any of the other characters. I mean, the villains wouldn't be villains at all if they had no one to hurt. The characters would have nothing to even do or say if they didn't have to overcome and endure pain-- or prevent it from befalling others. That's what you, the reader, comes to see, don't you? A story about a gladiator would be dull without a lion, and it would be just as pointless if that lion didn't manage to sink his teeth into the guy once or twice. Book readers truly are no different from the spectators of the Roman Colosseum, cheering for feats of glory and crying out for blood. Red is color of entertainment. There's no denying it.That's why utopia will always be a dystopia. Heaven will always be Hell. In peace we are bored... discontented. Humanity needs pain to feel alive.
I'm not ashamed to know and embrace that seemingly cynical facet of human nature. Life is not a full, satisfying experience without failure and depression as we will have nothing to measure our success and happiness against. If you think about it, it's not really cynical statement on our nature at all. If anything, I'd say it's a positive one. It's proof our need culture, and our yearning for purpose. The echo of our collective calls to greatness. We want to feel real emotions. We want to be immersed in compelling dramas. See a good fight. Fight a good fight. Win a fulfilling win, and see others attempt the same. That means blood and bruises-- the shit being kicked out of both sides. Surprises. Thrills and chills. The beaten down dog rising from the ashes to take a bite out of the bigger dog.
The best stories are the roughest rides, no matter where they end up or what happens along the way. Revisiting the dog metaphor, sometimes the dog loses in the end yet wins in a small way. Perhaps he fails miserably in all aspects-- maybe even DIES-- but in doing so he manages to achieve a meaningful emotional reaction in another character. That's tragedy at its finest-- something Shakespeare, arguably one of the greatest storytellers of all time, harnessed and perfected.
Why do we like seeing that though? Why do we crave grittiness; depression? Those are deep questions, but they don't even begin to dive deep enough. Humanity doesn't want to be depressed, but the reality of it is that we are depressed. That's because as adults, we are in a constant state of decline. Growing worse and worse, until we finally lose the inevitable battle against our own mortality. So that's why we like it. We relate to it. We know it and understand it. But the tragedy is only one part. Half of the equation.
Pain is important, I believe, because of the fact that we expect it to end. We see a resolution. The conflict is brought to an end, and the hero escapes his conflict by his own two hands. This is something we all wish to do ourselves. Feel accomplished. Overcome our problems. Achieve great things. Even if the hero isn't even a hero at all-- morally speaking-- he or she still does something to their end. When you break any aspect of storytelling and life itself to its most basic form, you'll find pain. Don't believe me?
Here's a list of what most writers tend to accept as the most important elements to a successful story:
1. Likable Characters
2. Anticipation
3. Immersion
4. Conflict
5. Satisfying Resolution
1. You like characters you can relate to-- ones that seem real. The best characters? Ones that feel real emotions. Humans not robots. Ones that deal with baggage... and PAIN. How we react to pain defines who we are.
2. What creates excitement? Danger. What is danger? The possibility of experiencing PAIN. Pain is the ancestor literally to every phobia.
3. Life means constant struggle and growth. The most realistic thing is for a character to overcome PAIN and remove it-- either emotionally or physically. To wake up from a dream you pinch yourself. Pain tells us that things are real.
4. For you to want to fight against something, that thing must have caused you PAIN in some way. Without pain as a motivator, your fight lacks all meaning.
5. The best endings are the ones that leave no loose ends and make the PAIN we felt to get there worth it. Pain is either the result, or the force we managed to stop.
Alright, that's enough. I'm sure by now you're sick of the word pain, (Oh no, there it is again!) but I needed to hammer its importance into your head. What you should take from this beyond any applications to storytelling is that you shouldn't run away from the pain in your life-- nor lament its constant presence. Rather, as you should with writing fiction, embrace the hardship and use it as a source of strength. Turn yourself into a compelling character. Use it for the benefit of your own biography. There's no way to escape life's upsets, so allow yourself to cry every now and then. Let the sting be the back-story to your future greatness.
