Delicious Humble Pie

Delicious Humble Pie — Blue Ink Alchemy

Let it not be said that I am unwilling to eat humble pie. Last week I wrote a post about writing what you want, especially if something seems problematic or simply not very good to you. I wasn't saying to stop writing because it's hard, as we all from time to time must deal with hard things, but that sometimes the problems we face are symptoms of a larger issue at the heart of the work, and in order to gain distance to find that problem we must set the work aside. Then I was told about a publisher opening their doors to submissions in April. This sticky stuff on my face had better be egg. So back to fantasy aimed primarily at young adults. The stipulations of the opening door are that both the adult imprint and the young adult one are looking for epic fantasy. I had one of those moments where everything in my head screeches to a halt and I examine what I've been doing with the written word. It was one of those things, trying to determine if it is in fact aimed at young men or not, that I simply had to set aside. It was between me and what I need to do. Having ironed out some of the bumps in the new beginning born of the rewrite, I now find myself staring down the next two months. But I'm okay with this. It's a hard deadline. I work more easily with those. With everything else that crops up in the day-to-day routine of your average starving artist who excised the 'starving' bit by submitting to a dayjob or starting a family, it can be difficult to convince myself that carving out even a couple hours from what little leisure time I have to bang my head against a cinder block wall while wearing a cast iron pot is a good thing. But that's really a pile of petulant whining. I've wanted to be a writer for years. Why should I let relatively little things like inconveniences in scheduling and employment get in the way of that?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Present Tense

Flash Fiction Challenge: The Present Tense — Blue Ink Alchemy

Another dubious idea prompted by Terribleminds.

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I'm dreaming of home. I can see endless green and amber fields, feel the grain between my fingers. I hear the distant ringing of the bell bringing us in for dinner. My mother insists on being as old-fashioned as possible, while not skimping on things like transportation and communication. She just keeps the Cyberlink rig in an old writing desk. I love her dearly, all the moreso for her quirks. I can tell it's a dream. Everything looks like I'm wearing a big piece of gauze on my head. The sounds are all a bit muffled and the sights are hazy. But it's a good dream, so why not enjoy it? I can smell Mom's pot roast, and there's Jenny, dear sweet Jenny, smiling her bright smile when she sees me coming in the door. She's helping Mom around the kitchen, learning the trade so to speak, so when we get married she knows how to cook for me. I'm sitting down when the klaxon goes off. It's specifically designed to put a virtual spike in my ear to get me out of whatever dream I'm having, asleep or awake. That's what I tell myself, anyway. One moment I'm feeling the wood of Mom's antique dinner table under my hands, the next I'm in my bunk and red lights are flashing. I roll out and am in my uniform pants after about half a second. My boots come on next. I'm pulling on my jacket as I run into the corridor. The brass of my captain's pins looks angry in the alert lighting. Enlisted folk are scurrying from place to place, heading for battle stations. I don't think there was a drill scheduled for tonight. It's not like Commander Weston to pull one at this hour of the rotation. Something isn't right. I get to the command center in the heart of the ship. It's a vaguely circular room with a couple raised diases around what we call the pool table, where Commander Weston and his XO are studying a tactical display. The helm's in the pit on the far side of the room. I step down into the cold steel ditch and relieve the chief petty officer at the helm. The second I bring up the navigational array I see the problem. The Argo is making her way through an asteroid field. I remember telling Weston we'd have to drop out of neg-space to get through it without damaging the ship. This far out, we all know even a stray rock the size of my fist can damage us catastrophically. That isn't what surprises me. It's the heat signature on the far side of the field. In space, the slightest bit of ambient energy can be as much a beacon as a flare held up in a darkened room. Whatever it is, it's turning towards us on an intercept course. Weapons crews are reporting in. Point-defense laser batteries, ready. Missile tubes, ready. Main cannon loading crew, ready. I give Commander Weston a nod. I have a part to play in all of this, as well. The Argo, moving with as much velocity as she does, isn't really apt to stop on a dime. I need to fire maneuvering and retro thrusters very quickly if hard light and rockets start flying around. "Line them up, Mr. Frimantle." Weston doesn't have to tell me twice. I get the Argo on a course to clear the asteroids and turn her to face to oncoming heat bloom. Her main gun is a mass driver the length of the ship, and all of the aiming happens at my helm console. I think of my dream, the farm at home, my dad taking me out to show me how to line up a rifle's sights. I'm telling Weston we're ready to fire when the transmission comes in. It's a loud, screeching thing, high-pitched chattering and scratching. Nobody can make heads or tails of it as it is. But Natasha's on it. We brought a linguist along just in case something like this happened. Everybody back home scoffs at the idea of intelligent life out here. The eggheads know better. They've given us all sorts of contingencies for just about everything, from encountering alien artifacts to running low on food. I'm not taking any chances, though. I flip up the red cover from the firing switch for the main cannon. We're lined up. The unknown heat signature's barreling down on us. I look over my shoulder at Natasha. She's attractive, sure, but her dark hair always reminds me of Jenny. I wonder, for a moment, what she and my parents are doing now, then wrench myself back to the situation in front of me. I've been in combat before, but this is new. I know what to expect from Terran ships and their operators, not so much something no human's ever seen before. The visual sensors blink to life in the monitors above the pool table. The thing is spherical, unlike the Argo's construction of rotating rings around the propulsion & weapons pillar. Spires and odd antennae sprout from all angles. It's engines seem to be situated in grooves that divide the ship into quarters. Occasionally I see a flare of light and I wonder if it's a weapon or an engine firing. But nothing's blown up yet. No damage or casualty reports. The tension in the CIC's thicker than summer haze in the fields at noon. Natasha looks up from her console. Her big blue eyes are wide. She takes a deep breath. We're all holding ours.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! The Wolfman

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! The Wolfman — Blue Ink Alchemy

{No audio this week on account of my own lycanthropic rampage.} There was a time when movie studios didn't mind being associated with the unusual and the macabre. For years, Universal Studios seemed rather proud of its men becoming monsters. Bela Legosi inhabited the castle and cloak of Count Dracula, Boris Karloff took a couple bolts to the neck to bring audiences the creature of Doctor Frankenstein, and Lon Cheney inspired generations of furries to come by sprouting hair in odd places as The Wolfman. Oscar-winner and character actor staple Benicio Del Toro is a huge fan of Cheney (the actor, not the Dick) and helped bring a new version of this creature feature to movie theatres in 2010. If the production behind the scenes had kept its act together, it might have gone over better. It's 1890, and our hero is Lawrence Talbot, an actor who spends half his time on stage and the other half looking for the hidden treasure at the bottom of a bottle of scotch. He gets word that his brother was savagely murdered near his ancestral home outside the sleepy English country hamlet called Blackmoor. Given his emotional connection to his brother and the heartfelt pleas of his would-be sister-in-law, he sets out to uncover what happened, even if that means putting up with his eccentric and possibly violently sociopathic father. During his investigation he gets jumped and bitten by a brutal and enigmatic creature. While the wound mysteriously heals, the process takes the better part of a month, and before you know it, the moon is full again againd Lawrence is growing hair in some very odd places, to say nothing of different bone configurations, more dense muscles and claws that can tear a man's head clean from his body. When we see the transformation take hold of our hero, it's a decent blend of prosthetics, CGI and del Toro giving the role his all. Good sound design makes the cracking of knuckles and sprouting of teeth wince-inducing, playing into the overarching themes of horror and monstrosity. In a similar vein, while you may go into a movie about a wolfman expecting some blood, be aware that this one is full of gore, from gruesome dismemberments to the titular Wolfman chowing down on a hapless victim without the benefit of an after-dinner mint. The movie isn't all that interested in taking prisoners or pandering to the squeamish, which is a point in its favor.
They have some good chemistry. The other thing The Wolfman has going for it is some pretty fine casting. Del Toro is a force to be reckoned with on his own, but Sir Anthony Hopkins very nearly steals the show as Talbot's father. Instead of going full-on Hannibal Lecter from the start, his growth into the affable madness for which he's become famous is a slow one, the climax all the more satisfying for the build-up. Emily Blunt and Hugo Weaving, as the love interest and the driven Scotland Yard inspector respectively, also slowly become more interesting as the film proceeds after somewhat placid introductions. Ms Blunt's character in particular seems to defy the 'damsel in distress' thing many monster movies like to invoke, and I enjoyed seeing a woman act in a brave and determined manner without it feeling forced or contrived. It made sense, which is unfortunately more than I can say for the narrative structure of the film. Unfortunately for the actors and special effects crew, the plot and script of the movie are kind of all over the place. It never really comes entirely off the rails in a bad way, but some story points happen too soon, some elements are a little out of place or awkwardly spliced into the flow of the story or some characters are too incidental to justify their screen time. The overall effect leaves one feeling the movie was cobbled together, but as the story isn't incoherent, it's more disconcerting than disappointing. I never quite felt like The Wolfman let me down, but I also felt it never truly lived up to its potential. Granted, when breathing new life into a classic you don't necessarily want to reinvent the silver bullet. But being a troubled production with changes in directors and musicians and whatnot, it certainly could have turned out a lot worse, and when it's firing on all cylinders it works very well indeed.
"Hello, Lawrence." I was immediately reminded of Bram Stoker's Dracula, the 1992 Francis Ford Coppola movie that did for classic vampires what this one does for classic werewolves. There as well as here, we have lurid romantic drama juxtaposed with gruesome violence and shameless bloodletting, and while The Wolfman didn't have Dracula's pervasive sexuality, it also wasn't saddled with a wooden Keanu Reeves. And come to think of it, Anthony Hopkins starred in both pictures, and a venerable character actor brought the eponymous creature to life. So if you enjoyed Bram Stoker's Dracula, The Wolfman is right up your alley. They're both a little over the top, and both suffer from some flaws in terms of production, pacing and overall presentation, but they are both a bloody good time. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Book Review: Double Dead

