I'm re-wearing an old costume this year (boo) because I couldn't get the right supplies to make a mask that matches the one I made for Jenn. Just look for posts with the tag halloween if you want to see the costume; it's from a few years back.

In honor of a day cherished by most of my fellow Silent Hill fans, I'm presenting a short story written in the setting of our favorite ghost-plagued, monster-ridden, hell-on-earth resort town. Now, I'm no expert, but this may constitute fanfic, a thing I usually try to avoid. But if you can get an audience riled just by writing "Toluca Lake," it's silly not to use it.

( GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AND GREAT UNKINDNESSES DO FOLLOW. )

Doctor Who? Don't. Just don't.

It's like you're waiting for the nurse to stick you with a needle and instead she punches you in the stomach.

See you next week, Andy!
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As a diversion, here's some more fiction from my Sorrows setting. Not really any rules in this, just some color to give the Citadel atmosphere. (I have worked out most of the rules, so I may be able to organize and offer them soon.)
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Harrowell loved the engineering of the Citadel. Though many others found these meetings of the planning council dreadful and boring, sending surrogates in their stead, he saw the demolition and construction as a marvelous puzzle.

The Councilman's chambers were piled high in paper and dust. The huge room was dominated by a long, high table with reams of notes, curling maps and plans and thick books covering its surface, layers deep. The high bookcases that lined the walls stood half-filled with disused texts and rolls of paper. Piles of split-backed books and loose pages moldered into scraps on the floor.

The Citadel had changed so much, and the courtiers so little that most records were forgotten or useless.

Harrowell took his usual place at the table and pushed back the tide of papers that had drifted or settled toward the open space in front of his chair. He swiped the dust away with a handkerchief and rolled out a fresh map of District 18, an area that had been hit in the latest shelling by the enemy. Elise, one of the only others to take an interest in the workings of urban planning sat to his right and gave a prim, wrinkled smile. She was apt; always knew the details of the Citadel's current status, but Harrowell would rather she were a subordinate than a supposed equal. She would talk too much if he didn't interrupt her.

Other courtiers who made up the council drank quietly and played cards.

"We needn't reinforce the conscript housing in that district. It has never had a strong enough population to justify re-opening."

Elise nodded with vigor. "Probably because that district's recruits are slated to join the ranks of Lady Eleana's forces. I expect a poor man would rather walk half-way across the city to get to work. Better that than to be awoken out of bed one night and told to report to the barracks for those brutes she calls generals. Have you seen the attrition reports? I think they might've forgotten that it's the enemy that need killing, not our citizens."

"Were there many fatalities when the shell hit?"

"Well, it was a change in work shifts. Most of the men and women had just returned from labor duties. Children had been dispatched to school-"

Ah-ha! Harrowell smiled. "A large number of the survivors were children? Orphans now?"

"Yes. Most were just kept in the school houses over the night. Some were sent home to relatives or neighbors. Obviously the youngest weren't out at school when the attack took place so-"

"How much of the neighboring block was damaged?"

"One or two collapsed houses. Just superficial damage beyond that. I suppose they were the lucky ones. Their neighbor's homes a smoking ruin, while they just need to sweep the glass away and throw kindling on the fire. It was-"

His smile spread. "That's enough I think, to condemn the other buildings on that block."

"What? But why? I just said it's superficial damage. If you are doubting the report of my investigators, and have some other source of information, I demand you bring such evidence forth-"

"No doubts. But we'll need a full two blocks to house an academy."

"Oh. I see."

Harrowell was lost in his vision; he did not notice the terse response. "The new construction will serve the dual purpose of housing the orphans of that district, while preparing them for conscription when they are of age." It would be a marvelous structure. Multi-tiered training halls, basement barracks, parapeted classrooms to study the enemy from afar. "Perhaps the deaths of family will also serve as greater motivation for their morale as they yearn to strike back against the enemy!"

Elise sighed. "Do you know what the current age of eligibility for conscription is?"