We humans are creatures that are constantly feeling. Evolution and advancement always begins with a problem to overcome. Pain makes up a huge chunk our of lives. If you can't see it as a positive tool for personal growth, then you are wasting most of your life. The same thing applies to your story. You are the God of your world, responsible for everything that happens. If reality doesn't spare us from hardship, why should your fiction.
So be a sadist. Give your readers the blood they secretly pine for.
I'm aware that due to PRISM, I will be flagged by the United States government for merely mentioning Edward Snowden's name. What will look even worse, is that I'm posting an article about him and sharing it to various forms of social media. I know this because of his crime. His "leak." Julian Assange. Bradley Manning. Names of a similar sort. Purported to be the public enemy, just as Snowden is now. We are told to be afraid of people with such innocuous looks, but such is the era of our existance. The internet age- an age of mass sharing, and instant information... where the greatest crime is the leaking of a few choice words. In Snowden's case... there were a lot more than a few.
Traditionally, the men who disclosed sensitive material were called spies, and had been rightfully punished for their espionage. Committing treason out of greed. In these cases however, a monetary transaction had always been involved. Interestingly enough., Snowden did NOT receive a reward for his actions. All he did was air the United State's dirty laundry to dry in front of the public eye. Seemingly.
Hmm... that doesn't seem like the an act of a villain-- knowingly destroy one's own life with virtually no gain. Is it truly wrong to share with the public just how far their government has gone to infringe on their privacy? It certainly seems selfless-- suicidally so. Is it treason? To the government, yes, yes it is. They see his actions as kicking a hornet's nest, causing internal and external unrest. The US government loses a tremendous amount of translucence and face. Worst of all, the leak compromises the programs and secrets that the government would argue were kept under wraps for the good of the country. To truth seekers, however, this is an act of heroism. The freedom of speech is a right Americans grow up learning to be an innate value. Why should our government be allowed to act in secret? What gives them the right to spy on our internet actions? Or listen to our phone calls? Why should we be caught in a net cast to catch terrorists? How the government guarantee that the "accidental" collection of our personal information will be discarded and not be used in a malicious and manipulative way?
The answer is complicated.
How you perceive the integrity of Snowden's character really pivots on what you define to be right or wrong, where your values lie and your opinion on how strong government's arm should be. On one hand, his leak could cripples the government's ability to collect data to prevent terrorist activity. On the other, it could also hamper the government's ability to infringe on the rights of the innocent. (Aka, you and I.) Is it even necessary? While it is true that terrorist attacks on our home soil post-911 are few and far in between, but it is also true that we have the government to thank for that. But was it their invasive policies that brought that about? Or was it just the wake-up call, 9-11 itself?The Patriot Act was easily passed around the time the Towers fell. The danger was real. Fear was fresh. But now, the danger is relatively lessened, yet the stiff policies remain. But that's just part of it. A small part of the uncertainty that contributes to the complexity of the situation and make the judgement of Snowden's actions such a hard call.
So how can we ever find an answer to all the questions, add them up and make that call? Honestly, we can't accurately given the convulsed mess of lies, misinformation and what not. But I was taught to never accept defeat, so we shall press on. When you are faced with that which you cannot, you find that which you can. To put it less theatrically, do the best thing you can manage to do. So, in this instance, we tackle the jackpot question. If we can't answer them all, we answer the biggest and best one of them all. And that's whether or not Snowden committed a crime, or is simply expressing his freedom of speech.
Wikileaks is an organization founded on the principal that all information should be free. This puts them at odds with pretty much every government on the face of the world.Why? Because secrets are the lubricant that allow each nation's higher ups to squeeze by smoothly. It's the grease that gets those questionable policies through, and the duct tape that plugs the holes of the government's blunders-- ethical or otherwise. While it's all well and good to say, "I think there should be no secrets!" it's extremely naive. Honesty is not the best policy, especially when you have to walk the world's thinnest tight rope when it comes to foreign relations. Other countries are sensitive lot, and the most minor upset could be the difference between an enemy and an ally.
