Droll Tales

Long time guys, but I thought I'd let you know I'm posting short work I'm polishing up and trying to get published over at:
http://drolltales.blogspot.com/

Appreciate any feedback you could give.

Thanks.

New Topic

Sadly, no one posted a new topic (no worries!). For efficiency's sake, I will post a replacement topic.

Inspired by the time of the year, I would like people to create a holiday-themed piece.

Next topic date will be 12/15/07.

Best of luck!

Carson Daly as a Scab

Hi Guys,

Recently, Carson Daly, a talk show host, announced that he would violate the writer's strike.

How we feel about it? What if he were more of an artist (assuming you believe that talk show hosts are less artistic than other entertainers) demanding to perform his art?

See the article below.

Article

NBC programme Last Call With Carson Daly is to become the first late-night talkshow on US TV to defy the Hollywood writers' strike, according to US reports.

In common with other shows that rely on writing talent to supply topical material, Daly's programme "went dark" three weeks ago and was replaced by repeats.

But it is to resume production today and will air fresh material for the first time on Monday.

Other talkshows such as NBC's The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and The Late Show with David Letterman on CBS remain dormant.

Daly's show is less labour-intensive for writers, with just a half-hour running time and an emphasis on interviews and music rather than scripted patter.

Nor is Daly himself a member of the writers' union, the Writers Guild of America, unlike Leno and fellow NBC talk host Conan O'Brien.

· To contact the MediaGuardian newsdesk email editor@mediaguardian.co.uk or phone 020 7239 9857. For all other inquiries please call the main Guardian switchboard on 020 7278 2332.

· If you are writing a comment for publication, please mark clearly "for publication".

Tammy's Topic and New Deadline

Just a reminder, Tammy's turn to pick a topic will fall on 12/1/07 (Saturday).

Worst Paper

As I post this little note, I am in the midst of furiously writing a student comment (law school code for an ungraded thesis). In the last five days, I've cobbled together about thirty-six pages with another four-five to go. Being kind to myself, I would refer to this assignment as a series of vague introductions separated by very precise point headings. Suffice to say, it is awful.

Tell us about one of your worst work or school writing assignments. Why did it end up being such poor quality?

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm not sure how everyone here celebrates the holiday, but I hope a good day somehow finds its way to all. You are all in my thoughts.

: )

Fight

Note: This is a bit from the nanowrimo project I started before I decided to write a screenplay instead. There's some past tense/present tense disagreement that I'm aware of but haven't taken the time to fix. I probably won't either unless I decide to do more with this. This bit from the nanowrimo comes several pages in, but I think works as a stand alone.

*****

Another night I hear loud bass beats pumping and vibrating my floor, so I go see if Melanie is throwing a party. Her door is open and there's this wide, muscular guy with a huge head and greasy black hair spread across a couch. He has this small girl with thin wrists across his lap and they look like they're having a good time. He saw me and motioned me in. "What happened to Melanie?" I said. I guess I could have been more polite about this, and actually introduced my self and asked for his name, but right then I was kinda horny and hoping she would be there. I hadn't been steadily sleeping with anyone since the last fall semester.
"Don't know, guy." He said. "Grab something to drink from the kitchen though, we're having a move in party." I go to the kitchen, bang the refrigerator door into the oven, and bring back a bottle of Miller Lite. I tell him my name is Roland. "Like Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came?" He said.
"Partially, yeah." I tell him.
"Danny's my name." He extends his hand. We shake. "This is Rose." She nods at me and slurs out a hello. After that many other guys and girls show up. They dress in thrift store wool jackets and faded shirts with Rolling Stones and other rock band emblems. I find out that Danny and most of these people are grad students in the Literature department. I tell them I'm a senior studying Philosophy. After awhile I'm drunk and arguing something trivial about Jane Austin to the guy in a Motley Crue shirt. Danny approaches me, "Could you take Rose back to her place? She's ready to pass out, and needs to get back to her place before classes start tomorrow." I can tell he, and the others, are drunker than I, so I take her.

Twenty four minutes later I'm in the driveway of a nice suburban home in the heart of Coalville. I want to ask Rose how a grad student can afford this place, but she's passed out. I drag her out of the passenger seat, and stumble with her slung over me fireman style to the front door. The door is locked and I paw through her pockets for a key. While I do this an obese man with a golf club opens the door and growls at me, "What the fuck have you done to my daughter?" My left hand is in one of her back pockets searching for a key, he sees this, and forces her from me. A large woman steps from a shadow behind the man and takes Rose. "She's sixteen years old. How fucking old are you?"
"Twenty two." I said. This is true, but I look at least twenty eight. Smoking and bad genes haven't made me repulsive, but have aged me.
"Fuck you, twenty two." He chants at me and swings his driver. I thank whatever vague divine nature I sorta speculate about that it's not an iron. The driver's weak shaft hits me in the side and stings but it bends to the shape of my torso. This only enrages him further and he starts grabbing at me while I slap at his hands.
"I don't know her." Slap his hand. "I was only asked to drop her off." He cold-cocks me in the jaw." I fall into a small patch of garden in their front lawn. My heels have knocked a few sunflowers out, and Rose's mother screams. Her husband kicks me like a soccer hooligan for I'm not sure how long. A neighbor comes over in a pale blue robe wearing a police officer's hat and wielding a nightstick.
"Who the fuck is this, Jim." He said. "A burglar?"
"This guy raped my daughter." Rose's dad said. At this point I lose it and start screaming. I yell that's not true. I yell I was at a neighbor's party and he asked if I could give this girl a ride home. I thought she was in college with all the other guy's at the party. I don't think anyone fucked her while there. I'm balling and worried this officer neighbor is either going to join in the beating or going to hall me down to jail. He stays calm though. He's a professional. He helps me up and holds my shoulders and keeps asking me to just breath slowly, and after some time asks me to repeat everything I just said. I do, and after some time the cop neighbor gets Rose's dad to believe what I'm saying enough to go wake his daughter and ask her where she's been. She's sober enough by this point and tells him she was out with a guy she met at the Pizza Hut where she works. She's crying cause she's worried her dad's probably going to beat her like he just did to me. She says this guy came in and thought he recognized her from one of the 101 courses he taught last semester and invited her to a move in party he was throwing.
Twenty minutes later after some more yelling, crying, and apologizing from everyone but the officer neighbor, he decides to take me to the hospital to make sure nothing's broken. One x-ray later I'm relieved to find out my body is just bruised up. I pick up some painkillers from the hospital pharmacy and get taken back to my car. The light's are out in Rose's place when I get back. I take my car and dart out of there. I don't go back to Danny or his friends that night. Up in my room I take several painkillers with a shot of vodka and pass out. When I wake up the next day, I've slept through two of my classes.
Two days later Danny and I are in the parking lot behind our building. My left cheek is swollen and blue. He looks at my swollen face with curiosity, and I tell him what happened when I took Rose home. For a moment he looks at me with great concern, and maybe some shame, but then he laughs at me. His eyes don't leave mine until he finally blinks the happy tears away. "That's classic." He said. "Real fucking classic." I miss my night class then because he offers to take me down the block to Mallory's and buy me as much booze as I'll take.

Pete - Rebooting of a myth

Hemp: "Modernize, rewrite, or reboot a myth."

