Oh, and by the way...

Allow me to brag a little bit:

I wrote 50,400 words in November. It would've been more, but I decided to take November 30th off.

Okay, bragging's all done.

And no, you can't read it.

Not unless I have a temporary lapse of all forms of sanity, reason, and concern for your well being. Lucky for you, that last one's still intact.

Seriously. This novel is quite horrible, possibly hazardous. I love it to death.

Writing is bliss for me, even when it feels like I'm being dragged across broken glass (which is frequent). It gives me a direction and license to create. It's a release of pent-up emotion, energy, and neuroses. To use a quote I found floating around on the web, "Be creative. It keeps the voices out of your head." The literal truth of that may be in doubt for a lot of us, but the central meaning is that it keeps us from exploding. Writing, and creativity in general, is a Good Thing. Given that, you'd think I'd have notebooks upon notebooks upon doc files upon ink-stained napkins of written material. The thing is, though, that creativity requires a certain humility--a willingness to make mistakes and love them, or at least tolerate and learn from them--that is almost beyond me. One thing I love about NaNoWriMo is that it requires me to write less than sterling prose and to plot a tangled heap in order to keep up with my goal. This is the first time I came to grips with that fact, and this is the first year I was able to write 50,000 words I didn't have before.

When I'm willing to accept my limitations, when I'm actually willing to look them in the face, then I can finally get to work surpassing them. I began with no idea where this novel would go. I had no characters, no setting, and no plot. I now have all of those, albeit in an ungainly and unpolished form. More important, I have a better idea of how this novel should have been written in the first place. I'd like to do that rewrite. I'd like to finish up other projects I've started. I'd like to bring out some of the ideas I've never dared put to paper. Now, it's possible.


"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
--Ernest Hemmingway


~Paul

Yup, Still Going At It

Just in case you're wondering... yes, I'm still working on NaNoWriMo. And I'm only one day behind, and only that because I took yesterday off after hitting the half-month point. Maybe I'll say something profound about this later, but for now... well, I'm still working on it.

~Paul

NaNoWriMo begins NOW!

What, that loser's coming back to try NaNoWriMo a THIRD year? That's right! And this time, the approach is different. In previous years, I came into the whole deal with a very good idea of what I wanted to write, and an intent to write well.

That didn't work out so well.

So this time, I didn't start with anything in mind. Well, somethings tried to creep in, but I hit them with baseball bats, bound and gagged them, and threw them into a mental closet. Today, I just started writing and saw what came out. I'll post today's labors here for anyone who hates themselves enough to read it.

Chapter 1

In an endless expanse, a being in silver robes drifted quietly. Or, he tried to drift quietly.

“So then, the planar quillboar, he was all, no, I’ll get you first! Look, I even have a ginormous club! Ha! But I was all, no you don’t, cuz I have a moon I can throw at you!”

Azarael, Angel of Death, Keeper of Secrets, The Blind Who Saw All, stretched his wings, and turned away from the center of the endless expnanse—the shimmering portal—and looked at the monkey who was regaling him, or attempting to, with tales of derring do.

“Have you nothing better to do, Jisha?”

Jisha did a backflip—for the fun of it, Azarael was sure Jisha would say had he asked, even though they both knew Azarael knew that Jisha knew that movement was relative and really nonexistant out here. It didn’t stop Azarael from turning from the portal, though, and it certainly didn’t stop Jisha from doing backflips. Ever. “Of course not. What could be more important than yacking at my favorite stiff?” Jisha asked, smirking.

“Well, I do have something better for you to do. Take a look at this.” Azarael turned back to the portal, stretched his wings, and spread his arms. He began chanting in an ancient tongue, forgotten by all men since Adam and all women since Eve. The Angels still remembered, though. They were not bound by the same fettters as mankind.

Jisha’s hackles rose as he listened to the ancient, noble tongue—sibillant hisses mixed with overpowering vowels and declarations, reaching not only into language, into ideas, but into reality itself and shaping the world.