From an individual's perspective, most of our government's decisions don't make sense. Why should we ship out billions of dollars to other countries, especially when we are in debt? Why do we have to raise taxes and cut social programs? Why does the military need so much money? So many questions. The government faces a trillion daily. Governments are expected to answer all of them, otherwise they are accused of failing at their job. It's easy for us to question the government's actions-- challenge the faceless foe. Rise up against the man. (Well, easy in talk I mean.) But we don't have those responsibilities on our lap, do we?
I'm not saying the government is always doing the right things. Nor am I not accusing them of being forever in the wrong. The same goes for Snowden. He's a human. Not a demon. Not an angel. Is it wrong to rebel and question? No, it's healthy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's... necessary. Is it right to meddle in matters greater than you? Probably not.So what am I saying? Which side am I taking? What's my point? What is the answer to the big question? Was he right or wrong!? Both. Or neither? Bah! How the hell should I know? My gut tells me to cheer for the guy because I don't like being watched without my consent, yet my head tells me to let the government to do their thing since I can't even fathom the gravity of the situation.
I guess you could say I'm on the fence, but I'm by no means neutral-- make no mistake. Regardless of whether or not Edward Snowden's actions are right or wrong... he is not an evil man. He not an Osama Bin Laden. He's a a man with opinions and a genuine desire to do what he thinks is right. He is an American, just like me. Hell, he even looks a little like me!
Beyondmy gut and my head, there's a third party that helps me do my thinking-- and it settles the deadlocks between my head and gut. That breaker of ties is my heart, and it's been telling me Edward Snowden is a hero. Yes, government does need to maintain quite a fewsecretsto keep it going-- but there is a limit. There's a line they cannot cross, and they cannot cross it because of who they--no, WE-- are. The United States of America, a land birthed from the union of liberty and justice-- delivered by a revolution from tyranny. We can never become that which we defied, nor should we ever deny ourselves of the freedoms that constitute for our very existence.
The USA prides itself as the land of the brave, and Edward Snow is being just that. He's not affiliated with terrorist groups. This won't destroy our country. Have the floodgates opened? Has anarchy broke loose? Have any of the American people, civilians, been harmed by this leak? No, no it hasn't, and no, they haven't. The government's shield of secrecy has been shattered, and we the people are BETTER for it. They can still force these online companies to fork over our information, but now we know about it. We know there's an eye on our shoulder. Who cares if the enemy knows? If anything, it might just ward them off.
Of course, it's never good to listen to your heart is it, so I guess the real answer to the question will never be found-- at least not by me. Hero or villain, Snowden's integrity weighs on your perspective on a great many factors. So many, that it might just be impossible to tell.
As for me, I will applaud Mr. Snowden for the size of his balls-- for their massive size is the only thing I can be certain of. I wish him luck in his quest to elude the US government. He'll need all of it... and then some.
I've put a lot of thought into my thoughts, rather unsurprisingly. The real shock though, is that with almost all my writing hardly any planning is involved. Before I write anything there's always some sort of epiphany. A spark of inspiration. My novel ideas come at the oddest times, in the simplest of places-- seemingly brought on by nothing in particular.
I owe it all to my creativity.
So where does it come from? Those who have read my work often echo that question. How does my mind come up with such unique and interesting stuff? Why am I able to create fantasy from nothingness? Well, I think it's just an innate ability. Not to sound arrogant or anything. Creativity is something, I believe, you either have or you don't. As long as your parents didn't quash your playful spirit during your youth, your imagination should grow with you.
Honestly, I think I owe much of my creativity to the video games I played as a kid. As lame that might sound to some people, it really isn't something to be ashamed of. Day after day, my budding brain found itself dropped into colorful worlds brimming with whimsy and awe. Challenges awaited me at every corner, constantly testing my patience and bolstering my critical thinking ability. The many silent protagonists whose shoes I filled served as my role models, and the villains I faced became my teachers. Beyond fostering my love for adventure and storytelling, video games showed me the importance of fighting for what you believe in... and your love.