Book Review: Double Dead — Blue Ink Alchemy

Ever wake up on the wrong side of the bed? It's terrible. You're bleary-eyed, groggy, sore from where your spouse has been elbowing you in the ribs all night to stop your snoring... and you're starving. It's that stomach-gnawing hunger you just can't shake until you've devoured half the pantry. If that sounds familiar, you'll immediately relate to the protagonist of Chuck Wendig's debut novel Double Dead. Excepting of course that Coburn's a bloodsucking fiend. That's not hyperbole. When we meet Coburn, there's no question that he's a monster. Vampirism has not turned him into an upper-class snob or a glittery mewling fangless stalker; Coburn the vampire's an asshole. He knows it. He revels in it. It was what made his nights so much fun until he woke up in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. He hooks up with an RV full of humans heading to the West Coast and, being no fool, volunteers to protect them in exchange for the occasional nibble. Better than getting torn limb from limb and your brains eaten, right? On the surface, Double Dead is deceptively simple. It's the sort of premise fans of the horror genre and zombie fiction will find immediately appealing. Diving into it, though, we quickly find these dark waters run very deep. Sure, there are a couple characters who get picked off here and there because it's the end of the world and everything, but many of them have enough dimension and living, breathing presence that its clear there's more going on than a simple monster mash-up. I can't say it's for everybody, though. The squeamish will want to avoid it, and be forewarned that Chuck is his usual (and in my opinion, delightfully) profane self. But chances are, being a novel about zombies with a vampire as its driving force, you know already if Double Dead is interesting to you or not. I challenge you, though, to find another zombie apocalypse yarn with a Wal*Mart cult of cannibals, wilderness fortifications manned by juggalos and the scariest thing in a pink bathrobe you'll ever encounter.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Fedora Felon

Fedora Felon — Blue Ink Alchemy

You are not, nor will you ever be, Don Draper. Stop it. Guys, listen. It's time we talked. Before there's any misunderstandings, I must confess: I love my fedora. I'm on my second one since discovering I can look half-decent in one. My first traveled to all sorts of places on my head, across oceans and up mountains. The second part of my confession is that I've also worn it in entirely the wrong way. It's a dark hat, and I've worn it with light colors. I've put it on my head without wearing a collared shirt. Hell, I've even had the idiotic temerity to wear it with shorts. I've done my best to curb these atrocities against good taste, and I encourage anybody reading this to do the same. You may think that wearing a fedora makes you classy no matter what you're wearing. This is a lie. The fedora only makes you look classy if you were in classic wear to begin with. A blazer & slacks, button-down and tie, even a long coat that's well taken care of contributes to an overall better look provided the rest of you is put together as well. And believe it or not, under most circumstances, it's rude to keep it on once you're indoors. Yeah, guys. I'm saying it. If you want to wear the damn hat, at least try to be a little conscious of what you're topping off with it. Basic fashion sense is not rocket science. As I said, I've been guilty of this before, and I'm trying to change that. I'm sick of this fine item of classic gentleman's wear getting besmirched by ignorant douches who think slapping a fedora on top of their product-filled Cullen-wannabe hairdo while wearing cargo shorts, sandals and a t-shirt with the words "The Man" and an arrow pointing up with "The Legend" with a downward arrow underneath is cool. It's not cool, bro. You look like a tool. Go with a baseball cap for your favorite sports team or other affiliated mascot. It'll be cheaper, you'll be easier to identify and the poor fedora will be spared one more sneer or look of disgust. Don't let the hat suffer for your sins. It really isn't fair. What has the hat ever done to you? Think about it. Think of the hats. Please stop their suffering and the suffering of others. Before it's too late.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Write What You Want

Write What You Want — Blue Ink Alchemy

Let's keep it simple. Should you finish what you start? Yes. If you're braining yourself on a wall, should you continue? No. Let's say you're me and you're trying to stay on top of this whole writing thing while about a bazillion other things are going on. Dayjob, domicile maintenance, restocking pantries, getting fresh booze. If writing isn't your primary vocation, you'll have even less of this elusive thing called 'free time' from which to carve out the precious moments in which you make words appear from nothingness. You should spend it writing, not agonizing over whether or not you want to cause yourself pain through writing. You see, you're not always going to love what you write. In fact, there are times when you're going to hate it. Maybe you're just sick of a work in general, or perhaps you're kicking yourself in the gonads for a particular aspect of it. The opening may slog, the characters may feel uninteresting, there's no tension, the action has no bite to it, so on and so forth. Whatever the reason, opening that file or notebook now fills you with a profound sense of dread and/or nausea. Yes, writing is work and work means not always doing what you want but rather what you must. But be honest with yourself. It may be time to put your project aside and strike up another. There may be a fundamental flaw that, given your proximity to the work, you're simply not seeing. The important thing is that you don't stop writing. And while scribbling on cocktail napkins or rambling in a blog is all well & good, you need to keep up with your primary area of focus, be it speculative fiction or mouth-watering recipes. Write what you want when you can, and just like you shouldn't be afraid to try something new, you also shouldn't be afraid to put something aside that just isn't working. You can always come back to it later. And who knows? Maybe those old ideas can be pulled into something new, provided they don't turn into a lead weight that drags the whole thing down into the depths of the Stygian pit. More on that later.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Control

Flash Fiction: Control — Blue Ink Alchemy

Terribleminds and my iPhone told me this story should be titled after this VNV Nation song.