----------------------

A Little Exorcise

Tired leaves in October colors follow him into the shack as he swings the heavy door open, inward. Red, gold, and brown drift lazily in the draft he gives life to the small space. He leaves the door open, and more of the late afternoon spills in. The room smells of autumn, musty wood, and old tools.

He loves that smell, and associates it with her.

Too warm in his jacket, too cold without it, he settles on unzipping it, finally. Out of the breeze now, he should be fine, and it feels good; the jacket is a little tight.

Gently, he lays down the rose he’s brought at the open threshold, white petals on dark wood, and steps to the other side of the space, looking out the window at the carefully managed meadow, grass and marble, beyond. The sun is almost down, somewhere behind all that gray sky. Usually he is calm and at peace when he sings to her, but this time the butterflies and numbness in his fingers are almost overpowering. He’s focusing on looking around the inside of the shed, not the tears he’s trying to hold back, as he completes his small ritual. Finally he’s settled near the small window opposite the door. No crying, he’s tool old for that. He starts it, then; His voice hangs in the stillness as he begins the song, filling the space.

Someday
When I’m awfully low
When the world is cold
I will feel a glow,
Just thinking of you
And the way you look
Tonight

He smiles sadly, as he waits. Ms. Mavis had been open-mouth shocked when he’d finally screwed up his courage and sung for her, after all her pestering. However she’d found out about it, she’d forgotten all about the tryout process, and offered him a place in Choral on the spot.

Today, right now, his clear voice and perfect pitch didn’t seem to match how he felt in his own awkward, pudgy body. He wanted to see her very much, but also not so much at all.

He turns, and she’s there, silent and almost smiling in the doorway. She’s looking down at the rose, then back up at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and light. Almost always, it was easy for him to find the smile in her expression, but now he would swear the sadness was much more pronounced.

Like she knows.

“Hey,” he says, glib as ever. Master of dialog. His eyes along her long blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and falling to her pale dress. “I’m glad you came, Mary.” Despite his apprehension, this was true.

“I know flowers are never hard to find, here,” he begins, making the little joke, “but I bought that one special for you. I don’t know why, but I’ve always imagined you liked white roses, for some reason. Maybe to match your dress.” A faint smile here, and when she looks at him, he sees it almost reflected, but still mostly sees the sadness.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind today. Tonight, I mean,” he starts meandering. “It might be better if I just talk, and you just listen. At least, for now.” He sees her nod, wistfully. She’s listening, attentive to him, and this gives him a little strength, but it also makes him sad. It would figure she’d be mostly here tonight, of all nights.

“I updated your Facebook site for you,” he begins. “I put some really freaky music on it. I know you’re not into it, but I think it’d make you smile, if you were. And it’s –way- popular. Lots of friend requests.”

He knows this line of conversation is ridiculous, and just stalling, really.

She’s watching him, drifting slowly on dancing shoes, through the threshold and into the small space they’re sharing. She’s swaying slightly, as if she can hear music somewhere and she wants to dance. He knows that’s crazy, but it makes his heart ache.

“I’d sing that song for you, the one on your site now, but it’s pretty hardcore, loud.” He looks around at the cobwebbed rafters, the nailed-shut windowpane. “And this place might not be able to take it, if I cut loose fully.” He sees her eyes widen a little at this, and the sad smile again. “But I can sing more of our song,” he says, as he looks at the floor, a sudden wave shyness and still sad.

You’re lovely
With your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft
There is nothing for me
But to love you
And the way you look
Tonight.

“People would never believe it, Mary,” he began. “That we were together I mean. For many reasons,” his voice drifted off into a chuckle, as he absently zipped up the jacket again, then noticed what he was doing and zipped it down once more. This time he looked straight into her eyes, and matched her gaze. She was close, now. He could almost feel her, even without touching. “They’d never believe what you’ve done for me, Mary,” a pause. “I hardly believe it.”

He looks away now, taking a step back and turning, looking out the window again. “Remember me telling you about my blog? The one I don’t tell… anyone about. Except you. Well, hardly anyone, anyway.” Another look of worry on his face, now. “I was reading some stuff I’d written, from before we met. I was so stupid, back then. I mean, I’m pretty stupid now, but now at least I talk to people. I can make them laugh, and I’m not afraid to sing in front of people any more. I have friends.” A nervous glance to her, then that lopsided smile. “And I’m in Choral.” He reflected, looking out the dirty window for a few moments. “Most of that is you, Mary.”

A tentative look to her again. She’s by the threshold, holding the rose, turning it over in her gentle hands. The sound of his silence causes her to look up at him, expectantly, maybe. She’s listening. “I have friends,” he repeats, softly. “I didn’t have any before. Well, not really. But I do now.” For some reason, it was starting to hit him now. He was fine, nervous, but fine. But now he was having to blink back the tears, and was barely keeping headway.

He was not going to cry. In front of a girl, much less.

“I thought about bringing them here, to our place, some of them, I mean. So they could meet you. But I have a feeling they might not understand, Mary. They’re good friends and all, but they might not get it.” A stab through his own heart, here. They’re my friends, Mary, and I love you, I am sure of it, but you can’t ever meet them.

His voice is clear in the cool air, his breath showing a bit as he sings the next verse to her. As the words pour out, his sadness is beaten back a little.

With each word
Your tenderness grows
Tearing my fears apart
And that laugh
That wrinkles your nose
It touches my foolish heart

“Melody , she would understand, maybe. She’s an idiot, that way.” A nervous laugh, here. “I think I’ve mentioned her before. You’d hate her, probably. She’s loud, obnoxious. She giggles and smiles all the time, always touching me. She’s totally opposite of you…”

A look of angst now on his young face. Opposite of you? Am I a –total- fuck-up? He thinks to himself. Harshly.

Je-sus Christ.

Mary doesn’t seem mad, at his words, though. Just sad.

She knows. She has to know. She’s smiling now; her head inclined towards him just a bit, gently urging him on. And it hurts so much more. His cheeks are wet.

“Not to say that I mind at all how we are, together. You and I,” he says with a wipe of his face. “I know you’re gentle, and reserved. You say so much through just expressions, through just being here, coming to meet me, Mary,” Casting around for other compliments, they come easily, pouring from him like the song he sings for her.

“I remember meeting you,” he begins. “Just a chance as I was walking. Well, not just a chance, like I told you that one time. I –was- looking for you. I knew about you, of course. And somehow,” he pauses here, lost again for a few heartbeats. “Somehow I knew that while I couldn’t talk to anyone else, I could talk to you.”

She’s near him again, now. Suddenly, that way she had of moving… he might look up, and she’d be closer to him. She is there now. Playful with the rose, white petals tapping gently against her pursed lips, though the sad look is still at the edge of her smile. She keeps batting the flower absently against her lips, as if taping out the moments until he gets to his point, maybe. A heartbeat or sorts.

“Do you remember me telling you about Melody, Mary?” If he didn’t start this now, he wouldn’t.

Would that be so bad? Could he just leave, and not think about this again?

Some big man he’d be, eh? Really brave of him.

No. He couldn’t do that.

“I did try to bring her around, actually,” He confesses. “Once. But you weren’t around. I sang the song, but you didn’t hear it, I guess.”

His admission scared him, a little. Mary didn’t retreat at his words, she wasn’t going to just up and vanish as he spoke to her, and so he continued, stumbling. No rhyme or reason to his words.