Of course, the chanting wasn’t strictly necessary, but Azarael always liked creeping Jisha out. This was something that Azarael knew that Jisha didn’t know. The chanting thing, not the creeping out thing—they both knew that Azarael liked creeping Jisha out.

The portal flashed as a thousand supernovas, ripping into the endless void they floated in with the light of searing death—and it revealed the millions of shapes hovering in the distance, whether a mile or a billion was impossible to say in a void with no point of reference. They could’ve been specks or larger than universes, but what was certain was that they hung over the last bastion of the Angels, and they did not mean well. The light of the portal faded, and this time it held an image rather than a flat circle of light.

On the shimmering field was a young man, tall and dark-haired. Azarael spread his wings one more time, rising up as he did so, and pointed grandly to the being before him, spread across a portal a thousand miles across. “Behold, Jisha! This boy is our salvation! This boy shall be the prophesied one to restore the our foolishness to glory! This is our redemption!”

Jisha looked and blinked. “But.. he’s EMO.” It was true. The young man was decked out in studded belts and tight black clothing, his dark hair looked dyed, and no non-emo would go with that oh-so-stupid haircut that parted on the side and fell over to completely block vision from one eye.

Azarael sniggered. “The workings of the Infinite are mysterious, Jisha. Do not question the chosen vessel. Also, damn straight he is.”

“What do you think an emo can do?”

“A hell of a lot more than you think, Jisha.”

“And you want me to do what with him?”

“Find him. Help him. Put up with his emoness if necessary.”

Jisha sighed. “Well, at least he’s not a goth. ‘Life is a bowl of pain that shatters when it drops, when it drops from a thousand feet and a cliff so high it bleeds black agony in deepest darkest spring of eternal suffering that haunts my waking mind so hard it screams and bleeds and none of you understand me go away.’ Oh, so horrible! Why do they write poetry? They can’t write poetry! DON’T TRY TO WRITE POETRY!”

Azarael twitched. “You know, in Japan, white is actually the color of death, not black. So people who want to be creepy go around wearing all white.”

“And... you’re wearing...” Jisha looked Azarael’s silver robes over. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t want to know if you write poetry. Please tell me you don’t.”

Azarael burst out laughing. “So easy... so damn easy to wind up! Wow. For a monkey, you’re really twitchy. Now get out of here, furry one. And no more quillboars on the way out!”

Jisha rolled his eyes, saluted, and dived for the portal. He plummeted, at speeds well in excess of both an unladen swallow and anything we conventionally achieve on earth, and soon became a speck above the emo’s left ear. Jisha suddenly passed through the portal—letting out a burst of light as ginormous as the first and once again lighting up the menacing shapes that hung in silence, waiting their moment. When the light faded, the portal—its energies temporarily depleted—held only the darkest, dimmest light, barely indistinguishable from the void that had always hid it.

In the darkness, the Angel of Death waited.

Chapter 2

Wilson sat in the cafe, nursing his drink. The Cafe was mid-sized and pleasant; a few interesting neoart pieces claimed various parts of the wall and a few sculpture stands about the place, the music was soft and calming, and the steady whirr of the drink machines blended well with the sound of laptops clacking at the urging of their owners’ fingers. Wilson himself fit in pretty well; a dark red dress shirt and khaki slacks, necktie removed after the workday, a simple but nice black trench coat to keep away the rain as soon as he steps outside again; a professional but not stiff hairstyle, probably with a bit too much gel and somewhat spiked out as young men fresh into the work force will do to try to retain some level of cool. Simply another person escaping the world of work at the end of the day for a few minutes of relaxation and possibly creativity in a convenient cafe.

Of course, not everyone was a top-secret government agent who did not, officially, exist. There hadn’t even been movies or books written about his branch of the government—not using its real name, at least—because not many authors felt the urge to mix spy novels with high fantasy, which was absolutely absurd of course, let the bloody “speculative fiction” geeks worry about fantasy and we’ll keep our guns and fast cars and unrealistic Hollywood portrayals of espionage work, thank you very much.