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She whistled to herself as she emptied the garbage cans. Most people were gone for the evening. The vast control room only had a few people in it. Even so, she had to wait until one of them left to use the bathroom, leaving a corner of the space unoccupied. She smiled under the brim of her baseball cap as she moved to the back of the room. Quick as she could, she connected one end of the extendable USB cable to one of the terminals. The other end went into the smartphone in her pocket. A tap here, a slide there, the process was soon underway. These bozos already had the files in their system, all that she had to do was rearrange things a bit. She'd been studying the file structure for weeks before the pink slip had come. Not that she got a physical pink slip, just a heartfelt talking-to about market shares, sustainability and a bunch of other buzzwords. Her contention that something vital had been lost, that the original vision of the founders was all but forgotten fell on deaf ears. It had all become about ad revenue and trendy programming. They'd finally gotten annoyed enough to find a reason for firing her, and this was how she was fighting back. The process finished, she disconnected her phone and pocketed it as she walked away. She'd never been near the control room so there was no chance they'd recognize her. She returned the cart to where she'd found it and left the building. She didn't get to see her handiwork until the next day. Millions of people tuned in for another episode of the latest flaky reality show that afternoon. Sure it wasn't the best show in the world, but it was fun to laugh at idiots as they sat around making hundreds of thousands of dollars per episode as they groomed, slapped and humiliated each other. It was what the viewing public expected. What they got was totally different. Foghat. The Ramones. Led Zeppelin. The Buggles. On and on through the afternoon and into the night, as people in the control room scrambled to find the worm that kept changing locations, one music video after another aired. There were a few entitled idiots who complained about missing their shows, but younger people had a good laugh at the expense of the programming department while digging on the tunes. The girl was picking up some supplies, preparing for a move across town to a smaller apartment, when she caught a snippet of conversation. "That's some crazy stuff, man." "Yeah, I know. Who knew that MTV actually played music?" It took every ounce of her strength not to burst out laughing. She smiled to beat the band, though, and there was a spring in her step all the way home.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction Challenge: Three Random Photos

Flash Fiction Challenge: Three Random Photos — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Ye Olde Terribleminds Prompte

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He'd first caught a glimpse of her true form after two years in the lock-up. They couldn't fool him. Words like 'hospital' and 'mental ward' were kindly terms for 'prison'. He was a prisoner. He couldn't remember why they kept him here, feeding him chunks of dog food in sewage gravy, denying him his shoelaces and talking to him like he was five years old. But he hated it. He hated every second of it. Every once in a while, there had been peace; moments that blended together into a meaningless lump of dulled senses, vague lukewarm sentiment and pithy reinforcement from the Beamer-drivers in charge. He remembered week or month-long stretches of time in which he felt calm but not himself, like he was always wearing earmuffs and a thick, gauzy veil. They would call it 'happy' but he considered that too strong a word; no strong emotion applied at all when he felt that way. 'Normal' was an even more bogus term they tossed around. It never lasted. They kept trying to put him back there, though, with upped dosages and increased voltage and longer group therapy sessions. And then he saw her. It had just been out of the corner of his eye, at first. A glimmer, a phantasm, a touch of whispered laughter. As time went on he'd see another wisp, get a longer view of what may have been smoke, hear her voice over his shoulder more clearly. At first he told himself he was hallucinating, that it was the drugs or something. But she became harder and harder to ignore. She'd touch his shoulders in group, brush past him in the hall, even visit him in bed at night only to leave him alone in the morning with sweat and sticky sheets. By that point nobody could convince him that she was fake. How could the only good thing left in his life be imaginary? Her presence brought things into focus. The drugs stopped working. The shock therapy became a distant thing, pushed aside by her presence. He'd burst out laughing in group because she whispered something funny in his ear. He wanted to be with her so much it hurt, but it was something they'd never allow. So even before she told him how to do it, he was thinking of escaping. When he threw a chair at the small, old-fashioned television, people were surprised. The tube tossed sparks in a really impressive fashion, and once they died out he saw what he needed on the floor. Orderlies came running in, a couple with syringes and one with a taser. He wasn't going to let them stop him. He scooped up the biggest shard of glass from the floor, and when the stun-gun guy came at him, he opened up a long bloody hole in the orderly's scrubs. There were screams and more blood and before he knew it he had one of the nurses by the throat, screaming for the door to open as he held the glass to her pulse. The weak men obeyed and he was free. He ran through the corridors to find the stairs. He wasn't sure where to go at first, then he saw her beckoning him upwards. He took the stairs two at a time and when the door opened, sunlight washed over him. Blinded for a moment, he held up his bloody hand as his eyes adjusted. Apparently they had lied to him. He wasn't in a hospital downtown. He was on the mountain trail where he'd met his wife. The memory flooded back with razor-sharp clarity. The view was gorgeous, spreading out below him like a green and brown carpet. He'd been hiking the trail and found her sitting off to the side with a sprained ankle and a busted bike. He'd let her lean on him as he carried them both down the mountain. They visited the mountain many times before and after they were married. Things were good for a while. Before the miscarriage, the booze, the fights and the tears. Before she'd get angry at him for so much as looking at another woman. Before he started having trouble holding a job. Before he'd come home to find her in the tub with a glass of wine, a bottle of pills and wrists slashed open. He'd never understood why she'd left him alone like that. Didn't everybody have trouble with relationships? Weren't all marriages rocky at times? He'd told her they could work it out. Why didn't she believe him? He'd wept for her, wrapped her in their wedding-gift bedsheets, carried her outside and set the house on fire. The judge had ruled 'not guilty due to mental defect' and that was how he'd been in that hospital. Only she hadn't left him alone. She had been there, smiling at him, laying with him, reminding him of the good times they'd lost but could have again. And now she toyed with him, laughing a little, beckoning him closer. He took uncertain steps, the gravel beneath his feet not the familiar gravel of the mountain trail. Not anymore. The trees were replaced by air conditioning units and TV arials. The valley was no longer full of forests but now full of cars and, directly beneath him, started gawking people. Cars with flashing lights would arrive. And there she was, somehow floating off the edge of the hospital. Her smile was radiant. He could see her clearly, now, when before it had been just a glimmer. She held out her arms. Her wrists were whole. He wanted to badly to lose himself in her embrace, forget all the darkness, be her husband again. He stepped towards her. "Be with me," she whispered. His feet touched air. His body tilted forward. He was still reaching for her. Maybe she was really still waiting for him. He smiled on the way down. Be it heaven or hell, he'd find her.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Scarface