“She picked out this jacket for me. We were at the mall, you know, and she said she’d like to see it on me.” His face was warm now, embarrassed and slightly ashamed, sharing such things with someone else, and now sharing them with her, in a way. “She said I needed a new one, that my old one was worn out and tired, and that I was growing.”

A pause, here.

“I used to be just fine, Mary. No problems. Coming here to spend time with you. Knowing you’d be here, that you’d come when I called. You care about me, I know. We share this space, and I can feel how you care about me, really. And I know over the time we’ve spent here, sharing, I’ve grown up, a little…” his eyes down, at this, pushing around a bit of dirt on the floorboards with the tip of his Nike. “At least a little bit. I can talk to people now, like I was saying. I’m not the scared, dorky, kinda-creepy kid I was when we met.” You’ve shown me so much, Mary.” He was looking back at her now. “So much that I had inside of me.”

“I imagine things, you know,” his voice hesitant now, wandering far from what he had planned, baring that last little bit of his soul he’d kept in reserve, from her. “How we might get along if we were to ever be somewhere else together. People seeing us. How we might get along, in a group.” His face is crimson now, almost completely leaving his senses.

“I know that’s crazy, of course. I know you don’t want that or need that. But I still wonder about it, ya know? Especially now that I have these friends, and all.”

Silence for a few moments. He was letting the words sink in; he couldn’t hear anything in the musty wooden place, but the echo of what he’d said still seemed to linger, if only in her expression. Finally, he is plunging on.

“I know you love me, Mary. I don’t ever need to hear it, you know. It’s okay. But I know it, and I know you know I love you. I tell you now and then, but you can –feel- it from me just like I can from you. You just being here proves that to me. You listen to me as I share my heart, work my stupid problems out. Make me feel brave enough to face things.” He was pacing now, worked into what he was saying, letting it all out now. He turned to her, lastly. “Isn’t that what love is, really?”

“I know we’ve never talked about this, but I know about how you’ve touched others, sometimes. How if they gave you rides, or whatever. Way before we met, of course. I know that sometimes you’ve danced with guys. That doesn’t bother me at all.” His head shook, even as he ended the sentence. “I was never mad about that. Not really, anyway. I know this way, the way we’re together, is better.”

He stops pacing, now looks at her. He will let go, right now, he knows it. Instead, he sings, again. That refuge for him. Fighting to hold back the tears, now.

Lovely
Never ever change
Keep that breathless charm
Won’t you please arrange it?
Because I love you
Just the way you look
Tonight

The sound seems to echo, in the space.

“I wish I could touch you, Mary.” The tears were there now, serious, flowing wet warmth over his cheeks, beyond caring.

This was who he was, right now. In this moment, he would give anything to be able to reach out and feel this girl, touch her. Feel that smooth skin.

“I have these memories, of you and I. They haven’t happened, any of them, but I can see them so clearly in my mind, they’re exactly like memories. You and I walking, holding hands. Laughing. Talking. Dancing, even. I know these things never happened, Mary, but I wanted you to know that they were all real to me. As real as you are.” The pain was there now, he could taste it in the back of his throat, he was going to do it, he was there, and he still could not believe it. He closed his eyes, forcing more wet out, and breathed. He thought of Melody, that first time She’s touched his face, and smiled. Right before the first time they’d kissed.

The first time he’d kissed anyone, not his mom or auntie or cousin.

And then, with that thought of how his toes had curled the first time Melody had kissed him, he could do it. He wipes his arm across his face, drying it a little.

“I believed in them –so- hard, Mary. Saw them so clearly. These memories of you and I kept me going through some pretty rough times. When dad comes home, and the screaming starts. I told you how I am a baby, and hide my head under the pillow. I’ve never told anyone that. Not even Melody,” he admitted. “But as I block out the yelling and stuff breaking, if I squeeze the pillow around me hard enough, and think of you hard enough, I can block all that other stuff out. “

He pauses for a bit, just breathing, getting a grip. The continuing.

“Melody’s touching me all the time, laughing with me, Mary.”

That was it. That was really it, boiled down.

A capella.

“I wish I could touch you… I wish, I wish you would let me touch you back…” A few more quiet sobs. He had to try, one last time, although he knew what would happen. Knew in his heart, his soul.

He reached out for her, to stroke the side of her perfect cheek, untouchable cheek. She smiled at him, lovingly, sadly.

And faded away.

Someday
When I’m awfully low
When the world is cold
I will feel a glow,
Just thinking of you
And the way you look
Tonight

He ended their song. He is looking down, a few errant tears darkening the dirty wooden floor as they fall by his feet. He sniffs, moves the tip of his shoe gently over the tiny puddles and streaks them. Alone in the wooden shack, time had passed, and darkness is now on him. A cool October wind blew past monuments, over countless flowers placed with sadness and memory.

“Goodbye, Mary. I love you…”

…

ep.

Myths provide a bit of substance and definition the otherwise formless. In life, we are powerfully moved, so something must be moving us, yes? We naturally impose order on what we see, even if none exists. Something a little disconcerting maybe is that we can grow from this, from what we so adamantly believe we see. “Real” happens in our mind, and in our heart, not so often in the space before our eyes.

An awkward young boy falls in love with the ghost of Resurrection Mary, and grows a bit towards his manhood, learning from his interaction with a specter, putting so much meaning on what he sees and feels.

Mythology is our firm belief in something greater than ourselves; beings of myth love more deeply, dare more boldly and suffer more profoundly than we mortals. As a tribe we use our mythology to understand and grow; these are our cautionary tales, maps describing the path to greatness we might take a few steps upon.

This is who we are.

P.

My sabbatical be over.

Sorry I've been gone for a while, everyone. My life has been busy, but that's not really why I've been absent. The ups and downs and ups of the personal thing have more to do with it than anything else. Then after so many weeks, it seemed like the hill was really high to climb... How the hell woudl I come back after so many missed topics?

Fuck that. Here we go. Slowly but surely catching up. I can't let Hemp be the only one who's written to every topic.

; )

Missed you all.

New Topic Structure: Biweekly, Not Weekly

In order to ease the burden created by writing every week, Pete and I decided to switch from a weekly format to a biweekly one. Hopefully, the extra time will easy the weekly grind, allow for catch-up time, and lead to more writing from all of us.

So instead of a new topic being posted every Monday, a new topic will be posted on the 1^st and 15^th of the month. The order of topic selection will remain exactly the same; Tammy, Steph, and Jack are all next in line. For simplicity’s sake, the “submission date” for Aharon’s “Serial Mixer” topic has been extended until December 1^st. From there, it follows that on December 1^st, Tammy will be picking a topic.

If there are any questions or concerns, please feel free to bring them up. We really do want to know.

Happy writing!

Combat!

yarr.

--

The assistant was near a cell with its door blown open. A voice drifted out: "... I guess I'll go deal with your friends first, since they're just arriving now," it said. Gren cracked his knuckles -- it sounded like a fight. Brian dropped into his typical fighting stance, too, but this wasn't the circle and this wasn't just for fun or practice.

The source of the voice leapt nimbly from the doorway and landed flat-footed in front of Brian. Brian's blood ran chill -- this was the person he had seen when Elhaym had been sacked. This was Trass.