If those authors could have seen some of the files on Wilson’s laptop computer, open on the table and currently displaying a game of Freecell, they either would have berated him as a lunatic or assumed he too was writing a novel (which gives him license to be a lunatic). Of course, first they’d have to get past the many layers of security, most of which were rigged to delete everything and make the computer blow up at the first sign of trouble.

Wilson hated his laptop. He’d had to replace it ten times in the first month of his job. He was a lot better now, but every time he opened it up to give the proper passwords he still winced in anticipation of a sudden detonation followed by a trip to reconstructive surgery.

Out of habit, he scanned the crowd surreptiously; in his experience, it wasn’t really worth it, since no one really even had an inkling that his branch of the government existed, except perhaps the Illuminati, if the Illuminati were in fact real, which he wasn’t ready to rule out yet. But still, better paranoid than dead. Even if the Illuminati probably wouldn’t take to grabbing people out of the streets, and if they were, well, who was going to stop them? They were the fricking Illuminati! Council of The Enlightened! Shadowy Force Directing History! They Who Shall Be Given Capitalized Titles! They could be watching him right now, deciding whether it was his time to simply...disappear. Whether he knew to much. Whether he hadn’t been able to learn enough. Whether he had selected the appropriate drink, or whether his sudden shift to tea instead of coffee today had foiled their attempt to poison him. Tomorrow he would get hot chocolate. And the day after that, he would go to the cafe down the street. The next day, back here for a cookie, no drink. Then he would drive across town to Red Lobster and eat there instead. He had it all planned out. They could never get him.

Out of nowhere, a ball of fur collided with his face. Wilson suddenly found himself on the ground, breathing through a mat of muffling dark hair, or trying to breath anyway, and rolling around. They found him! Screams broke out from the other customers; the fur suddenly left his face, and he could breath. Air! Sweet blessed air! The Illuminati were not going to suffocate him to death!

He rolled to his feet and pulled his vest gun just in time to see—a monkey. His gun dropped. How did a monkey get in here? Why did a monkey get in here? Where in the world did a monkey come from that was actually close enough that a monkey could feasibly get into a Seattle cafe? The monkey looked around and gave a little monkey smirk at all the other customers, who were hiding behind tipped over tables, drink counters, and a fallen light fixture.

“Wow,” the monkey said. “If I can do that kind of damage just by missing the portal center by a few miles, I wonder what I could do if I really put my mind to it?” The monkey darted toward the door (grabbing a hot chocolate from a table on its way out), and disappeared into the street. Wilson slid his gun back into its hidden holster before anyone noticed. The other people were babbling about animal control, cute fuzzies, and the possibility of nearby circuses.

They, of course, had not heard the monkey talk. They were far too mundane, by their own insistence, for that to happen. Wilson sighed, returned to his laptop, and began pulling up a file on monkeys. His workday was not, by any means, over.

Chapter 3

The Angel of Death smacked his forehead in frustration, then readjusted his blindfold. “Dammit, Jisha, can’t you just make a single dimensional shift without causing mayhem and picking up a bunch of tagalongs?”

Chapter 4

Calvin hated his name. It just didn’t seem to fit him. The problem was, he wasn’t sure what name would fit him. He’d wasted time, plenty of time going over the list and seeing if there was anything worthwhile. Benjamin? Ha. Victor? Did he look ready to punch someone’s face in? Fred and George were right out. He probably could’ve come up with some old Celtic name with some semi-appropriate translation if he really tried, but the fact was that he really didn’t care to. Sure, “Kieran” may mean something like “little dark one,” but did he really want to explain that to everyone who asked where in the world he had gotten a name like “Kieran”?

The solution, after many unfruitful hours of slapping out long lists and scratching everything out again, was to just go by “Cal.” Sure, it made him sound like a bloody jock, which was almost worse than the alternative, but still. Calvin.

“Hey, Mal.” Then there was Andrea, who just called him “Mal.” In return, he just called her “Rea,” though that also had something to do with the threats on his life when he used her full first name. Mal stood for many things. Most of them made no sense, at least not when used with Calvin. Malevolent. Some made no sense to someone who was not in on the joke. Malaclypse the Third. Some simply made no sense. Malagigel.