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Scarface — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/scarface.mp3] Tragedies are touchpoints in the course of human history. They're also cautionary tales, whispering warnings of downfalls to come. From Aeschylus to Shakespeare, it's a tradition with thousands of years worth of wisdom to teach us through the abrupt ends of others' lives, especially those who choose to pursue their goals through illegitimate means. It's just as true today as it was in 1983 when Brian De Palma's Scarface first premiered in theaters. I don't know if this visionary director and his young cast who became household names knew that this gaudy, baroque and melodramatic opus would still have something to say to a 21st-century audience, but it does, and like the main character, it isn't shy about it. Originally a tale of Prohibition-era organized crime, Scarface updated its setting to southern Florida, when hundreds of thousands of refugees fled Communist-controlled Cuba for the United States hoping for a better future. For the criminals free of Cuba's prisons among those refugees, that better future meant the fast money and high risk that came from a life of crime. And for Tony Montana, one of those criminals, the money was in cocaine. With his partner Manny, Tony almost immediately begins carving out a place for himself. He comes into the country with nothing, yet he soon is the premiere trigger-man for the biggest drug dealer in Miami. And he doesn't stop there. Scarface is a tale of excess from the very beginning in both plot and production. The patterns and colors of the early 80s are garish reminders that throwbacks like Grand Theft Auto: Vice City are not exaggerating. The score, heavy in ominous synth, is as cheesy as the zebra-print seat covers in Tony's Cadillac and yet every bit as fitting. The multiple mirrors in the nightclubs our protagonist spends his leisure time in made shooting difficult but underscore the vanity of the time and the character. Of course all of the production value in the world is for naught without a central presence to drive the narrative, and Tony Montana is definitely behind the wheel in that regard.
"I jus' wan' what's comin' t' me: th' world... an' everythin' in it." In future films such as Heat or Carlito's Way (not so much Devil's Advocate), Pacino will ratchet back the over-the-top scenery-chewing bombast to save it for key moments. But in Scarface, he seems to be firing on all cylinders at all times. Be he clawing his way up to the top or sliding down into oblivion, Tony lives with his dials turned to 11 and beyond. Not only does his behavior lead to him ensuring he alone remains the center of his universe, he's proud of this way of life and his achievements to a tragic fault. There's very little about this protagonist that's redeemable or even all that likable, yet his tragic humanity keeps us watching every move he makes. The rest of the cast certainly isn't slouching, either. It was a breakout role for Michelle Pfieffer and the first on-screen appearance ever for Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. De Palma directs them all with the graceful nuance of an orchestra conductor as well as the uncompromising drive of a workshop foreman. As bold as a decision it was to shoot this picture at all, he went one step further in making it almost three hours long and including some incredibly brutal scenes of bodily harm from shootouts to stabbings. It's an endurance trial made survivable and even enjoyable thanks to Tony Montana.
Good times had by all. Mostly. The presence of Montana is a pervasive one, even to this day. Scarface would inspire a plethora of crime dramas around the world, and its themes of freedom, excess and the rags-to-riches rise to power is clearly an inspiration for not only a good deal of gangster rappers but video games like the aforementioned Grand Theft Auto and, later, Saint's Row. What the games leave out, of course, is the way the story ends. Once he achieves all he's been after, Tony spirals into a miasma of vanity and contempt, even for himself. He's an utterly repulsive human being, even acknowledging his villainous status at one point in a memorable black-tie dinner scene, yet he seems confused when people curse him and leave him on his own. And there's plenty of cursing to be sure; screenwriter Oliver Stone used the word "fuck" and its many derivations 218 times in the screenplay. Scarface is highly recommended. Be prepared to spend an afternoon with Tony, watching him banter with immigration, deal with Bolivian drug lords using surprising charisma and build his own cocaine empire from scratch yet at the same time finding true happiness eluding him at every turn. In the end he stares at a mountainous pile of drugs on his luxurious desk in his palatial Miami estate, and his hollow eyes echo the question he put to Manny at dinner: "Is this it?" It's a moment of introspection and humbling, almost pathetic pathos which, after a lifetime of deception, theft, seduction and murder, has come too little too late. I'm sure that, almost 30 years later, we can find a message for our time between the bullet-riddled corpses and the bright, happy neon lights - even if that message is merely one of the rules that Tony neglected to follow: "Never get high on your own supply." Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bunraku

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bunraku — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/bunraku.mp3] Bunraku is a preposterous title for a film, and also slightly pretentious. It refers not to a character or a location, but rather a type of Japanese shadow play, a theatrical production using puppets that tells broad stories based on archetype and fable. It'd be like naming Flash Gordon "Raygun Gothic Adventure with Queen." Or Taken "Liam Neeson Driven Suspense Action". Or GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra "Giant Letdown." On the other hand, nobody can accuse Bunraku of being less than what it promises in the title, and if someone is disappointed by the film, it should not be on the basis of said promise. And if you're an ignorant Westerner who doesn't know what bunraku is, the opening sequence gives you a demonstration while the narrator sets the scene. In the not too distant future, mankind has waged war to the point that people have finally taken notice of how atrocious, unnecessary and dehumanizing modern warfare actually is (the actual warfare, that is, not the first-person shooter). Guns are universally outlawed in the wake of some sort of war-driven cataclysm and folks now have to get by settling their disputes with edged weapons and bare fists. The most powerful man east of the Atlantic with these methods is Nicholai the Woodcutter and his nine numbered assassins. Into Nicholai's favorite casino comes a nameless Drifter who's quick and deadly with his hands, while his favorite restaurant's owner has a nephew who's a driven but compassionate and well-spoken samurai. Can you guess how these two strangers are going to get along? If you guessed "they team up to take down Nicholai and the colorful array of supporting trained killers", try not to break your arm patting yourself on the back. Bunraku is a film that seems to have no time whatsoever for things like character or plot development. What it plays on is themes, mood and metaphor. That said, the character work that does happen isn't all that bad. Josh Hartnett continues to demonstrate the sort of chops that earned Clint Eastwood his immortal spurs, while his samurai friend is played with surprising conviction (if a bit of melodrama) by Gackt. If you can tear your eyes away from these fine specimens of driven and handsome young men, you'll find Woody Harrelson in an understated mentor role while Kevin McKidd give us a villain arguably more memorable than his imposing boss, played by none other than Ron Perlman. The other actors, including Demi Moore, don't have much more than bit roles but we're honestly not here for introspection as much as we are for spectacle of seeing Slevin & an extremely attractive musician take on Hellboy & Poseidon.
Lucius Vorenus got himself an excellent tailor. Unlike your typical Hollywood big-budget explosionfest, Bunraku's style comes from its unique setting, composition and pacing. The best thing about it is how stylistically striking the whole production is. Some of the longer shots are truly impressive in their construction, while transitions and even entire scenes are works of art in and of themselves. It's the sort of film where 'eye candy' extends past the attractive cast and bright orange explosive special effects. It's also something of a low-key musical, with a pervasive but atmospheric score adding tension and pace to the many fights, which have the energy and passion of large production dance numbers without everybody breaking into song. With this sort of energy and drive coupled with a unique aesthetic somewhere between a Western and an Akira Kurosawa film, here's always something cool to look at, which means Bunraku will not leave you bored. It may, however, leave you somewhat empty. As I said, there's very little depth to the characters or plot. Playing as it does on broad themes and the sort of metaphorical storytelling reserved for fairy tales and the like, Bunraku isn't going to set the world on fire with its story. And as impressive as the sets, shots and fights are, many viewers may draw parallels between Sin City or Kill Bill. For better or worse, Bunraku does have a much more diverse color palate than Frank Miller's work and not as much verbosity or as many oblique references as Tarantino's. It's a kissing cousin to these other works at most, and it goes about its simple but stylish little tale with admirable gusto, unfettered by Miller's monochromatic cynicism or Tarantino's obsession with grindhouse flicks and Uma Thurman's toes.
You wish your bartender was this cool. If anything, it reminds me most of indie darling and Game of the Year, Bastion. The bright colors, vibrant combat, initially simple characters and even the smooth tones of the world-wise narrator immediately bring that experience to mind, in a very positive way. While Bunraku lacks the ultimate emotional depth of that game, it does keep your eyes occupied and imagination delighted for its running time, and on its visual panache and enthusiastic presentation alone I'm going to give it a recommendation. It's not groundbreaking or anything but it's at least trying to go about storytelling in a slightly different way, even if the archetypes and themes are older than dirt, but I'd rather have an older fable told well than a pandering remake or sequel of a recent work take up my time. Although, in the latter case, you can replace the words "take up" with the more accurate and expedient "waste". I'm glad I spent some time with Bunraku, and if you're looking in your Netflix Instant queue for a production with a great deal of panache, a bit of whimsy, some grown-up themes and unapologetic devotion to unique framing devices, I think you will be too. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bunraku