"No," Harrowell cocked an eyebrow.

"It's just as well."

Piece of very short fiction that has been pestering me to be written. The narrator and his opinions about religions and states is not me. But I like the idea of someone who thinks this way.
___

I'm terrified of ghosts. Not in the usual way though. Not in the "blind revenge from beyond the grave, possess your cat, throw all your stuff around the living room" kind of way. I'm afraid that their existence is proof of an afterlife. If ghosts exist, then there's proof of a soul. Proof that you will go on throughout eternity in another state of being. And that's absolutely awful.

What do you think this afterlife would be? Sitting on clouds happily singing praises while you watch the great events of the universe spin by? HA! We're people. We will transplant the bullshit of our lives into whatever place we occupy. That's right. Eternal "keeping up with the Joneses." Eternal "My car needs to be bigger." Eternal record contracts, internet scams, underage factory workers, supermodel break-ups, reality TV, non-smoking bars, Californians!

You think divorce rates are bad now?

How can you get away from it? It's not like you can kill yourself to end it all, you're already dead! Do you think with all of eternity to spread out we won't saturate whatever world exists there? Do you think with all that time we won't find easier, more wasteful ways to do everything? "This New New New New York is boring. Let's abandon it and get started on New New Chicago." It's not like pollution is going to kill anyone anymore.

Somehow, I have to live forever. It may be the only way I'll ever get any peace and quiet! Once everyone else has moved on, I'll be happy here living by myself. Watching all of the crap we left behind melt away. Finally assured that no one is going to make fun of my haircut, ever again.
___

In other news it is too goddamn hot for me to enter my studio. I haven't written any music all week. I suppose that's for the best anyway because the tremendous fever to re-play Bioshock gripped me last month and I broke down and bought an XBox. *sigh* "Would You Kindly" forgive me this indulgence?

Another bit of narration and scoring by yours truly.

Fury of the Widowmaker

I did this one as a quickie to test out the violin in a new sample library. I originally wanted to use viola, but the sampler needed to be updated, and then I forgot I needed to upgrade my VST to DXi wrapper, and so on. The viola is happy now (as is the Tuba.)

Onward.

Dr. Crawford ran up the walkway to the lab doors. Her bedroom slippers squelched in the puddles and she pulled her bathrobe tight to ward off the cascading sleet. Wind tore the knob away from her hand and the crack of the door against the wall ricocheted down the hall.

Madison's head popped out of the communications room. His face picked out in the cathode glow that was the only light in the building.

"Doctor! I didn't think you'd get my message in time."

"How could I let this slip me by?" Dr. Crawford elbowed past. "When did the signal come through?"

"This data coming back from the distributed network was originally received by the telescope two weeks ago. We had high hopes, considering the relative organization of pulses in the base signal."

Crawford leaned in toward the screen. Characters began to scroll into view. The radio transmissions of other galaxies coalesced into words. Contact with another intelligent race of beings!

Crawford read aloud: "B1g news of nu 1nv3stment oppor-

"Dammit! How did this get through our spam filters?"

Madison shrugged and looked at the floor.

"Fine." Crawford pushed back from the monitor. "Just put the Denaraes cluster on the blacklist." She left wet footprints behind as she walked back to the car.

This little scene has been caught in my head for months. Does it mean anything? Is it going anywhere? I imagine it in anime cel shading, but I'm no animator. With any luck, it's going to be part of a future project.

*WE NOW COMMENCE THE SHOOTY, STABBY, KILL-O-MATIC*

"We don't need to use violence," Mercury said. He was standing out on the factory floor facing Jade Dragon and her small army of Cyber-Yakuza. LEDs on their guns glowed like the lights in their eyepieces.

The beautiful and deadly assassin in red silk; Jade tossed her sleek, blue-black hair back and let out a burst of melodious laughter. And kept laughing. She snorted a few times, gasping for air to keep on laughing and after a full minute, wound up leaning on one of her bodyguards while squeezing her stomach. "Seriously, don't joke like that. You'll make me pee!"