"Hello, Brian." The demon smiled, his handsome young face still masking the true monster that lurked underneath. "Good to see you again!" He planted a booted foot into Deis's stomach and laughed when the man screamed. "Honestly, these people are terrible. I bet you and your brother will be more interesting."

Gren put his hand on Brian's shoulder and whispered, "Remember what I said? We run. Now."

Just as he said that, a second voice piped up from inside the cell. It sounded like Alan, but instead of his typical Northerner dialect he was speaking normal Gaelic. "Get the [i]hell[/i] out of here! That guy's nuts!" Alan appeared in the doorway, his still-tied hands pressed against the jamb to keep him standing. He looked terrible.

Gren didn't know what hell meant, but it sounded like good emphasis to him, and he was saying what Gren was thinking. Gren turned and started to run, but not before spinning Brian around. His run was cut short by an armored body in front of him. There was a loud *clang* when Gren rebounded off that armor.

"Oh, come on. Fight me!" Trass threw out a fist, the gauntlet rattling around from the friction of the air. It whistled; it connected. Gren's face exploded in a bright burst of pain and he was lifted off his feet. The pain acted as a catalyst; adrenaline and mexa started to flow through his veins, supercharging him. He tucked his knees up into his chest and turned the fall into a spin, rotating at just the right speed so that he landed on one hand and both feet. Arc electricity bounded between his limbs and core.

Gren stood up and dusted himself off. He was blessed by Nature with great powers; he had been told this many times before. Trass had been a boogieman for so long, the ex-knight in front of him seemed ridiculous, powerful or no. He was human -- he could be beaten.

Off to the side, Brian was assisting Alan down. "How did you speak Gaelic?" he asked.

Alan shrugged. "Not sure. Just happened one day. I don't know if I can speak English or Northern or whatever anymore, haven't really had a test to experiment, haven't... uh... can I sit down for a sec?" He collapsed on his knees and then fell backwards. The clouds were beautiful. They seemed to be escaping, though, the area directly above them a noticeable circle of clear sky.

A blast of electricity sizzled the air. Gren had scored a direct hit on Trass's armor, turning the location of the strike black. It hadn't penetrated, though, and Trass seemed no worse for wear. He strode over to Gren like a general to an insubordinate private and backhanded Gren. Or would have, if the elder brother hadn't expected the tactic and dropped to the ground the second Trass's hand started moving. Gren grabbed at Trass's foot and yanked; Trass fell backwards and landed. The soft grass absorbed most of the damage, but Gren figured that in so much armor, it'd be at least a few seconds before he got up again.

What Gren had failed to notice, however, was that outside of the whistling of his gauntlet when the first punch was thrown, there had been no noise coming from that armor. No squeaks and no rattles, no clanging and no jangling. Trass flipped backwards, sprung off his hands, and landed with the grace of a gymnast.

One of the important rules of a hand-to-hand fight is that you must never, ever ever give your opponent space. The most effective attack is one where your opponent can't attack back, and to do that you have to occupy those positions where the opponent would like to throw his punches and kicks. In a very real sense, the best defense was a strong offense. By letting Trass stand up, Gren had given him several yards of ground. Gren raced to fill the gap, readying to grapple the monster and retain offensive flow, but Trass was too fast -- armor or not -- and Gren felt rather than saw the knee embed itself in his stomach.

He exhaled all his remaining air and doubled over; stumbled back; dropped to a knee. "This is boring. Brian!" Trass clapped his hands together.

"Alan, you okay?" Brian interposed his head between Alan and the softly drifting sky. "You know who that guy is, right?"

"No, and I don't care. I'm going to die, I get it. I can tell he's strong in that weird mystical way that makes no sense. How the hell does magic work? And why does it work -- and why do some people have it, and not everyone?"

"Uh," interrupted Alan, "No, everyone definitely can do it."

Alan stood up. "The -- what -- but -- I thought -- Colvan was going on and on about someone being 'blessed' and screwing with his head! I thought blessed meant blessed with magic!"

Behind them, Brian heard Gren get knocked to the ground. This wasn't the time for explanation. "Let's just say it means EXTRA magical for now and I'll explain later, kay? Right now I've --"

"Brian!" The clap resounded throughout the plains. It dug into your skin and inside your inner ear and vibrated like a tuning fork. There was no ignoring that clap. Brian, who was already on his way to distract Trass anyways, found his feet stumbling one over the other without his input. He stood in front of Trass. The man smiled and patted his head. "There you are! I didn't want you to ignore us." The third time his hand came down he didn't let go and started to grip tightly on Brian's skull. The metal fingers put intense pressure on Brian's skull almost immediately. He screamed.

There was a dull thud, and the hand loosened its grip. Trass fell to a knee, and from behind him Gren gave a thumbs up, his own boot planted on the inside of Trass's calf. He raised his foot up and stomped again. This time, the boot struck dirt. "Shit." Trass was not so stupid a fighter, and had already twisted his lower body and used the coiling effect to spring back up, shoulder ramming into Gren's stomach again. The two hit the ground tumbling; Trass landed on top and slammed his fist into Gren's face.

Brian was there and ready, though, and not about to let his brother be killed by some hyped-up children's story. Brian snapped his fingers to start the flow and rivulets of liquid fire ran down his skin. He charged forwards and let out a mighty cry, kicking Trass as hard as he could in the square of the monster's back. The kick missed; Trass had grabbed Gren by the shoulders and pivoted to the right, taking Gren right into the path of the kick. An attempt to redirect his attack worked, but at the cost of Brian stretching himself too far and losing his balance. Trass capitalized on the mistake and thrust his left hand out. There was no doubt: Brian's kneebone had just been shattered. The fist continued its arc and came down against Gren's face again. Blood splattered onto Trass's armor.

Alan watched, unable to help. He was doomed. Doomed doomed doomed. He hadn't noticed when there was no danger, but having his hands tied together was actually incredibly inconvenient. So he did the only thing he felt was appropriate, and gently nudged his toe against Deis's flat forehead in an attempt to wake him up.

It worked. Deis's hand shot out and grabbed Alan's leg. Alan froze in panic, but the grip was quickly relaxed, and patted around. Once a finger looped around the curved rim of the bowler hat, it flipped the hat up in the air. Deis sat at the same time, and caught the hat. He stared at it, melancholy evident on his face. "And to think," he said, "I was going to die unpresentable. Terrible, terrible state of affairs, this is." He stood and patted at his dark grey jacked; motes of frost and dust fell everywhere. "Has anything overly interesting happened?"

Alan nodded his head towards the fight. When he wasn't looking, Gren had somehow managed to turn the tables on Trass and was now slamming his knuckles as fast and as often as possible into the man's face. Each blow was accompanied by a sickening crunching noise. On the nearby grass, Brian rolled and sobbed, clutching his knee. "I see," said Deis.

Gren's fist froze in midair. Blood dripped off it slowly, most of it clinging and flowing down his arm instead. "What?" He stared at his arm, trying to will it further down. He had beaten Trass, dammit! He'd destroyed a nightmare!

And indeed, Trass looked like a nightmare now. His face had been bloodied beyond all recognition, and so any attempt at appearing human was no longer relevant. His face grew in length and width, the shoulder-length black hair receding into nothing. His smile, worn weak by the loss of several teeth and a puffy lip, was replaced by a thin maw too wide for his face. Razor sharp teeth reflected the sunlight. He had no nose, and his ears were flat against his head, elongated, with a pointed tip. There were four eyes that ran in a column on the right side, and three on the left. They all blinked in concert. Gren screamed and clutched at his head.