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Bunraku — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/bunraku.mp3] Bunraku is a preposterous title for a film, and also slightly pretentious. It refers not to a character or a location, but rather a type of Japanese shadow play, a theatrical production using puppets that tells broad stories based on archetype and fable. It'd be like naming Flash Gordon "Raygun Gothic Adventure with Queen." Or Taken "Liam Neeson Driven Suspense Action". Or GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra "Giant Letdown." On the other hand, nobody can accuse Bunraku of being less than what it promises in the title, and if someone is disappointed by the film, it should not be on the basis of said promise. And if you're an ignorant Westerner who doesn't know what bunraku is, the opening sequence gives you a demonstration while the narrator sets the scene. In the not too distant future, mankind has waged war to the point that people have finally taken notice of how atrocious, unnecessary and dehumanizing modern warfare actually is (the actual warfare, that is, not the first-person shooter). Guns are universally outlawed in the wake of some sort of war-driven cataclysm and folks now have to get by settling their disputes with edged weapons and bare fists. The most powerful man east of the Atlantic with these methods is Nicholai the Woodcutter and his nine numbered assassins. Into Nicholai's favorite casino comes a nameless Drifter who's quick and deadly with his hands, while his favorite restaurant's owner has a nephew who's a driven but compassionate and well-spoken samurai. Can you guess how these two strangers are going to get along? If you guessed "they team up to take down Nicholai and the colorful array of supporting trained killers", try not to break your arm patting yourself on the back. Bunraku is a film that seems to have no time whatsoever for things like character or plot development. What it plays on is themes, mood and metaphor. That said, the character work that does happen isn't all that bad. Josh Hartnett continues to demonstrate the sort of chops that earned Clint Eastwood his immortal spurs, while his samurai friend is played with surprising conviction (if a bit of melodrama) by Gackt. If you can tear your eyes away from these fine specimens of driven and handsome young men, you'll find Woody Harrelson in an understated mentor role while Kevin McKidd give us a villain arguably more memorable than his imposing boss, played by none other than Ron Perlman. The other actors, including Demi Moore, don't have much more than bit roles but we're honestly not here for introspection as much as we are for spectacle of seeing Slevin & an extremely attractive musician take on Hellboy & Poseidon.
Lucius Vorenus got himself an excellent tailor. Unlike your typical Hollywood big-budget explosionfest, Bunraku's style comes from its unique setting, composition and pacing. The best thing about it is how stylistically striking the whole production is. Some of the longer shots are truly impressive in their construction, while transitions and even entire scenes are works of art in and of themselves. It's the sort of film where 'eye candy' extends past the attractive cast and bright orange explosive special effects. It's also something of a low-key musical, with a pervasive but atmospheric score adding tension and pace to the many fights, which have the energy and passion of large production dance numbers without everybody breaking into song. With this sort of energy and drive coupled with a unique aesthetic somewhere between a Western and an Akira Kurosawa film, here's always something cool to look at, which means Bunraku will not leave you bored. It may, however, leave you somewhat empty. As I said, there's very little depth to the characters or plot. Playing as it does on broad themes and the sort of metaphorical storytelling reserved for fairy tales and the like, Bunraku isn't going to set the world on fire with its story. And as impressive as the sets, shots and fights are, many viewers may draw parallels between Sin City or Kill Bill. For better or worse, Bunraku does have a much more diverse color palate than Frank Miller's work and not as much verbosity or as many oblique references as Tarantino's. It's a kissing cousin to these other works at most, and it goes about its simple but stylish little tale with admirable gusto, unfettered by Miller's monochromatic cynicism or Tarantino's obsession with grindhouse flicks and Uma Thurman's toes.
You wish your bartender was this cool. If anything, it reminds me most of indie darling and Game of the Year, Bastion. The bright colors, vibrant combat, initially simple characters and even the smooth tones of the world-wise narrator immediately bring that experience to mind, in a very positive way. While Bunraku lacks the ultimate emotional depth of that game, it does keep your eyes occupied and imagination delighted for its running time, and on its visual panache and enthusiastic presentation alone I'm going to give it a recommendation. It's not groundbreaking or anything but it's at least trying to go about storytelling in a slightly different way, even if the archetypes and themes are older than dirt, but I'd rather have an older fable told well than a pandering remake or sequel of a recent work take up my time. Although, in the latter case, you can replace the words "take up" with the more accurate and expedient "waste". I'm glad I spent some time with Bunraku, and if you're looking in your Netflix Instant queue for a production with a great deal of panache, a bit of whimsy, some grown-up themes and unapologetic devotion to unique framing devices, I think you will be too. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

After the Blackout: Now What?

After the Blackout: Now What? — Blue Ink Alchemy

I am not a pundit. I don't get a lot of hits here. I'm not a celebrity or a pro gamer or even all that well-known. I'm just a guy who loves the Internet. I know that the society can get pretty disparate and broken at times, with dark little corners full of all kinds of depravity. It's like any large city, only the Internet has hundreds of millions of inhabitants and instead of crowding into buses and subways, we use various kinds of data transmission to work, to play, to communicate and live. Disparate though we may be, there are times when we work together in a common goal. Yesterday was one of those times. Yesterday I saw the Internet come together because the rights of free speech are threatened. Sites went dark. People lodged protests. They posted videos, sang songs, called Congressmen. And one by one, politicians who were likely well-paid by a bloated and antiquated entertainment industry walked away from the bill in question because they realised it was badly written and poorly thought out. Today I suspect a lot of people will go back to business as usual, to their LoLcats and Let's Plays and cooking videos and midget porn. There's something really sad about that. What's sad is that this community bent towards freedom and individuality can come together in this way over the rights of its predominantly white male user base, but when it comes to the rights of disenfranchised minorities being held without trial or due process, or the rights of young children who weren't born white to have a decent education guided by teachers paid well for what they do, or the rights of women to choose how, when and why their bodies are used and regarded, the voice isn't anywhere near as strong or united. I know mine isn't the biggest voice on the Internet. Mine is not the uniting force. Were I to run for King of the Web or participate in any similar competition I'd get absolutely flattened. My corner of the Internet is tiny. But I'm going to stand up and shout in it anyway. SOPA is not the only injustice. PIPA is but one of many miscarriages of liberty. Yes, yesterday can be counted as a victory, and we need to keep the pressure on until these idiotic bills die the incendiary deaths they deserve, but they're not the only problem with which we can help. Many more egregious problems are extant in the world, problems we have just as much access to as we do YouTube and Reddit; where are the funky songs about them? Why aren't more people speaking out against them? Where is the Internet that shouted back at the laws they disagreed with because it affected them directly? Does the Internet just not care? I'd like to think we do. I'll be the first to admit I lean more towards naive, starry-eyed optimism than anything else, but in my heart I believe that common sense and goodwill can and does prevail over selfishness, maliciousness and greed. And I can't even point to most people I know & respect on the Internet and accuse them of any of that. Short-sightedness and more than a little anger, maybe, but not maliciousness and certainly not greed. The people I aspire to stand with don't do what they do for the ad revenue. After yesterday's activities I was fully prepared to admonish my fellow Internet denizens to remain watchful of government bodies and fat entertainment moguls. The Internet is a free and open forum, after all, and the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. But to that request I feel I must add another. Don't stop caring. We've proven that when we work together, have a clear goal in mind and remain motivated by speaking to, for and about each other, we can accomplish great things. The only way we can be stopped when it comes to standing up for our rights and the rights of those who have none or can't speak for themselves is when we, ourselves, stop giving a shit. Just some food for thought, Internet. Just some food for thought.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Blackout

Blackout — Blue Ink Alchemy

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Words of the Dovahkiin, I: Throat of the World

Words of the Dovahkiin, I: Throat of the World — Blue Ink Alchemy

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and apologize in advance for what may turn out to be only passable fan fiction as I write down stuff that goes through my head as I play this game.