Andrea slid open the screen door and let herself in. Today, she was in a thick, Victorian-looking black dress with silver roses embroidered across the shoulders and down the arms. She claimed that black dresses during regular days helped her think and reminded her that she was different than the unenlightened masses. Calvin claimed it made her look hot, in a gothy sort of way. She certainly had the hair for it, too—long, naturally midnight black, tending to cover her eyes when she wasn’t looking, obedient to her whims. She was deliberately vague on how she achieved the obedient part. If pressed by Mal, though, she just said it was a secret.

“Hey, Rea.” He chucked the list of names away from the couch, swung himself back into a sitting position, and made room for her. She gathered her skirts up and took her place as though it were a throne. That was another side effect of wearing thick Victorian dresses. Andrea had to be slow and stately and absolutely sure of where all her fabric was, or she would manage to step on it with the not-so-Victorian combat boots she had underneath. Calvin wasn’t sure how she managed that, either.

“Very carefully, Mal. Very carefully.” Having completely seated herself, Andrea swung her feet up onto the couch and nestled into the space between the cushion and the thick, plush arm rest. “And give up the name thing. Mal works as well as anything. Better than everything.”

“Yeah, but that’s for you. Not everyone can use that name.” Calvin mirrored her pose so they could face each other, more or less, sharing the middle cushion for a footrest. “Besides, I’m not even sure anyone’s noticed that you call me that.”

Andrea shrugged. “Then they don’t pay attention, though that really comes as no surprise to those of us who have been paying attention all along. So, how’d the test go?”

“Which one?”

“Yes.”

“Math sucked, English was alright, I guess, Chem sucked.”

“And?”

Calvin winced. “And the motorcycle nearly killed me. Note to Rea: Don’t ride motorcycles. Note to self: Punch John. Other note to Rea: Punch John.”

Andrea arched an eyebrow. “Surely it wasn’t so bad you want to burn the forest down?”

“No, but a bonfire might be good. So, these special modifications he wanted to test with a light rider, apparently they all blow if you go above twenty.”

Andrea looked up over skeptically. “Blow up? You’re still here, right?”

“Okay, so blow up is too much. They still conked out and made the cycle fishtail and crash.” Calvin used his right hand to pull up the sleeve on his left arm, revealing a large bandage covering his shoulder and upper arm. “I managed to walk away with just this, but I’m still pissed at him. He promised to fix it, but I’m not getting back on that damn bike of his.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Andrea teased. Sooner or later, you’ll hop on and you know it, and it’ll probably be inside of a month.”

“Will not!”

“Will.”

“Won’t, and if I do, I’ll get you a CD. If I don’t in a month, you get me a CD.”

“Deal.” Andrea stretched and stuck her hands behind her head as a cushion. “Man, that was easy. Free CD for me.”

Calvin just rolled his eyes. “So. What about you? Where were you at lunch and after school? I thought you wanted to see John’s test.”

Andrea smiled, ran her tongue over her lips, and paused. “I had... an... interesting day. Yeah, interesting. I don’t have many of those.” She paused, glancing away from Calvin for just a second. “Normally, the days are depressing... but this, well...”

Calvin smirked. “You okay, Rea? Tongue tied doesn’t suit you. Want me to untwist it for you?”

“Maybe later,” she joked. “You see—”

At that moment, the screen door Andrea had walked through burst into shreds as a horde of screaming ninjas swept into the room.

~Paul

Why I Love RPGs

No, not Rocket Propelled Grenade. Role-Playing Game. I only have five physical RPG books (three of which are addon books) and printed rules for less than a half dozen more systems, but I have a ridiculous amount of information about RPGs on my computer, including many other sourcebooks not quite the collection of a gamer who has had a few decades and a steady cash flow, but it still represents a strange amount of interest for someone who doesn't actually play RPGs. No one to play with. The village I live in is very boring, you see, and doesn't even have a proper gaming store that I'm aware of. I've played a tiny bit of D&D and a fan system called Final Fantasy RPG with other people in the past, and I've soloed a few more times on a few more systems. But why do I still spend time reading mass quantities of RPG rulebooks for so little actual play?