Trass stood up; great leathery wings unfurled behind him, beating back the air. He flew over to Alan, and said in a conversational tone, "Are you curious what I did to him? It's pretty slick." His voice was the scraping of a rusty iron nail on a well-worn blackboard. "Basically, he thinks that he's stabbing himself in the eye repeatedly. Isn't that crazy? The brain holds a lot of weird tricks like that." He smiled; Alan wanted to throw up.

"YOU FUCKER! FUCKING -- GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!" Brian was screaming now, too, this time in anger. The mexa had reached its chemical peak, and in accordance with his nature the shattered kneecap had fused in fire, reformed into something workable for the time being. Brian had finally drawn his sword, and impatient to kill Trass, had thrown it.

Something interesting happened. The sword was clearly going to miss -- Trass even started to laugh. But as it flipped and turned in the air, the course gradually altered, and before Trass was sure what was happening, the point stuck cleanly out of his chest. "Of course!" shouted Alan. But he didn't say the rest, because he was afraid Trass might get angry that he had given knowledge away. He didn't want to be killed until it was absolutely necessary.

Deis took the sword out and looked at it. "As normal as rain in Reth." He shrugged, and in one violent motion stabbed at Trass again. Trass flew out of the way, knocking Alan over in the process. "Or not! That was -- it seemed to pull at my hand! How strange."

Brian charged into them, knocked Deis over with his shoulder, and reclaimed the sword. "Enough fucking around!"

Trass laughed. "You stupid bastard! I've eaten the hearts of demons! Why should stabbing me kill me? I don't get it," he added. He shook his head. With dawning awe, Alan realized that Trass really didn't get it. In a serious, fundamental way -- he was like a young child who had been given a gun for christmas and not told that using it was wrong. Was Trass actually a child? Or was he simply some kind of idiot savant? The way he spoke and acted was not typical magalomaniacal behavior. It wasn't really consistent with anything [i]but[/i] a child, petulant and spoiled.

"Come down here, coward!" The younger brother's shouts filled the sky, his words punctuated by the heavy beating of the demon's wings. "Face me!"

Through all the yelling, Gren was trying to ignore the pain and crawl towards his allies. It was tough going, though. Although he could feel both palms press against the chilled grass, in his mind he saw his right hand holding a dagger, swinging it up into his brain, pulling it out, juice and blood just spilling everywhere, then back in to stem the tide, then out, each swing accompanied by very real twangs of pain. Movement went slowly. He could barely hear anything, his ears were so filled with blood -- but not, Gren told himself, not really. This was devil's magic. This was Trass's true power. He whimpered and sobbed but kept on moving anyways.

Just before he reached Alan and Brian, something heavy landed on his back and crushed him to the ground. He didn't need to look to see what -- who -- it was. He didn't have enough breath left to yell, or do anything but lay there. The sudden force had stunned him so badly that the images had stopped. Or did Trass simply think it was time for something new?

Through the murky distance a voice bubbled up. It was... Alan? He was shouting something to Brian. Something to do with the sword. Then he heard his name, over and over. Gren! Gren!

"Gren! Grab the sword!"

Grab the sword? What sword? Gren looked around, and sure enough, it sat almost right in front of his face. But grab it? Why? He did as he was told, anyways. He could barely see; his eyes had been watering and still felt like they'd been stabbed out. The blade cut the insides of his palms. What was he doing?

Despite the obvious potential of a trap, Trass just stood there. He was smiling his wicked smile at Brian. "I wonder how much longer he can live like this. I weigh a lot, y'know. This armor was special-made for me; extra heavy for others, extra light for me. Isn't that cool?"

Oh. Gren figured it out. He tugged the sword out of the ground (which wasn't hard, as it was barely hanging on in the first place) and sent a burst of electricity through it. Trass started to tumble forwards just as the sword started to tilt upwards, inexorably coming towards one another. The sudden release of weight was heaven-sent; Gren rolled out from under the falling demon and let loose his first unhindered breath in minutes. It scraped his throat and he started coughing. Brackish blood splattered all over his side, and his coughing stopped along with his heartbeat, frozen in fear that it might poison him.

Trass's center eyes were squeezed shut in pain. The other four darted back and forth. His wings beat against the ground as he attempted to right himself. Brian laughed, harsh and cruel. "Shows you, asshole!" Trass found his way back to his feet, wavered slightly. This time he'd been stabbed in something vital. Alan was sure of it.

With a soft thud the sword landed on the ground next to Gren. The blade was coated in ichor, which reflected a kind of anti-light that hurt Gren's already-aching eyes.

When Trass spoke next, his voice was much deeper, and every word was laced with pain. "Fine. Whatever. You win. But I'm tired of playing. Brian, come here." Brian did, much to his own chagrin and every effort to stay where he was. Alan attempted to tug at his arm, but it was like pulling at a stone statue.

Brian tried to avoid looking at Trass's face, but his head lifted of its own accord.

"You have two choices. I kill you where you stand or you follow me. If I kill you, I'm going to kill Gren as well -- there'll be no one left to stop me. This world is a lot more peculiar than you think; looking at Alan's thoughts has already shown me a lot of very interesting things. Things you'll never know if you die, and that I will tell you if you follow me. I know you're curious, Brian -- nothing that anyone does seems to make much sense, does it? All this talk of Gaia and Mars, of the Golden Lands and Gods. It's not quite logical, is it? It doesn't fit with a sane worldview. I apologize for my previous crudity; there is more than one 'me' in this vessel, this body -- this avatar. I swear that I will not act so madly.

"All of which is irrelevant, because if you don't follow me now [i]I will kill you.[/i]"

Brian's geas is suddenly freed; his shoulders slump and he turns his head away. Disgusted, he realizes that he might rather live and serve this monster than do the honorable thing and die. He was raised better than that. Just as he opens his mouth to tell Trass to shove it, though, Gren says: "Don't forget what happened to mother and father." Brian remembers: he remembers the pyre and the promise to forget agreed by all the stupid villagers, and the implicit agreement by his own brother to support that madness. It just doesn't make sense.

"Fine. I'll go." He pauses, then adds: "If only to strangle you later."

There is something even more frightening about Trass's smile than before. It seems like it fits his monstrous face this time; it isn't a human wearing a mask, but a demon wearing a human. "That will be a most interesting night."

The two disappear.

Topic and Author Update

Guys,

I think I updated everyone's postings on the "Topic and Author" page. If I missed any, please let me know.

Thanks.

Fight

Zach's Topic: You are to write a fight scene.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So I deviated a bit, but hey, that is what came out.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Write His Future”

Marcus was new to the Festival. The army had knocked on his family’s door just six months ago, so this was the first time he had been on break. He didn't know what to expect from the event, but he could feel the energy of the crowd. It was boiling over inside his mind and body. His words came out too quickly, his hand jittered, and he joined in the crowd’s anticipatory chanting even though he did not really grasp the lust the crowd craved.
“Are you having fun, little one?” Gravel, Marcus’s master, asked as he yelled above the crowd and bumped into others crammed into the small, makeshift “arena.” The arena had a dirt floor and not much else beyond hastily constructed benches and low walls. Benches were probably unnecessary in that the hundreds of soldiers who made up the crowd would stand in anticipation of the horse’s bleeding that would signal the Festival’s beginning.