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9th Evening Star, 201 4E Standing here looking down upon Skyrim I wonder if this all could have been averted. All of it. After talking with Paarthurnax, I think back on the dragons I've slain since I came here. I was coming to Skyrim to study magic, not to learn the way of the sword and certainly not to speak with dragons. Even in Breton we take it as read that dragons are things of the past, not filling the skies of today. Yet they do, and so I did. The price on my head that dragged me here is all but forgotten, along with much else of that seemingly distant and easy life. Now I stand here, taking in the breadth of Skyrim from the peak of the Throat of the World, and I wonder. Was every dragon I've slain driven to that end, or was it chosen by them? I search my soul, or rather the souls I've taken into myself, and find no answers. Yet in my heart of hearts I hear their chant. They urge me on. To conquer. To dominate. I look upon the land beneath my feet, and the thought lingers in the back of my mind: "Mine." I was a scholar before. I still am. I've never had the desire to rule, not before coming to Skyrim, not before seeing the Imperials and the Stormcloaks squabble amongst themselves even as Alduin and his ilk burn the holds down around them. I'd much rather retreat into the seclusion of Winterhold and continue the study of magic, or have further talks with Adrienne about different styles and types of smithing. Yet if I do not venture into the chilling wastes, channeling these unfamiliar and disturbingly attractive urges into the defeat of rampaging dragons, there will be no more books to study, no more anvils to strike, no more people to meet. I can't let that happen. I was born for this and didn't know it until Alduin first appeared. Knowledge once gained cannot be denied. What went before helped shaped me but remains in my past. I am dovahkiin. This world is my charge, and I shall not see it fall while I yet can draw breath to shout.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Three Sentences for Bear71

Flash Fiction: Three Sentences for Bear71 — Blue Ink Alchemy

At the behest of this post, in support of this project, I offer the following from the perspective of a deer:

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This is one of those mornings, when foraging and looking for some breakfast, that the antlers feel particularly heavy. It's going to be cold this year, colder than it has been before, and my doe and I need to be ready for that's coming. I just want to make sure our fawns are going to be all ri-

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Blue Ink Alchemy

2012's First Braindump

2012's First Braindump — Blue Ink Alchemy

In lieu of IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! this week, postponed due to the dayjob workload, I give you the start of that thing I've been inspired to write thanks to Chuck Wendig as I mentioned Tuesday. I honestly don't know if anything will actually come of this, but rather than post some pithy filler I was driven to put this little scene down and see how looks. So here's the opening to Dead Man On Campus.

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Ever been punched in the face? I don't mean tapped on the cheek in an endearing way by a family member or close friend. I don't mean slapped by a girl (or guy) you were trying to compliment and ended up insulting. And I don't mean the kind of dead-leg punch you get from a chum on the couch when you're kicking their ass in a first-person shooter on their expensive console that you kind of only befriended them to play since you live down the hall & get bored sometimes. No, full-on punched. Right goddamn hook to the jaw. It was my first time and my ass hurt almost as much as my face did from it hitting the curb. I tasted blood. This wasn't unfamiliar. Growing up nerdy in the outskirts of a big city, you learn to take a few shoves and pick up books out of the gutters. I'd had a bloody nose from a spill a couple of times. But this was the first time I'd seen a big, idiotic jock standing over me and not felt a surge of paralytic fear. No. I was fucking pissed. "What?" I give the jock a shit-eating grin. "All I said was it might behoove you to stop treating your girlfriend like a piece of meat." He hauled me up by the collar of my jacket. It's a really nice pea coat my mom bought me, black with those little anchor buttons, like the ones worn by the Boondock Saints. I'm not Irish, though. I'm some kind of American mutt. The bozo nose-to-nose with me has some Teutonic blood in him, though. He's tall, broad-shouldered, thick and brawny. His ice-blue eyes are trying to burn holes in my skull. "You talk to me that way again, freshman, and I'll turn you to paste. You feel me?" I glance at the girl. She's more scared than I am. There's a switch. "Yeah, bro, I feel ya." He drops me. He grabs the girl - by her waist, of course, with hand in prime gropeing position - and walks away. She glances over her shoulder at me, apologies in her wide, frightened eyes. I wave goodbye and, in spite of the pain in my jaw, smile. She'd been pushing him away, telling him 'No', and he'd insisted on being all grabby. What was I going to do? Just let him fondle her in the street between the library and the science building, leading into the big parking lot in the middle of the campus? At one time, I might have. But I wasn't the huddled little boy trying to get to school without the neighborhood toughs beating me up for my lunch money. Not anymore. As they walk away I contemplate what I can do. I can make Bozo think it's raining frogs. I can cause his vision to blur and turn his flavor of the week into a reject from Hellraiser before his eyes. I'd love to set his varsity jacket on fire but I have real trouble controlling that sort of thing. If I were really brave I'd pull my entire being into myself and concentrate my consciousness into a sort of singularity in my soul that would burst out of me and blast all of my organs and senses into overdrive, basically slowing everything around me to a crawl. But the last time I tried that my mentor nearly called 911 when my heart stopped. I'm sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Simon Aechmagoras, and I'm a sorcerer. Well, a sorcerer's apprentice. Like Mickey Mouse, only taller and with better fashion sense. I check my watch, a mechanical pocket-and-chain job I inherited from my grandfather, and swear. I get up and run, sore jaw and bruised ass and all. Sorcerer or not, my biology teacher hates it when people show up late for his lectures.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Recipe: The Captain's Nail

Recipe: The Captain's Nail — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've been getting my ass kicked lately. There's been a ton of work to do at the dayjob over the holiday which still hasn't quite let up yet. A writing project deadline looms and rewrites or new stories demand my attention. I usually get home at night with just enough energy to slip on my house coat and set myself up with some digital entertainment when I know I should be writing. But even when I'm not writing I'll reach for that old writerly crutch that gets us through the tough times. I'm talking, of course, about booze. Now, in no way do I advocate excess drinking or drug use or abuse of any kind. It should not become habitual, because habit all too quickly leads to addiction. I'm already addicted to caffeine, video games and social media; I don't need other ones on top of that. Still, I contemplate a return to pipe smoking even as I put together a cocktail like the one I'm about to describe. It's a simple variation on the tried & true rum and coke. You can start with an empty glass to do it up 'neat', throw in some ice cubes or, if you're like me, some whiskey stones. Seriously, I love these things. They keep the drink cool without making your glass sweat or watering down the booze. The first thing to pour over them is rum, about a shot or shot and a half's worth. I suppose any sort of rum will do, but this drink gets its name from my preferred brand, Captain Morgan's Private Stock. It's smooth texture and dark taste really appeal to me. Follow this with a shot or two's worth of Drambuie. This unique little liqueur is a recent discovery of mine, picked up on a lark around the holidays with the intent to mix it with whiskey - in this case, Johnny Walker Red. While I'm not a fan of the red label stuff, Drambuie's complex and slightly sweet flavor had me intrigued, and I added it to this mix pretty much just to see what'd happen. You can fill the rest of the glass with any variation of cola you like, from the cheap dollar store stuff to something tasty yet obscure. My personal preference is to eschew high fructose corn syrup if at all possible, so I use either Coke bottled outside of the US or Pepsi Throwback. The result was very pleasing, with the mixed booze not overwhelming the drink and all the flavors complimenting each other while remaining unique. As many mixed drinks featuring Drambuie include 'nail' in the description, I dubbed this concoction The Captain's Nail. Give it a try, and tell me what you think. In moderation, of course.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Drilling Fundamentals

Drilling Fundamentals — Blue Ink Alchemy

You hear this sort of thing all the time in regular sports. "We have to work on our fundamentals." For the most part, this refers to striking, catching or otherwise working with a ball. Things like overarching strategy and specific on-field composition will matter, sure, but they matter a lot less if you're not getting the ball to its intended target. I've had to implement a similar policy in StarCraft 2. Once again I found myself overthinking my gameplay and tactics and letting such things distract me from the fact that I need to work on my most basic competitive skills. I've started keeping things at their most basic, and lo and behold I've started winning again. League of Legends also finds me drilling on the fundamentals. Specifically, staying alive in the early game is something I'm finding difficult. I can be greedy, chasing the enemy far more often than I should. I'm working with a champion named Vladimir, who becomes very strong in the mid to late game but is squishy early on. If I can learn through him to stay alive more, and apply those lessons to carry-type heroes and the likes of Garen, I'll be even more successful. It's highly likely the same goes for my writing. Pursuant to yesterday's post I find myself wondering if, in the process of thinking about rewrites, edits, pitches and projects, I've lost sight of some of the fundamentals of what I want to do. Hopefully making time to write the short due by the end of the week will help me recapture some of that, but I'm still reluctant to (as I see it) abandon my works in progress. I guess it all depends on how many irons I want in the fire at any given time. What do you do when you need to drill fundamentals?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Drilling Fundamentals