The stories.

I can still hope that I'll be able to set up regular RPG gaming, and I have my eye on a D&D supplement that creates rules for balanced random dungeons that can be played without a Dungeon Master. But until then, I stick around for the stories. The game mechanics lay down ground rules on how to proceed, but an RPG is about the story. Open up an RPG book, and unless it's the most cut-down universal system available, there will be a campaign setting--a proposed world in which to romp. Some of these can be very interesting, and they spark my imagination--almost in the same way a novel does, but asking me to fill in the blanks and imagine the stories myself.

To demonstrate, my favorite campaign setting is from JAGS-Wonderland, a surreal horror game based around Lewis Carroll's Wonderland novels. It sets up a universe where Wonderland--a twisted reality just below ours--is seeping upward, loosening the rules and trying to consume us. Sometimes, people slip through the cracks and go down--they don't lose their grip on reality, but reality loses its grip on them. When I'm reading all the details in this book, I hit a point where I stop seeing all the game mechanics and rules and instead see something like this:
(please note, as random trivia, that this was written months before I got my job)
(also note that the peculiar spelling is intentional)

A Page from Examining the Looking-Glass
by Paul

I walked toward the front desk, trying to move softly and hoping my footsteps weren’t too loud on the marble tile. But then, I usually walk quietly, and I’m used to libraries. Behind me, Parker wasn’t making an effort as concentrated as mine. You’d think he’d never spent time anyplace peaceful. Actually, come to think of it, that was a distinct possibility. Fortunately, he was probably busy gawking at the endless, twisting rows of shelves, the ceiling so high it the view simply faded into blackness, and the animated stone gargoyles that prowled the walls. Quietly, of course. The Liebrarian wouldn’t allow them to creak or crack like standard stone, not her Liebrary. So long as Parker remained enraptured by the sight and overawed by yet another alien (to him) landscape taken to its superlative, it was likely he would be disturbed enough to let me do the talking. I prayed for this.

I’m not sure why he was so overwhelmed, though; a library where you could have two people walk down parallel aisles and find more aisles cropping up between them was fun, but we’ve seen things more mind-bending than that in other parts of Wonderland.

And then, the Front Desk. Up to my chest in height, deep brown wood, trimmed in what I believe were fractal patterns. Tall stacks of books at either edge of the desktop, forming a portrait frame around the Liebrarian.

She was short; I could tell this immediately even though she sat at a tall desk and was almost certainly in a tall chair. Petite. Inquisitive, deep brown eyes, the sort you see in innocent children who love learning but haven’t yet learned enough to be scared. Maybe she had no need to be afraid where the angels dared not go. Her eyes were, of course, framed by glasses—thin-framed rectangles. She was dressed in a conservative white dress shirt and simple navy blue dress jacket; it reminded me of a university uniform. She’d ponytailed her hair, probably to keep it out of the way while she read. Her shoulders were squared—not in aggression, it seemed, but simple unconscious confidence. A small stack of books sat just to her left, a small stack just to her right, and on the desk in front of her a thick tome, open, in which she was completely absorbed. Her left hand absently cradled a thick darkwood stamp, as though she had been checking books in and suddenly ran across a one too good to simply process without exploring just a little bit. That could have happened moments ago; it could have happened decades ago.

She was, all in all, surprisingly normal. No one had told me what to expect, but after the murderous Queen of Hearts, the nervous talking rabbit, the grumpy omelet, the playful cat’s grin with a dark sense of humor, and the slew of others, I expected something more... Wonderlandish.

And yet, she was setting off all sorts of alarms in my head. Not the sort the others get from Wonderland, the “This isn’t real this isn’t real please don’t let this be real wakeupwakeupwakeup” sort. Nor was it the “that thing is about to rip my spine out” danger sense I start to feel when a trip down the rabbit’s hole is about to turn violent. I had to remind myself that she was potentially dangerous, an inhuman manifestation of universal principles beyond my grasp, and, no matter how collected she might seem in the upcoming conversation, she was what my friends would call “completely nuts.” Despite these reminders, I was very aware that this was exactly the sort of woman for whom I go head over heels. Parker keeps trying to figure out what sort of woman I’d like, if any. Insane, nearly all-powerful librarians, apparently.