“Yes, Mentor Gravel. I can't wait for it to start!” Marcus yelled over the crowd.

“You’ll have to little one! There’s reason no on tells you,” Gravel’s comment was cut off by the explosion in crowd noise as the general brought out his own warhorse. The general clenched his fist and crowd quickly quieted down. The horse remained absolutely calm as the general held its reins with one hand.

“This steed marks our beginning! May it reward our past and write our future!” The crowd cheered as the general pulled his sword and slit the horse’s neck. As the animal’s blood formed into a pool around his feet, the general did nothing but smile.

The general walked away from the center and two groups of armed soldiers forced two beleaguered looking men into the arena. One looked disgustingly obese in that his body seemed horribly disproportionate. His bulging stomach was not matched by equally fat legs or arms. Certainly, those body parts were larger; but not as large as they should have been. The other man looked thin, but not frail. However, his skin hung so loosely and sagged from all over his body that one could body wrap the excess skin around him once or twice more. Droopy described the man’s appearance in more ways than one. As they were shoved to the center by armed guards, a spear and sword were tossed on each side of dead horse.

Gravel’s eyes caught the perplexed look on Marcus’s face and Gravel laughed.

“Little one, you look confused! We fattened the skinny one and starved the fat one! The fatty is called Bacon and the skinny is called Droopy!” Gravel yelled as each contestant grabbed the weapon closest to him; the fat man grabbed the sword while the skinny one clutched the spear.

“Do they do this to our captured men?” Marcus asked Gravel as his voice cracked.

“Worse, little one. Much worse,” Gravel said quietly with a touch of knowing sadness. Marcus tried to think of something worse, but his mind lacked the imagination. Of the horrors he has seen so far, for some reason, he knew this would become the worst thing that plagued his already stormy dreams.

Marcus watched as the prisoners Bacon and Droopy awkwardly circled the horse’s body. As they both moved laterally away from the horse, Droopy’s loose skin caused him to lose his balance and fall to the ground. He was only saved by fact that Bacon’s massive weight kept him from changing direction quickly. By the time, Bacon reached his fallen foe, Droopy was back on his feet. Droopy began to jab at Bacon from a distance with his spear. After a close miss by Droopy, Bacon swung hard with his sword and caught a flap of Droopy’s skin hanging from his arm. But again, Bacon couldn’t move him arm quickly enough for a follow up and Droopy stabbed his former friend in his left eye socket. Bacon fell to the ground screaming and clutching his face as the blood mixed with the dirt and horse’s fluids. Instead of finishing the combat, Droopy dropped his sword and remained standing.

The crowd yelled and pleaded for an killing, but Droopy did not move. Finally, the guards reemerged and began to yell. Marcus could not read their lips or hear their words above the crowd noise, but after a moment he understood. Additional guards pulled a few of Droopy and Bacon’s fellow prisoners into the arena by leashes connected at the neck and put blades to the men’s throats. Marcus could tell that Droopy was crying and that the guards continued to yell. Finally, Droopy picked his sword up and walked towards Bacon. Just as Droopy raised his sword far above his head, a guard rushed over and knocked away the sword. The guard then gave Droopy a small dagger and laughed as pointed at the bruised and bloodied Bacon. Droopy mounted Bacon and began to plunge the knife into Bacon’s body without rhyme or reason as to location.

Marcus had to avert his gaze. Bacon would not die and Droopy would not stop. Bacon had already been covered in blood, but now Droopy arms and face were now covered as well. Where once there was horse’s blood and dirt, there was now human flesh and blood muddled together with the beast and the earth. As Droopy continued to plunge the short blade into his comrade, Marcus winced.

Droopy’s wail reached Marcus in a part of his soul that he thought was long dead. As the prisoner walked away from his dead friend, Marcus could feel tears welling up inside him. Killing on the field felt horrible, but nothing like this spectacle. Droopy’s scream seemed like the worse sound in the universe until Marcus heard the next noise: the roar of the crowd. Instead of feeling horrified by the site of the dying gladiator or the cries of friend, Marcus realized that he was stuck with people who were enamored at this awful site. How could men he called his friends enjoy this? He looked over to Gravel and saw a face so satisfied that Marcus’s blood went cold. If this is what he had to look forward to in the event of surrender or failure, he would take his own life before being captured.

“Ha! If they fought this hard in the beginning, the fuckers wouldn’t be stuck here now!” Gravel yelled to the horrified Marcus.

“Here come the next ones! Trunk and Stump!” Graveled yelled as the guards ushered in two new contestants. Stump, the first one, was missing both his hands; the second, Trunk, could not even stand. Marcus knew why when he saw that the man lacked both feet; his legs both stopped at the ankle. The cuts were new enough that a little bit of blood still leaked through the makeshift bandages that covered the ankle stumps.

Marcus stared at both men as they prayed on opposite sides of the messy pile of the horse and Bacon. The weaponless Stump hopped over Bacon’s body with ease and ran quickly towards the stranded Trunk. But Trunk, wielding a short sword, swung wildly at Stump’s feet while lying on his belly. Stump awkwardly lost his balance, fell to the ground and rolled away as Trunk failed to reach him with unfocused swinging of his sword. Taking his breath, Stump began to slowly circle the immobile Trunk and Trunk attempted to rotate his body to remain facing his enemy. Periodically, Stump would lunge only to fall back moments later as Trunk swung his sword inches above the ground.

“If we wanted a pussy we’d have cut your dick off!” Gravel yelled into Marcus’s ear. Mirroring Gravel’s feelings, the crowd began to boo. Marcus felt the crowd’s boredom turn to anxiousness and then he realized that he was feeling the same thing…

During the crowd’s booing, Stump stutter-stepped at Trunk, Trunk swung wildly again from right to left, and Stump burst past Trunk’s motion by lunging behind the sword’s arc. Before the crowd could recognize what had happened, Stump kicked Trunk in the face and began to stomp on the torso of his footless foe. With the first kick, Trunk was dazed; the additional boots only served as the killing strokes. First, Trunk’s torso turned pink. Before long, the torso turned a feverish red. Marcus could not help but stare when Trunk’s ribs started to bulge ever so slightly. Finally, the crowd roared when Trunk’s ribs burst from his body as though they were a baby bird poking its head through a hatching egg.

“Now that is what we kill for!” Gravel yelled. “I’m glad you made it far enough to see it!” Gravel yelled as he slapped Marcus’s back

Again, Marcus cringed at the thought that the fans of this monstrosity were his friends and masters. Marcus felt even worse than before when he felt how happy he was that Gravel wanted him here. He realized that even though he was disgusted, he still wanted to be one of them. Marcus smiled as best he could and slapped his chest in a sign of honor to his master.

“It’s time. You need to come with me, little one,” Gravel yelled at Marcus and they started to make their way away from the crowd. Marcus could see other masters and students walking away from the Festival. Before long, they approached the pens. This was the first time Marcus had seen where the prisoners were kept. If the enemy treated his side worse, Marcus couldn’t grasp the concept. He could hear chorus of tears and outrage, planning and despair. As though being surrounded by a fence of wooden walls and jagged spears wasn’t enough to pacify the prisoners, a giant column surrounded by a pile of limbs and organs stood at the center of the pen. Marcus understood the purpose fo the column he saw the long leases connected to the column and prisoners’ necks. Some men walked around the pen while others sat. The few women there seemed to stay near the children. The children, despite their frailty, seemed relatively unscathed when compared to the adults.