But there's certainly other factors. To say I owe all my creativity to shunning the outside word and playing videogames would just be unfair. Toys, movies and TV shows also had their hand in the creation of my creativity. My love for detective stories started with a cartoon that I absolutely adored and watched over and over. (later to be discovered as an anime- and a Miyzaki one at that). Sherlock Hound, it was called. It starred the cast of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes in a re-imagining of the classic tales. The only difference? They were cast as humanoid dogs! By extension, my favorite Disney movie became The Great Mouse Detective. Same concept, only with mice. Can you guess what my favorite show is now? HINT: No, it's not that god awful show Elementary where Watson is an Asian woman and Moriarty is Irene Adler... It's the BBC hit SHERLOCK. Love me some Mofat writing!
Ahem...
But I digress.
Creativity is not formed solely in childhood though. It's formed by how you respond to your average day-to-day. All throughout my life I would constantly be thinking of fascinating and unreal alternatives about scenarios and such. I love fabricating identities to complete strangers, or messing around with friends. I make weird characters and cool stories up for no other purpose than to amuse myself. Acting them out and telling them (respectively), just so I can see the reactions on the faces of others. Now that I'm a writer, I don't feed the need to hoodwink random people, getting my fill of creative expression and then some. But my creativity grows nevertheless. Writing boosts my creativity exponentially.
So don't display, if you find your brain trapped in concrete. The path to seeing the abstract is a zany zigzag, and it runs beside the straight path we walk day to day. It's just a hop away and a hop back, so don't be afraid to create some creativity every now and then.
WARNING! This story is written in the style of Teen Fiction, and as such uses profanity, violence.. etc. If you don't like that sort of thing... give this a pass.
[CYBORGEOUS]
ONE OFF: #1: The Eris Named Ankaa
The loss of our lives would reverse the fate of so many others. That was the sole purpose of the project. That's what we were told, at least. Now, with the pretenses proven false, our parents' naivety seems all the clearer. Or was it greed? My mother and father, like those of the others, were given the ultimate choice. Asked to sacrifice their first born's for the betterment of the human race. N.U.-U.-Corp, placing themselves in the place of God himself-- echoing his harsh demands upon Issac. Yet the demands weren't all too harsh... Well, for them. Our parents donated their walking, bald corpses for the "cause." That cause being an undisclosed amount of cash. None of us knew what price our respective sets of parental units paid, but it didn't matter. To a true parent, the life of their child is off the table. Non-negotiable.
At first, I told myself they did it for genuine reasons... The amount of time I had left versus the cost of keeping me alive wasn't a fair figure. I even believed the delusion that they were genuinely interested in curing the world of my fatal ailment... But that died away. Along with the rest of my innocence... and my compassion. In the end, I fostered my hatred for them, just as I was expected to. Harvesting my spite as inspiration.
But I suppose I should be less vague... Who am I? What did they do to me? What am I now? What became of me, and how did I get fucking even? All good questions, and ones I intend to answer. Honestly, I'm not sure where to begin...
Hmm.
Ah, I guess I'll begin there... It's a decent starting point.
Hold on, let me transfer the memory.
INITIATING MEMORY BANK UPLOAD: DATA FILE 546456007213.
You can learn far more from the internet than you could from any school. Then again, the internet stores that information for us... infinitely and indefinitely, so what purpose do we have for learning? I suppose in the future, when the human mind is officially linked up with its ever-growing digital cloud of information (i.e. the world wide web) there will be none. Only the application.
It's my understanding that intellect has often been measured in one's retention and memorization at entry level education, with critical and creative problem solving pushed to the advanced classes-- ones which a large chunk of the population are denied participation in. If the future indeed features an all-knowing humanity, eliminated of the need to actively retain or seek out data... then we truly are standing at the precipice of our race's ultimate, and perhaps final stage in evolution.