She looked up.

I felt Parker take shelter behind me.

Her mouth curved into a friendly smile, but equally warm eyes pierced me, roamed all over me in a brief examination and summary. I somehow knew she had just written a narrated description of me, complete with mention of the large quivering man in a red shirt trying to hide behind me. Without taking her eyes off me, she flipped her book to the last page, stamped it in, and slid it off to the side. “May I help you?” She sounded mildly interested, but definitely distracted.

I was careful to speak softly, as I had been instructed. “We would like to use the Liebrary, Miss Liebrarian.”

“May I ask your purpose?”

The Cat had told me the Liebrarian was eager to be involved in Big Things with Big People. If there was a time to drop names, this was it. “The Queen of Hearts and Humpty Dumpty have asked us to find a certain piece of information for a project, and the Cheshire Cat has told us of a book in which we’d find it.” Bam bam bam! The quintessential Caretaker and the founding Deconstructionist working together, aided and abetted by Chaos incarnate. Beat that.

The Liebrarian blinked and, eyes half-lidded, re-examined me. I could almost hear her mentally scratching out my introductory paragraph and writing a new one. She smiled again. She produced two sheets of paper, a blue pen, and a red pen from somewhere on her desk; had I been watching her hands, I probably would’ve blinked the moment she picked them up. “Very well, then. You will, of course, require Liebrary cards. Read these and sign, please.” I took the papers and pens and passed a paper and the red pen back to Parker, who quickly snatched it and hunched behind me again.

The sheet was a list of rules; most were to be expected in a library. No speaking above a quiet voice, turn books in undamaged and on time, et cetera. Others involved bringing Jabberwocks into restricted sections, non-disclosure agreements for certain sections until certain dates or while wearing certain outfits, and one concerning mullets that made me nearly burst out laughing.

“Eh, Miss Liebrarian, we will be able to read the rules again after we have our cards, won’t we?” She nodded; assured that I wouldn’t have to memorize the entire list right now, I made sure there weren’t any “special” rules that would interfere with our mission today and signed it. The paper began rustling on its own—crinkles appeared all over the sheet—the paper crumpled itself, folded tightly, and I was holding a brown Liebrary card, my signature at the bottom, a black book logo in the corner next to the title, and the motto “The opposite of a lie is a truth; the opposite of a truth is also a truth” in small print underneath. I flipped the card over; printed in large font was the entirety of the rules list. Looking at it didn’t hurt as much as it probably should’ve; I guess I was getting used to Wonderland by that point.

“Now, then.” I looked up to see the Liebrarian slide the blue pen behind her ear and return the red one to somewhere on her desk. “You said you knew the book you wish to checkout?”

I reached into my sleeve and into the hole the Cat had shown me how to make and withdrew the paper the Cat had given me. “The First, Second, and Fourth Lies, Third Edition, by Nisse Elseworth, call number three six seven theta Q negative six I and seven-fifths.”

The Liebrarian smiled, with approval, I was sure. Of which feat, though? Cutting straight through an impossible filing system, or pulling the solution out of a dimensional hole in my sleeve? “Well then, Johnathan, follow me.” With that, she was standing at the head of an aisle; it looked like she moved to it and skipped the intervening space, but I was pretty sure she’d been waiting there before I gave her the call number and she had simply drawn our attention to the fact. She beckoned us, turned, and walked into the aisle, sending folds and ripples through the air as she slowly sped down the rows of books. That’s the best I can describe it to someone who hasn’t been to Wonderland—when I tried to look in a straight line down the aisle, I followed bends and folds in the air and found myself staring at six different places on the shelves. She was bending space, quickly traveling long distances at a leisurely walk.

Parker put a hand on my shoulder, stopping me from following. “Hey, John, you sure ‘bout this? This whole place feels wrong. Just kinda scary, you know?” He sounded spooked. He was usually the first of us to sense wrongness—the twists of Wonderland—though try telling him that he was sensing things and he’d get defiant and sulky.