He was relieved that he wouldn’t actually need to enter the pen; the guards were bringing pairs of prisoners out to Marcus, Gravel, and the rest of the men.

“It is time for you become one of us. Write his future,” Gravel said as kicked the back of a male prisoner kneeling in front Marcus and the guards. Marcus looked at the prisoner and knew that both their lives were about to change. Marcus was still thinking as other students issued orders for how to main the prisoners kneeling before them.

“Write his future!” Gravel yelled as he stomped his foot and stared eye-to-eye with Marcus. Marcus looked back to Gravel, back towards the pen, and back at the kneeling prisoner before him. Gravel pacing and grumbling became louder.

“Master, why not use the children?” Marcus asked his master as he pointed back towards the pens. The guards looked at each other, at Marcus, and then back to Gravel.

“I told you all. A natural this boy here is,” Gravel said with an approving smile.

Radiohead

To much fanfare, Radiohead offered its latest album for free via download off the web. Fans would have the ability to pay whatever price they decided was appropriate for the album. Regardless of people's views on the subject of the music industry's business model, everyone agreed this was a bold move and eagerly awaited the results.

The gist of the article below is that ComScore, a company that measures online
activity, conducted a study focused on people downloading the Radiohead album. ComScore claims that the study proved that 62% paid nothing and most of the actual purchasers paid less less than $4.

Radiohead promptly contested the study's results and asserted that it was impossible for outside organizations to have accurate data. The band, however, declined to release its own sales figures.


More info can be found in the link or through normal searching.

Brief Radiohead Article

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So what do we think about this experiment? Do you trust fans to pay for the album? If so, would the same result apply to less cultish, more mainstream fans? Can Radiohead's model successfully apply to writing i.e. Stephen King offers one of his books online via the same system?

Marvel Comics Posts Comic Books Online

Comic book company posts many of its works online for a subscription fee!

Any opinions? Is this the future?

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

NEW YORK, Nov 13 (Reuters Life!) - Spider-Man may spin a good yarn in comic books, but Marvel Entertainment Inc hopes that he finds the World Wide Web equally comfortable.

The publisher said on Tuesday that it will start a Web site that will feature access to thousands of its comic books and the famous heroes who populate them, from Spider-Man and the X-Men to the Fantastic Four and The Avengers.

Marvel will charge subscriptions -- $4.99 a month if people sign up for a year, or $9.99 a month if they don't.

"This is a major new piece of my overall publishing plan," Dan Buckley, president of Marvel Publishing, said in an interview.

"It's a different entertainment experience, online versus reading a book."

Marvel plans to offer access to 2,500 comics, Buckley said. It will make 250 available for free to entice people to pay up, but for a limited time, a company statement explained.

The Digital Comics Unlimited site then will add 20 additional books a week, including a mix of new and vintage comics.

Among the older titles will be the first 100 issues of "Amazing Spider-Man" and "The Fantastic Four," as well as the initial 66-issue run of "Uncanny X-Men" and the first 50 issues of "The Avengers." It will feature other super heroes like the Incredible Hulk, Wolverine and the Silver Surfer.

It will also include the first appearances of villains Dr. Octopus, Sandman, Lizard and Dr. Doom, not to mention the first appearance of Spider-Man's black costume.

New titles will include Joss Whedon's "Astonishing X-Men," "The House of M," "Young Avengers" and "Runaways."

To present the titles in a quality format, Marvel has recolored and redigitized some of its offerings.

The move to the Internet is unlikely to account for a major portion of Marvel Publishing's sales, Buckley said, but it will be an important addition.

It sells its magazines at newsstands, though he said the business has been contracting in the past 10 years. What has been performing well is the hobby business, he said, with some 2,500 shops across the companies that attract collectors and other fans.

Titles must be in print for at least six months before they will go online, Buckley said.

Marvel's move runs contrary to newspaper and magazine publishers, which have been moving toward not charging people and supporting themselves through advertising.

Buckley said the nature of the content is what makes Marvel's plan different.

"Our comic book distribution and our comic book properties aren't part of the mass medium where you can it for free easily," he said.

Dennis Webb, owner of the Comics and Cards Collectorama in Alexandria, Virginia, doubted that it would attract a mass audience used to reading and collecting their comics in print.

"I think most of them like to buy their own comics and read them where they want to go," he said.

"I don't think they want to have it just online because if they're really a collector, they're going to want the actual collection."

Perils of Fact Checking

http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8ST3EQ80&show_article=1

"GAUHATI, India (AP) - In a Nov. 13 story, The Associated Press incorrectly reported that Paris Hilton was praised by conservationists for highlighting the problem of binge-drinking elephants in northeastern India. Lori Berk, a publicist for Hilton, said she never made any comments about helping drunken elephants in India."

Do you have a favorite blooper from your work or that of any other person?

11/12 Topic: Serial Mixer

ok so my idea for this week is to take two serial concepts (from text, film, television, music, art, anything) and bring them together. bring them together in your vision of what it would be like.

(Examples: what would Borne Identity be like if there were X-men.

what would happen if Indiana Jones, met the world of Lestat the Vampire?

the only thing that I ask is that the paired concepts should be able to fit, so mixing the world of Winnie-the-Pooh with the world of 24, wouldn't really make much sense, but in truth I'm not say you can't do it, South Park does stuff like that all the time.

Another stipulation is that the story should try to be as true to both worlds as possible, settings should make sense in context, and any serial characters should be those characters in persona.

you can use any concept for this but I ask that at least one is well known to the group if not the general public.

Here is a reall great example of this kind of story.
http://harpercoln.vo.llnwd.net/o16/StudyInEmerald_full.mp3

Aharon's Topic

Just a reminder: it will be Aharon's turn to choose a topic on Monday, 11/12/07.

Historical Fiction

Lane's topic: "...take an obviously famous historical figure (one that everyone has , or should have, heard of) and write a historical fiction piece that stars that character, good or bad."

--

July 18th, 1945.

Oppenheimer was, as far as anyone knew, a good man. He had done his fair share of badness, but it was the kind of badness the regular Joe could get behind -- steal a peek at a nudie mag, curse in public when things didn't go right, that sort of thing. He was a human being, after all, and human beings made those sort of mistakes.

But since Los Alamos, people had grown nervous. It wasn't just that he was more Russian than American (or so the brass felt); it was that he had taken to stalking the corridors, pacing in an endless loop around the complex the Manhattan Project called home. In the days before Trinity, he was an amicable fellow who liked to ride his horse; several Generals had gone on trips with him to chat. It was only reasonable that he'd be a bit dour after the test, given the toxic fruit his tree had borne, but his utter disregard for military structure had started to step on people's toes.

Oppenheimer was called into General Farrell's office. He paced down the hall like a flightless bird, bobbing his head forward every so often. Some non-com puke opened the door and let him in. Farrell was sitting behind his desk, if you could call it sitting. It was more like waiting; more like hunting. He leaned forwards in a sleek way that implied he could leap forward with a killing blow at any moment.