Mercury went on: "My employer only wants the golden scepter of King Kalilianalan. Give it to me, I walk away and everybody lives to laugh at their own stupid jokes tomorrow."

"Nah. It's more fun this way."

Jade flipped over the crates. Her troops began blasting.

Mercury jumped to the side. His tie-tack bleeped and the briefcase on the floor popped open. His guns flew out on programmed arcs. When he came up from his roll, he snatched them and they barked. The first two C-Y's dropped.

Venus splashed the C-Y's crates with laser fire. More C-Y's ducked while Mercury slid behind the forklift.

He called over to her: "How've you been?"

The voice called back from the industrial lathe: "Busy."

Another spray of crimson light and a C-Y fell, neatly clipped in half. His buddies were smart enough to stay down.

"Care to join me?"

"Sure."

She dashed to the forklift. Gorgeous, deadly. Mercury peeled his eyes away long enough to take a pot-shot at a goon as he slipped behind some stacked planks.

They both opened up. Response to a volley of shotgun fire.

"Where's Mars?" said Mercury.

Venus pointed to the top of a manager's boxy office, behind some of the nearby C-Y occupied crates.

"Woah," It was his best Keanu. "How'd he get up there?"

"He is very mysterious," Venus said before making a dash to the next bit of cover. Another lathe.

"Wonder what they make here?" Said Mercury.

"Baseball bats," came the metallic, accented voice from the sneaky C-Y.

"Oh sh-,"

The bat hit Mercury square. His vision swam. He almost missed seeing the C-Y's head explode.

"Thanks Zeus," he muttered. He'd owe him a beer later.

"Graaaaah!" came from the other side of the factory.

Mars shrugged his shoulders. The two shotguns slipped into his hands. He fired both down into the C-Y's, then jumped after the hot shot.

Mercury wasn't going to let Mars get all the glory. Pounding those planks with bullets, he dashed at the other C-Y. His head popped up just in time. Mercury's boot caught it. He landed the kick standing on C-Y face.

He heard the clang of metal. Venus and Jade danced back and forth under the flash of katanas. Mars caught his eye and nodded at the display of hot-girl-steel-on-steel. It was almost a shame to stop them, but Jade was ranked higher than Venus according to the charts. Mercury steadied his aim, and then called to Jade.

"Was that stupid scepter really worth this?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. His shot slapped her to the floor.

They all gathered around her body and through chokes she laughed.

"What rank are you schmucks anyway? 20? 25? Heh. This is the best joke yet!"

She gurgled a bit and fell silent.

"I mean come on! You don't even look strong enough to lift a gun that big! I bet you have some reeeeeeeeal compensating to do!"

Her breath came in a quiet rattle and her eyes closed.

"Oh! Is that what this scepter thing's about? I should warn you guys, it doesn't have any smooth edges, you better have some thick scar tissue if you're-"

Mars said "shut up!" the best way he knew how.

Mercury wiped the brains off his boots. His mobile phone beeped with a computerized voice: "Congratulations! Your ranking has now increased! You are number 12 among the highest ranked assassins in Megatroid City!"

He was moving up in the world.

I've recently watched Videodrome and eXistenZ and been wondering what Cronenberg will do once he gets over this crime movie phase and goes back to techno-horror. Here is my suggestion.

MyLiveTube

In the unsettling near future, the replacement by the internet of other media (like newspaper and television) has lead to the creation of a Zeitgeist underground. Gleaners, as they are called, scan thousands of blogs, podcasts, videocasts, and other mass media submissions to collect data on cultural shifts and collective memes within the shared consciousness. This information is used by marketing firms, political lobbies and so on, the Neilsen ratings of everything from Lolcat macros to prospective wars. (Yes, this is already happening, but we need the set up for it to be a Hollywood film and pander to the LCD.)