Drilling Fundamentals — Blue Ink Alchemy

You hear this sort of thing all the time in regular sports. "We have to work on our fundamentals." For the most part, this refers to striking, catching or otherwise working with a ball. Things like overarching strategy and specific on-field composition will matter, sure, but they matter a lot less if you're not getting the ball to its intended target. I've had to implement a similar policy in StarCraft 2. Once again I found myself overthinking my gameplay and tactics and letting such things distract me from the fact that I need to work on my most basic competitive skills. I've started keeping things at their most basic, and lo and behold I've started winning again. League of Legends also finds me drilling on the fundamentals. Specifically, staying alive in the early game is something I'm finding difficult. I can be greedy, chasing the enemy far more often than I should. I'm working with a champion named Vladimir, who becomes very strong in the mid to late game but is squishy early on. If I can learn through him to stay alive more, and apply those lessons to carry-type heroes and the likes of Garen, I'll be even more successful. It's highly likely the same goes for my writing. Pursuant to yesterday's post I find myself wondering if, in the process of thinking about rewrites, edits, pitches and projects, I've lost sight of some of the fundamentals of what I want to do. Hopefully making time to write the short due by the end of the week will help me recapture some of that, but I'm still reluctant to (as I see it) abandon my works in progress. I guess it all depends on how many irons I want in the fire at any given time. What do you do when you need to drill fundamentals?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Fiction: The Haunting of Pridewater

Fiction: The Haunting of Pridewater — Blue Ink Alchemy

Blizzard quietly announced the winners of their 2010 Fiction Contest mid-October. I wasn't among them. So now, I can give you fine folks my entry, The Haunting of Pridewater. It wasn't good enough for Blizzard, but maybe someone who passes this way will enjoy it.