"Sit." He smiled. Robert sat.

"We understand that you have some.... apprehension... about --"

"Apprehension?!" Oppenheimer stood up again, slamming his hands histrionically against the solid mahogany desk. It was a serious desk, all dark red stain and hand-carved drawer faces. It shook under the onslaught. "You call this apprehension? My God, man, if this is apprehension, what do you call utter terror?"

Farrell stood up, too. He wasn't about to let some civvie undermine rebellion against the Japs, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let that same civvie look down at him. "I call it unacceptable. Now sit down, Mr. Oppenheimer. We have to discuss your continued support of the Manhattan Project."

"Fine." Muscles oiled by daily work and exercise (not at all those you'd expect on a scientist) coiled in on themselves, bunching up into the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Now. We're going to use the bomb; we've got to use it. I'm as scared as you are about what the hell it might do, but as you know, the Targeting Committee already got their targets set. So that's that. We only gotta use it once. After that..." Eyes never leaving Oppenheimer's iron-clad gaze, General Farrell also eased into his seat. "That's all it's gonna take. If we don't drop it... I don't want to think what might happen if we don't."

Oppenheimer cocked his head. "I wonder. How long would Japan last against a steady onslaught?"

"Plenty long enough for our own boys to lose their lives, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Oh, no no no," said Oppenheimer. "I'm scared too, but... can I be frank, General?"

The General laughed, the joke exiting his mouth at the same time he thought. "I thought that was your brother, Rob!" He began to ease up, but still his sight never moved.

"Good one, General. Seriously, though; I think we should go ahead. The sooner the better; we all need to work together and finish this war. I suppose you think America coming out on top is a rather fine side effect of its usage, don't you?" He didn't wait for General Farrell to answer. "I don't care about that."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'I don't care about that.' It's wonderful that we have the best position to maneuver with the eventual treaty, but that bomb -- that explosion -- it's not going to remain unheard. Other people will want it, and there is nothing more dangerous than a covetous friend. When you do use it, ensure that you're the one to stay in power."

J. Robert Oppenheimer got up, gave a mock salute that caused the General to grit his teeth, and paced out of the room.

As soon as the door fell closed, General Farrell pressed the com button. "Shirley?" he said. "Get a couple grunts on Oppenheimer. I think the fella got a screw knocked out by the Trinity blast."

"Will do, General."

--

August 6th, 1945.

All around were cheers and celebratory whistles and even a few catcalls; champaign bottles popping open, each one a miniature explosion of its own; tweeters and clatterers; in the corner, a young couple sucking face. It was all so... plebian. The war had not yet been one, despite the wreckage of Hiroshima. The Japanese were not so simple an enemy; they had centuries of shame and doubt to fight against, along with the continued oppression of nearly every western influence known to modern man. The fires in Hiroshima served only to incite rage.

And still these fools danced and laughed. J. Robert Oppenheimer had become a man who did not party. There were more important things to attend to. Without a single man or woman knowing, he disappeared from the celebrations.

The night air was cool and crisp; the complex was well-lit and alive even at this late hour. Oppenheimer preferred to remain in the shadows. He turned right, towards the intelligence offices; two goons guarded his approach. They seemed to Oppenheimer to be made of nothing so much as chin and shoulders and machine guns.

"Sorry, sir," said one. "We can't let you in during festivities," said the other. "Right," said the first with a little less humility and respect, "So fuck off, 'kay? We're tired of babysitting your sorry ass."

Oppenheimer nodded, but he wasn't really paying any attention; instead, he was looking past them, directly at a locked door marked in black lettering that pronounced "JANITOR'S CLOSET" with all the subtlety of a negro at a triple-k rally. "Hey," the angry one was saying, "You listening to me?" He was not.

Back at the party, nobody heard anything.

--

August 9th, 1945.

Major Sweeney didn't know what the flying fuck Oppenheimer thought he was doing sitting around the B-29 that Sweeney called home, but he was sure that it wasn't anything good. The guy had gone from an amicable, human-centric person to a downright nutjob. Unfortunately for the United States Military, nutjobbery wasn't a pre-requisite to kicking ass and/or taking names, and he was still (supposedly) a hell of a scientist. This bomb, he had promised with a twisted smile, this bomb was much better than the previous one.

Sweeney believed it. He wasn't around to see Little Boy in person, but Fat Man was more than big enough to scare the bejezus out of his kids back home. It seemed to radiate threat, and if he understood his physics well enough, it was doing just that. All encased in a neat little lead shield, or something like that. He wasn't really even that comfortable keeping it in his cargo bay, but that's what he was for, wasn't it? And it wasn't like he was going to let the American Military down. Kokura was going to be a perfect little ball of melted people when he was done.

From the back of the cockpit came a low little chuckle. He had really wished that James hadn't brought the guy. James was really nervous about it, too, like he was doing something he wasn't supposed to do. "Sorry I got held up," he said -- even though he was five minutes early -- "but Mr. Oppenheimer kind of wanted to come, and... well, here he is." It was really weird, is what it was, but James Hopkins wasn't the kind of person to let much under his skin, so Sweeney figured that it wsa part of something more important.

They passed over their primary target; On the eastern side was a massive front of clouds. Luckily, it hadn't reached Kokura yet. "Alright."

He got up after switching on auto-pilot for a minute so he could round up the crew and get the bomb prepped. Unconsciously, he straightened his hair and pushed out his jaw. Business time, boys.

The hold looked like hell on Earth; blood was splattered across the metal hull, matte red obscuring the shine of steel and making the light jagged and awkward. He barely had time to ask what the fuck had happened when a bullet pierced his shoulder. He screamed and fell backwards.

J. Robert Oppenheimer. Of course. That bastard scum. "What the hell--?"

Oppenheimer smiled and pressed the Walther to Sweeney's head. "That is the plan, my friend." He sighed, and released some of the pressure of the barrel from poor Sweeney's temple. "I don't suppose you've seen it, hell? It's not all that bad. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Just fifteen pounds per square inch, and Charles W. Sweeney was no more. Oppenheimer stalked like a savannah lion to the cockpit of the Bockscar. Kokura lay ahead of him, a ripe fruit fallen to the ground to rot, to gather worms and viruses and scum until it was itself the disease, spreading to the nearest fruit. Trinity replayed in the back of his mind. He had had enough. He had to get rid of the bomb the only way he knew how. He grabbed the throttle and pushed. The plane started to tilt downwards.

Fat Man had already been activated; he had put a switch in to do it remotely. At first Oppenheimer considered detonating it on the proletariat swine that was The Brass, but he realized they were too far removed; they weren't the problem, anyways. The social mores of society itself were to blame. Every single human was complicit in the continued machinations of The Government against itself. It was ridiculous. It had to end. And J. Robert Oppenheimer knew how.

"I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds." The plane hit the ground.

WGA Strike

Here is an article summarizing the WGA strike:
http://tv.ign.com/articles/832/832837p1.html

I'm surprised the writers dropped the additional money they wanted from rentals, but the fact they were willing to drop it makes me think they're serious about compromising.

What are your thoughts?

Please no generalizations about corrupt unions or greedy corporations. I don't mean to be rude in asking that, but I've already had one inane conversation with a friend where he just kept insisting unions are corrupt, and that was the reason why they are striking.