“Yes, I am. We need that book, right?”

He wouldn’t meet my eye. “Well, yeah, but this place is going to make it hurt.”

I closed my eyes. I could see the faintest afterimage of the Liebrary, the whole immensity of the Liebrary, right there under my eyelids. It was just out of reach. “Everything in Wonderland hurts if you aren’t ready for it.” I opened my eyes, and all I could see again was the little bit of the Liebrary we were in. “It’s just knowledge you’re sensing, Parker. If you’re not ready yet, don’t look—but we have to go in.”

Parker shuddered just a bit; his face turned just a bit thundercloudy. “Stop with the mumbo jumbo. Look, she is dangerous. Didn’t you see how she was looking at you? Like you’re a slab of meat for sale!”

My mouth twitch into a smile. “More like an interesting book, actually.”

“Dude, stop joking. I’m serious. She has it in for you.”

I sighed. “Parker, I know. I know this place is dangerous. I know she is dangerous, and I know that it’ll be worse for me than most others who come into the Liebrary. Now, come on.”

I slipped out of his grasp and turned back to the aisle. The ripples and folds made a perfect half-sphere, the flat edge opening toward me. I stepped through it; my footsteps sounded like chimes through the bends and folds. I heard Parker follow me; his footsteps shattering glass. The bookshelves, floor, and ceiling all folded around me, forming a thousand diamond facets in a complete sphere. I walked on without feeling motion; the warped world around me dissolved and formed with every crystal-chime step I took, reshaping itself around me dozens of times.

The sphere finally shattered and the world righted itself. The Liebrarian crouched next to me, calmly removing a book from the lowest shelf. I looked to the side to see Parker, stiff and eyes wide in shock. I often wonder what Wonderland is like for those who simply cannot believe the impossible, whether before breakfast or after.

The Liebrarian straightened up, faced me, and held out the book. “Here. When you want to check it out, or if you need help, just come to the front desk.” She added a smile and a nod as she spoke.

I took it and thanked her. Parker leaned over my shoulder to look at it; while we weren’t looking, I felt the Liebrarian disappear through the aisles, or possible into the shelves. The book was large, as tall as my elbow to my fingertip and several thousand pages deep. It was bound in red leather, and stylized gold lettering adorned the cover.

I closed my eyes, once again seeing an afterimage of the entire Liebrary—stronger this time. I looked around for the nearest reading table. I grabbed Parker by the arm, stepped toward the table, opened my eyes, and sat down.

“What—how did you—John, what?”

“Wonderland’s different, Parker. Have a seat.”

He collapsed into a chair, head in hands and trying to ignore what had happened. “Okay. So we got the book. Does it have what we need?”

I began flipping. “Give it some time. The Caretakers aren’t likely to put anything in the open.”

“What?”

I skimmed through the table of contents. “Ramifications of the Fourth Lie.” “Hot Dog Buns and Apples.” “The First Cover-up of Something Everyone Knew But No One Wanted to Admit.” That sort of thing.

“Have you noticed that the Caretakers and Deconstructionists deal with knowledge differently?” I asked.

Parker shrugged. “Yeah, the Deconstructionists babble more.”

I allowed myself a smile before going on. “Not quite. They both know things. Things, capital T, as in Things Man Ought Not. I think the difference is how they handle it. The Deconstructionists have the Black Rose. When you go to ask it a question, you learn things you don’t want to know, things that hurt. It throws you as far as it can into your soul, or the universe, or whatever, and makes you look at what’s there when it cuts everything away. Break the nutshells and see what’s left. But how much of the nut gets smashed too, and what’ll eating the mixed bits do to you? The Caretakers, though, they back up and let you see everything. Like the Liebrary. Did you see how big it is? It’s even larger than it looks. The Cat told me that literally everything is recorded here. The thing is, the Caretakers make you look for it yourself, draw the patterns in the dots, and arrive at a conclusion... even then, you’re probably just seeing faces in the clouds.”