With all the truths reaped from mankind's existence readily available at our fingertips, we have become our own gods-- omniscient. The efficiency and innovation will increase at an exponential rate. Hypergrowth, a technological leap of currently unfathomable heights.
We will become immortal within this very century, mark my words. Evolution is all but certain, but the cost is still beyond my scope. Can a world of gods thrive? Or will we be consumed by our own ingenuity? As humanity's darkness, its evil... a force not to be underestimated, especially when amplified by this forthcoming evolution.
Needless to say, these are the kinds of things that concern me, and lately I've been left wondering if others ponder such things as well. What say you, my readers?
What is your vision of the future, and where shall you fall in it?
Sorry for the long wait, I'm going to be resuming the blog! I needed time off to focus on my book and clear my head. (Not to mention deal with a pesky plagiarizer!) Look forward to more of the same and the introduction of the new. Hope you didn't forget about me, and I can't wait to write more for you!
This is a notice of a break, in which I will be putting my blog on pause to devote 100% of my attention to finishing the FINAL rewrite of The Bard. I'm hoping to be done by the end of July or the middle of August! That is my personal deadline. I will be posting chapters now and again, so please subscribe via e-mail. I'm going to try to post a new entry every WEDNESDAY.
I feel this will take some of the pressure off me and allow me to better focus on the one project I should have been giving my absolute focus for quite some time now. As always, I thank you so much for sticking with me and being such amazing readers. When it comes to writing, I tend to treat what I want to write like an all you can eat buffet... overfilling my plate with so many delicious things that I can't finish any of them! I suppose pacing myself is the key... it's just hard when there are so many awesome stories I want to write! Aye, my head is a cluttered place!
Frédéric Chopin - Prelude in E-Minor (op.28 no. 4)
"CHECKMATE"
It had only taken me but a moment to realize the state of affairs. The years of affection, the toil, pain and sacrifice-- all a miserable joke. My charade, the secret life of sin and assorted debauchery I'd hid for so long... nothing but a cough at a concert. She heard them all along. The moans... The rustling of sheets... All trifles to her. My perceived cunning had been nothing more than an illusion brought on by her feigned ignorance. Yes, it was she... not I who truly was the deceiver. My queen. Oh, my precious queen... Oh how I pampered thee. If only as a bribe... but still. How could you do this to me? How could you do this to your country? Though I suppose I must come to terms now with the fact that it was never your country at all. The land you loved through your teeth-- the land you sold into slavery. Our land... our daughter's land... my land.
Lesser men than I oft divorce or dispose of their wives when the marriage ship starts to hit the rocks. Alas, I'd have been better off a lesser man, cursed by my own desire for integrity. How I envy the rabble! What ease, to live as a rapscallion, undaunted by public scorn-- with a pride so besmirched a stain blends rather than stands out. I wish it was in my character to bail out and seek safe harbor like cowardly deserting pirates with not an ounce of loyalty. After all, I'd always believed that a captain ought go down with his ship and commanded such behavior from the admirals of my Navy.
Was I a bad king or a bad husband? I ask myself such futile questions as these as I toss and turn in my cell. Trivial. Trivial in the fact that their answers matter not as my wife's powers of deception were so masterful that even the world's greatest tactician could not have seen through her plan. I'd selected my mate for her beauty with her high learning as an afterthought. Who would have thought that her thoughts were after my crown. My late father had advised me against allowing a woman a choice and the danger of providing them with books and education. At the time I found his warning to be senility induced ramblings, the nonsense spouted at the deathbed by a dying sovereign in a last ditch effort to preserve the ways of his era. I see now that they were sage. Lethally true.
She never loved me.
NEVER.
Me. A king. A man with limitless power and prestige.