ANYway, Our Confused Protagonist stumbles upon the ediTors. A rogue faction of gleaners who have found that they can control the zeitgeist with a little trimming here and there. A server goes down and everyone will vote for the other guy in the mayoral race, etc. Our Confused etc.'s Significant Other is fascinated by this practice and is drawn toward the faction, nearly pulling him in too, until The Purists grab him and make him come around to their way of thinking which is like the Star Trek prime directive.

OCP then participates in factional infighting and double dealing until the conflict explodes into chaos on the web. Possible confusing fun: OCP is labeled the most dangerous terrorist since John Wilkes Booth. Purists want to start a war, ediTors oppose it. Somebody crashes the internets.

Eventually the story ends with everyone confused about whether it really has ended.

In all honesty, I really do enjoy the techno-horror genre and the esteemed Mssr. Cronenberg. I kid because I love. I just find the disgustingly ill informed scripting of eXistenZ spoiled what could have been a marvelous concept. If only they had known anything about videogames made after 1989.

robin_d_laws posted an abandonned idea yesterday about books "degrading," becoming infected with spelling errors and so on over time. It struck me as a really, really neat concept and before I could stop myself, I'd written 2 pages. The story isn't on the exact subject he posited, but it's related so I give him credit for the concept.

Here's a PDF of the draft. Revised Edition. It's four pages long but there's a good deal of talking, so there's plenty of white space keeping it brief.

(For those curious, the good Mr. Laws offers these ideas as "free to a good home.")

Some fiction today from the world of Sorrows. I haven't been writing anything lately, and CW needs those new rules actually written down instead of circling my brain. This just sort of fell out of my head while on lunch break last week. For a throw-away project this is taking up a lot more time than Sci Fi Spi or Insite.

___

Art of War

Annabelle stole through the long, dim corridor. Orange light from clustered lanterns reflected off the carved wood fluting and hung in the air. Though it was little used, the hall was worn. Dusting and polishing had rubbed the decorations smooth over the centuries.

When she saw the large doors leading out to the main hallways she quickened her stride. Clutching the parcel to her chest she breathed a plea to the spirit of the Empress that no one would stop her. When she heard the heavy tread of boots, she cursed herself. Too often her pleas went unheard.

Rufus ambled out of the dark doorway of a side apartment. A bottle in one hand and some frail waif dripping from the other arm; girl or boy, it didn't matter.

"Annabelle? Don't rush so. You'll turn an ankle, fall, and in an disused hall like this, no one could be along to help you for hours," he slurred. Wine spilt from the corners of his leering mouth into the ragged curls of his beard. He shouldered his burden into the center of the hall where the light glinted off the badges of his office and the medals of his campaigns.

"I have no time for chatter Rufus." Annabelle craned her neck past him toward the door and hoped her voice would not quaver or break. "Or veiled threats."

"Then, I won't veil them." Rufus dropped the bottle and the body and stepped forward until his broad bulk filled Annabelle's view. "You owe someone a very big favor, and I've been charged to collect. You must remember your exchange with Piotyr? He is now in the service of my Lady Peinforte and she would like to see accounts settled."

Annabelle couldn't hide the tremors. Though it was years past, she recalled the gift. The tear of the Empress. A glittering stone of crystalline energy that had breathed life into a failing creation. The very tear that had won her the esteem of Lady Eleana. "I remember."

"Piotyr has made new work. A statue or something. It's very good I'm told. Lady Peinforte would like it to be the best work at tonight's showing."

Her arms wrapped tighter. The parcel squeezed the breath from her. This was the work of years. A masterpiece that had only taken shape in its final months. Something new and startling. Annabelle had amazed herself by this work.

"I can hurt you if I have to. My Lady has made plain to me that she will act as second to a formal combat. And you know you'll lose." Rufus hung two pistols from his hips, rapier and dagger. "The gift of the Empress will spare you death, but not pain. And either way, you won't see the inside of the gallery tonight."

"There's a good girl."