If it was possible, Parker slumped further. “Great, just great. One set tells you the worst part, and the other set makes you make it all up yourself. What are we doing here?”

I began flipping to a promising page. “Beating the odds, hopefully. It’s not that different than the rest of ‘reality’.” I reached the page; the air was instantly alive with roaring, the book flattened against the table, and a vortex of wind surged through it, pushing my hair back and stinging my eyes. I heard a dim crash as Parker’s chair fell backward. The paper bulged, the ink skittered across the page, and something raised itself from the book, something enormous and bulbous that carried its own deep shadows around it. The thing towered above us, hanging poised in the air.

Parker rolled to his feet and fell into an instinctive fighting stance. “John—what is that?!” The panic shredded through his voice, left his terror bare for the world.

I looked around. I hadn’t even noticed when an endless starfield moved into the Liebrary. Or had the Liebrary moved into an endless starfield? Regardless, we were alone with this thing. “What we came for.”

fin.

~Paul

Class 2 Zombie Outbreak

I'm terrible at this. This "update" thing. See, if I was in school, I might possibly have something to post. At least I could complain about which classes were keeping me from sleeping. As it stands, any update I could write, when boiled down to its essence, sounds something like this:

"Hi. Still wasting my time and not doing anything. I suck. Rock on."

Thrilling, ne?

I'm back on the Café now. (BOC42: "I know this already!" Emmett: "He was off the Café?" Or, alternatively, Emmett: "What café?")

Something to look out for when communicating with other people: "No, I can't say that. Everyone else in the frickin' room has already said something to the effect that they liked it. If I say anything, I have to say, you know, something. Well, I got nothing. I just won't say anything." It's the easiest thing in the world to say nothing because I think I have nothing to say. This leads to prolonged silences.

I'm still working on the fanfiction referenced in my last post, some months ago. For your viewing pleasure, I shall post a segment from the rough rough rough first draft.

"Despite his usual tendency to get up early—highly encouraged by Chip using all of his considerable influence over Dale, physical and otherwise—fatigue from traveling and doing considerable emergency repair work caught up with Dale and caused him to wake up sometime well into the morning approaching noon. The fact that Chip was not looming over him, of course, had no impact in this decision. This, anyway, was what Dale reminded that faint nagging guilt at the back of his head, and peace of mind was restored. He cast one bleary eye around the room—its mate apparently not agreeing that opening was worth the effort—and noticed two things. First, there was a great deal of unwelcome light in the room. Dale made a note to himself—talk Chip into blocking the windows. Second, Chip himself was not in bed. He had apparently lost his sanity and gotten out of bed early. As usual. This was perfectly fine, so long as he didn’t drag Dale out of bed as well. Dale let his lone venturesome eye close, and he snuggled deeper into the fresh grass of his bed.

Bam.

Yep, entirely content in a warm bed.

Bam bam bam.

Not having any trouble getting back to sleep at all. None.

BAM BAM BAM. "

And no, I'm not going to tell you what the bamming was. Not now, at least. And here's another one, also for kicks and giggles!

"Crystal notes filled the small room where Clarice was practicing. It was a simple room, devoid of the comfort and frills that inevitably followed Clarice whenever an audience was around. The only adornment was a piano and bench. Clarice herself stood in the center of the room, eyes closed, standing straight and breathing deeply from the stomach. She climbed her way through a scale, slowing as she neared the top. She practiced her high vibrato, her voice swaying gently around the notes. She held the highest note of the scale for a full twenty seconds, then let herself slide—slowly, controlled—back down the scale. When she reached the bottom, she raised the note half a step and began the new scale, caressing each note as she passed it.

A huge ka-SLAM behind her shattered all her mustered concentration and sent her jumping into the air; she landed, twisted around with her fists up, and met two furry bodies colliding with her. All three of them went tumbling to the ground; one of the two went spinning to the side, the other landed firmly on top of Clarice. She automatically brought her knee up in a fierce jab and thrust her fist into his side; she heard a rewarding rush of expelled breath and shoved her assailant off."

Hmm... yup, that looks like a good place to stop.

In other news, I like cooking brownies! :)

~Paul