Such an unforgivable betrayal! Sure, it is true I never felt a thing for her, but that is not to be expected of me. Her grace is my embrace. The only sight upon which she sets her horizon is my glorious hand. The hand bearing the ring she shares. The ring she kissed loyally in front of my entire court. Or as loyal as she allowed it to seem... as it is now known that she had been a spy from the kingdom of Gamalur-- a land decimated and destroyed by my father. What loyalty is that, anyway? With her entire country dead, why would she still operate for its favor. Those fake tears... I am the one who deserves to cry. My bloodline now ends with me. The storied history of my family's monarchy, a brilliant book hundreds of years in the making., sees it's final chapter. Yes, my people called my grandfather a tyrant unfit to inherit his father's crown. True, my father and I continued down his path of firm rule with an emphasis on building our wealth. But they did not see the end goal! Their rebellion snuffed my candle before I could reach the top of the tower where they could finally see the great heights all the harsh steps we were taking lead. They dared criticized a plan before its results were in!? TRULY. She betrayed the entire country, no the ultimate fate of the world, by betraying me.
That is what you did not see. No one saw it. That was my plan. I had to bleed the people dry to amass funds in my war chest. Our military was on its way to becoming an unstoppable army. In a mere decade or two, we would have had the power to obliterate and enslave all the other kingdoms. If my people trusted in my power rather than her so-called 'wit' they would have lived to see the day when we made foreigners slaves instead of them. They would have been able to live the life of ease and luxury they so foolishly chastised my family for living. Oh, such is my curse... to be born with great misfortune. My ill luck fated me to be in charge of such an ignorant and selfish lot. They never deserved my family. We should have completely stripped away all their freedom years ago. But no, my kindness got the best of me again. I foolishly allowed them to work for me and die for me in the way they saw fit... in their own homes with their own families. They will see that life won't be so simple with me gone.
I do not care that I am to be beheaded tomorrow, as I would have committed suicide out of spite anyway. I've done the Lord's work, I shall be seeing him shortly. They call me an arrogant narcissist... but they can have their dumb opinions-- I never cared for them. I do not fear death. I look forward to seeing God. It will be nice to speak with an equal for once.
A pair of suede Dockers
clacked excitedly across the over-waxed floors that paved the interior of the
NYPD’s Manhattan headquarters, accompanied by chipper humming. Something had
changed in Detective Edison Locard’s attire. It was not the clothes he wore—still
plainclothes and a tan overcoat as always—
but the expression on his face. For the first time in ages, a genuine
smile hung itself above the unkempt tuft of blonde hanging from Edison’s chin.
“What’s gotten into
you, Locard?” an officer asked as the blonde detective whizzed by.
“Nothing,” Ed
replied. “Just got a good song stuck in my head.”
The merry detective
shuffled into his superior’s office, kicking his feet in a dancing manner.
“Good morning, Joy,”
he said with a smile.
“That’s debatable,” muttered
the Chief of Detectives’ apathetic secretary, her face practically pressed to
her computer monitor.
Edison leaned on secretary’s
desk, raising his eyebrows and grinning expectantly. Joy grunted, wrinkling her
forehead.
“What do I have to
do to get your attention? Poke you on
Facebook?”
Joy let out a sigh
of derision, too apathetic to retort. Noticing the woman’s bloodshot eyes and
the tiny flask sitting beside her coffee mug, Ed surmised the alcoholic had been
skipping out on her court mandated
“What does it take
to get you to do your job? Beating your highscore on Bejeweled Blitz?”
“I play Candy Crush
Saga now, dumbass,” Joy grumbled.
“How foolish of me,”
Edison said, rolling his eyes.
“So you want me to
tell Harry you need to see him?”
“If it doesn’t put
you out too much.”
“Too bad,” Joy sneered, obnoxiously
chewing her gum. “Harry’s not in this office. Why don’t you follow his lead?”
Forty-six and still
unmarried, the only man Joy seemed to be able to keep a steady relationship
with was Sam Adams. Unable to cope with the stress that comes along with the
badge, countless cops fell prey to alcoholism. This factor did not apply to Joy’s
case however, as the greatest danger she faced in the line of duty was accidently
pricking her finger on a freshly sharpened pencil.