Annabelle's eyes streamed as she handed him the parcel. He tore it open and turned the statuary over in his thick fingers.

"Is it good?"

"The finest work of any among the Empress' court" she said, more to herself than to Rufus.

For a moment she thought that she could grab it back from him; run and call upon the members of her claque to defend her and her work. But they would be jealous. This work was too good. They would know the threat it posed to their individual standing. No one would let this work exist unless it was their own.

With mock reverence, Rufus placed the statue on the floor and slowly and thoroughly ground it into the carpet under his boot. It was no more than dust now, awaiting some servant's broom.

"There. I'm sure you can whip up another like it for the next gallery show. Of course, by then everyone will be talking about Piotyr's latest work. But maybe to can still give him some competition. Maybe change your style to something we can all appreciate." Rufus picked up the body and kicked the empty bottle away. He slammed the door at the corridor's end open and then shut behind him.

Annabelle collapsed into her rage. Scrabbling at the dust of her greatest achievement. If it took an eon to see Rufus humbled and humiliated as she was, she would spend those years gladly. She had forever to claim her vengeance, as did they all.
___

When I think of characters given immortality, I think of children. They don't think anything will ever end. Consequences will never come about. In my eye every Ancient from Vampire:tM is a petulant child.

Next time, some rules I think. Including why betrayal is one of the best parts of the game.

Another story under 100 words for you today:

Lovely

“I think I might re-write your story again.”

Shannon’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I think the sense of horror would be intensified by a first person perspective.”

“Oh. Like Lovecraft. Great.”

“What’s wrong with Lovecraft?”

“Please! Have you read his dialogue?”

“Well, you’re the only voiced character in this story so there won’t be any dialogue.” I crossed my arms.

“Fine. Do whatever you want. I’ve been waiting four years to see print. What’s another six months? Do me a favor though?”

“What’s that?”

“When you write the story’s final line, write it in italics!"

Another 100 word story today:

Occupation?

“I kill people for the government,” He finished his beer while I stared. “Population control I think. They got me out of the ‘hospital’ and set me up here. I do whatever I like, long as I meet quota every month.”

I closed my notebook. “I can’t sell that. No one will believe you.”

“I got proof,” A gun poked my ribs. “Let’s just walk out the back.”

He rolled open the door of a rental truck. I saw the sound-proofing tiles, the manacles hanging from a chain, the toolbox.

Blood stains.

“Everyone believes if you scream loud enough.”

-

Jenn and I made the scene at 2 parties this weekend and got to show off our costumes. We're both happy with the looks we've achieved. Photos will be available soon but until then, just imagine a shambling faceless nurse and a 6' automaton nutcracker.

Please take this opportunity to be unsettled by Dan's costume test. The children on his street will need therapy. I can only hope I will be half as scary.

Since I'm posting I may as well get this one online.

Grey Ruin

Doc slammed the door as hard as he could, slapped the locks shut and ran through his house, ending hunched against the couch.

That terrible figure was still in his eyes; the distended limbs, the tissue sloughing away.

Then he heard squishing; the sound of Jell-o going through a straw. It came from the kitchen. Doc covered his eyes and shivered. Moaned for it to “get away.” At last the sound stopped.

But now he could smell the wet rot. He looked up into his patient’s eyes.

“I told you it was bad. Why didn’t you believe me?”

(Submunitions: Stories in 100 word or less.)

“Not my brand,” and he waved away the pack I’d offered him. I lit up and took a drag.

“You always smoke on a stakeout?”

“Sure. It helps me relax.”

“Wait! There’s our boy!” He picked up the binoculars and followed the balding guy in a blue coat. “That’s right Bobby boy. Turn around and smile for the camera.”

Bobby boy turned around. He must have caught sight of the coal on my cigarette. He gave us two shots; one through the door, one through the window. My partner caught both.

I don’t smoke anymore.

(Submunitions: Stories under 100 words.)

Too good an exercise to pass up. Saw these first on warren_ellis's page.