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You must awaken. Time is running out. One of the sundered bulkheads on the battlecruiser's command deck slid against the deck plates, causing a grating noise as it moved. The hand that pushed it aside flickered as if it struggled to remain in existence. The survivor pulled himself free of the wreckage, only to immediately collapse. A secondary explosion deep in the spacecraft's drive section nearly drowned out his soft groan of pain. It was the only human sound being made throughout the ship. Human. "I heard you the first time. Shut up." He tapped the side of his helmet, trying to get some sort of response from his hostile encounter suit. After a few attempts, he yanked the goggles off and tossed them away. He had no idea how badly he was hurt, but as far as he could tell, he was the last living terran in the combat zone. Acrid smoke carried the stench of burning flesh and wiring through the battlecruiser's wreckage. He shut off his personal cloak, trying to conserve his power. The suit would try to patch him up, but it was only a matter of time before the zerg were all over the crash site like freeloaders at a Mar Sara barbeque. Indeed. As I said, time is... "And I said shut up. Get out of my head, while you're at it." My withdrawal would not help either of us. I am Melponia, advance scout of the protoss. I observed the approach of your task force and the defense mounted by the zerg. You did not stand a chance. "Well, ain't you just a big ol' ray of sunshine." He rolled over onto his back and pushed himself up against the wall. He tried to get a better idea of his wounds, examining them in the light cast by the fires and guttering light fixtures of the command deck. His left leg lay at an unnatural angle with the rest of his body, a dead weight of seeping blood and pulverized bone. The suit was putting painkillers into his bloodstream, but being unable to use the leg would make escape difficult. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt nauseous. His insides felt like a bag of broken glass. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, tried to remember his training. "I'm a ghost," he said, "and I still have a job to do." You are in no condition to do battle. "If I didn't know better I'd think you were my mother haunting me from beyond the grave. Are all prote dames such nags?" I don't know. Are all human males stubborn, sarcastic and rude? "Most of the ones I've met, yes." The ghost sifted through the wreckage and found his C-10 rifle. The magazine had been smashed,and it only held a single canister in its chamber. It was an armor-piercing round. It would only deter one assailant. Two, if one stood directly behind the other and the one in front was smaller. "What do you want, anyway? I'm assuming you didn't come here just to chat with me." I did not. I am, as I said, an advance scout. We detected the warp rift that brought the zerg to this planet and observed the staggering rate at which their hive has grown. By the next rotation, they will overwhelm your colony. "Fifty thousand people live on Pridewater. There's no way we can evacuate all of them in time. They've got a few personal defense weapons, nothing to hold back a major zerg attack. It'll be a massacre." They are not my concern. You are. "Now, why am I such a concern to you?" The ghost struggled to stand, keeping his hand on a broken console to steady himself as he slung his rifle. "I ain't prote, and I can't be sure you are, either. This could be some zerg trick." The response was a harmonious burst of ancient music. Behind his eyes, he saw soaring spires, glowing pylons and sparkling cityscapes. Just as he was realizing just how awestruck he was, there was a flash, and it was all on fire, the music becoming a mournful requiem. The vision faded, and he touched his fingers to his eyes. The tears on his fingertips caught the light from the fires nearby. Such things are part of my memory, and that of every protoss. Such things do not exist within the imagination of the zerg. The ghost shook his head. The music stayed with him, faint background noise behind the crackling of fires and groans of fatigued metal. The wreckage is unstable. You must make your way aft if you wish to survive. "You still haven't told me why you care so damn much." The last time one of your potential fell into the clutches of the zerg, the Queen of Blades was born. Another catastrophe of that magnitude I will not allow. "Then nuke the site and be done with it!" The ghost pulled himself along the console towards the hatch leading aft. He had to push the hand of a corpse out of his way. The body of the technician fell to the deck with a wet thump, impaled on a shards of her viewscreen, open eyes staring at nothing. "What's with the 'distant guiding voice' routine? I'd think you were a field commander if I didn't know better, safe and secure up there with your overhead perspective while the real men do the dyin'." I have not yet ascended to such a rank. And Pridewater will indeed be purified when the main force arrives. The ghost stopped. "Define 'purified.'" Half a dozen protoss carriers will use concentrated weapons fire from orbit to eliminate the zerg threat. "Takin' the terran colony out with it." A small price to pay for preventing the spread of the swarm. "I came here to save these people, not have tea with a protes while their homes are reduced to slag, their fields turned to glass." You will die with them if you do not accept my aid. "Give me one good reason why I don't limp into the zerg hive just to spite you." Very well. Give me your name first. "I'm Ghost #24815, attached to the Nobunaga task force out of Waystation Bravo." No. Not the designation given by your masters. What is your name? The ghost blinked. He'd made it as far as the ventral corridor, which sloped away from him due to how the battlecruiser had come to rest on the rocky terrain. He kept his grip on the safety rail, struggling to remember the name his parents had chosen. Or his parents, for that matter. You can't, can you. "Shut up. Gimme a second." Let me help you. "Wait-" Before he could say or even think another word, she was fully in his mind. She pulled his consciousness away from the brokenness and pain of his body. He was adrift on unseen eddies, floating above a sea of shadow. A lithe form appeared nearby, peering into the darkness. She turned her eyes to him and the feeling that washed over him defied description. He'd seen holograms of protoss before, clad in their eldritch armor and piloting war machines with designs terran analysts called "ill-suited for the battlefield." Here, before him, he appreciated their esoteric beauty for the first time. Melponia held out her hand to him. Your name awaits. Take my hand and I will help you find it. He obeyed. In the next split second, darkness and noise enveloped him. He felt Melponia's grip on him, but his sense were otherwise overwhelmed by the chaos. Through the maelstrom, he heard Melponia singing. He recognized some of the images. Voices in the storm became familiar. Some of the memories were recent recollections of conversations with Bravo's commandant or the Nobunaga's captain. In addition to the familiar faces and words, however, were those that chilled the ghost to the bone. They weren't frightening in and of themselves. In fact, the face of the young woman smiling at him as they sat in a field under the stars was so beautiful to him he wanted to cry. The frightening thing was that, despite being unable to place the faces and voices in proper order or match them with names right away, he felt he knew them. Searing pain. A sense of nauseating vertigo. Being forced to let go of something precious. These sensations came next, along with the memory of a cold metal table and a needle in his arm. Waking the day after the procedure, his head had ached horribly despite being void of all but his training and his duty to the Dominion. The Dominion had done this to him. They'd stripped him of who he'd been. The final memory was of standing in the barracks bathroom at the Academy on Ursa, the morning before they'd wiped his mind. He remembered emerging from the shower and looking into the mirror, telling himself he was doing his duty, doing the right thing. He did not, however, the slender alien standing directly behind him. Your mind is strong, terran. "Lawrence." He blinked, and he was back in the darkened corridor of the Nobunaga. "My name is Lawrence Crockett." It is a pleasure to meet you, Lawrence Crockett. I owe you 'one good reason' for taking you away from Pridewater, if memory serves. "You've got at least one, considering all the stuff the Dominion made me forget." Crockett pushed himself to his feet and continued his painful journey towards the aft section of the wreck. The suit had run out of painkillers to dispense while he'd been out. Indeed. The fear of another Kerrigan emerging from your ranks prompted your betters to geld your mind. Their work was sloppy and ineffective. "Sarah Kerrigan was corrupted by the zerg. It wasn't her fault." Yet it was her mind the swarm wished to possess. Bodies they have in multitudes. It is logical to assume minds with similar training would also appeal to their goals. Crockett shook his head. "Logical or not, it's stupid to let 'em do this to us. It's my mind. It doesn't belong to anybody else." I can help you repair the damage, Lawrence. Reclaim all you have lost and show you how to become so much more. "My mother called my Lawrence. My friends call me Larry." Am I your friend, then? "I ain't settled on that yet. You helped me kick down the doors in my head, and I'm thankful for that. But I still don't know for sure what your endgame is here." I do not have an endgame short of taking you away from this planet prior to purification... Larry. "Next thing you're gonna tell me is that I won the lottery on Mar Sara." That world has already been purified. "Yeah, I heard the reports. That's what makes it a joke." He shook his head. "We're gonna keep talkin', I'm gonna have to learn you a thing or two about humor." I am afraid we may not have the time. "Spoilsport." At last, Crockett had arrived at his destination. The armory was a darkened cavern, some lights flickering in the vast compartment where the Nobunaga's ammunition and that of any passengers was stored. He didn't know if the zerg had any interest in non-biological equipment aboard, but letting them get the claws on terran nukes was a chilling thought. "How close are the zerg to the crash site?" A mere handful of kilometers. By terran reckoning, you have ten minutes before they arrive. "That's plenty." Groping for handholds as much as he could, the rifle slung across his back heavier with every move he made, Crockett made his way through the spilled racks of anti-air missiles and loose capacitors for energy weapons to the locked cage where the warheads awaited him. My sublight engines do indeed have enough thrust to bring me close enough to- "That ain't what's on my mind right now, Mel." A single light remained on steadily in the cage. He took hold of the door and pulled. Somehow, the lock had survived the crash. The door wouldn't budge. The yellow and black labels warning of the weapons' radioactivity seemed to mock him from behind the cage. Crockett stepped back, brought his rifle down from his shoulder and steadied himself against the broken rack behind him. He knew that once he pulled the trigger, he'd be defenseless save for the knife in his boot and the brain in his skull. What are you doing, Larry? Melponia's voice was calm, unassuming. "I'm afraid, ma'am, that I'm gonna have to respectfully decline your offer." The rifle kicked like a mule when he fired. The recoil almost dislocated his shoulder and he dropped the weapon immediately. He slid to the deck and came close to passing out, but he felt Melponia's presence, her song washing away the pain if just for a few moments. Remain conscious. If you fall into darkness you may not emerge again. "You just might be the sweetest protoss in the cosmos, carin' as much as you do." I bet you say that to all the 'prote's. He smiled in spite of the pain. "See? That was sarcasm. You're learnin'." Larry, you owe those brain-butchers nothing. Crockett blinked, regaining his senses. His shot had torn the door almost completely off of the cage, leaving one hinge intact and obliterating the lock. Reaching up with his good arm, he pulled the door open and crawled inside. "Nope, I don't. But those kids, here on Pridewater, ain't the brain-butchers. And I'm not gonna leave 'em to die just to satisfy a grudge. The pencil-pushin' bastards on Ursa will get what's comin' to 'em, I'm sure. But I have to deal with what's in front of me, namely fifty thousand of my kind who'll end up a zergling's lunch, or vaporized by protoss lasers, if I hop on your spaceship with you for a romantic getaway." Melponia scoffed. You presume much, if you think I find you attractive, human. "Feeling's mutual, sweetheart." Looking at the warheads, a plan began to form in his mind. "Look, squishy lovely feelings or no, I do need your help. I need to know if this is going to work." It will fail unless I assist you. You cannot brute force your way through those defenses. "Well, then." Crockett drew the knife from his boot and began prying off one of the warhead's access plates. "Guess I'm gonna need your delicate, feminine touch, then." It was five minutes later when the sound of rending metal washed through the battlecruiser. A dark, misshapen creature slid into the wreckage, mandibles clicking softly as it scented out its prey. The hydralisk slithered through the twisted hallways of the wreckage. The cerebrate compelled it to find the psychic signature glowing in the middle of the ruined battlecruiser like a newborn star. Moving over corpses and fallen bulkheads, the zerg warrior slid into the arsenal. Within the cage at the aft end of the room, Lawrence Crockett sat near some conical devices marked in yellow and black, not moving. The hydralisk hissed triumphantly. It moved towards the inert form of Crockett. The terran didn't respond to its approach. The cerebrate, exhibiting a sudden surge of urgency, ordered the hydralisk to prod the dark-clad human with one of its arms. The hydralisk moved to obey. Now! Crockett sprang to life, grabbing the extended zerg arm with his bad hand while his other stabbed the hydralisk in the chest with his knife. The hydralisk screamed, Crockett too close to stab with its scythes. It tried to launch a volley of spines, but something was keeping the mental command from reaching the muscles. There was a presence in its brain, something other than the cerebrate. The hydralisk glared down at Larry, who was gritting its white teeth. A blood-covered circuit board lay nearby. Several wires connected the board to one of the nukes, while others disappeared into Crockett's helmet. I have it distracted, Larry. The cerebrate is in direct contact. Address it directly. "I know you can hear me." The cerebrate recoiled in shock. "Yeah. You. The cerebrate of Pridewater. I feel you here. I know you're looking through this thing's eyeballs at me. Well, I hope you enjoy the show. It'll be the very last thing you see." Panicking, the cerebrate screamed at the hydralisk to slay the human. It struggled to obey, trying to back away from Crockett. But the human maintained a grip on his knife, staying close to the hydralisk. It is trying to cut the hydralisk off, Larry. I will maintain the link as long as I can, but zerg minds are slippery... "I'm wired into this nuke stockpile behind me. You know what that means? It means if my brainwaves stop, this whole place goes up in a white-hot flash. I figure I'm close enough to your hive that it'll fry a good few of your little zerg friends. But then I thought, that ain't near good enough." Crockett struggled to stand, unsteady on his shattered legs. He continued to stare into the hydralisk's eyes, close enough for the hydralisk to smell the blood on he breath. The hydralisk knew its victim wasn't going to live long even if it didn't slay him as the cerebrate was now begging it to do. "I figure, you're hooked into the brain of every zerg on this planet. If I get hold of your mind, get nice and cozy with you, I'll take your mind with mine when I die. Not only will I blast your hive to kingdom come, every single zerg on Pridewater will suffer such a psychic shock it'll either drop dead on the spot or be left a drooling, quivering mess that any farmer's son can finish off with an antique rifle. All I gotta do is find my way through this hydralisk's excuse for a mind and ride its connection right to your consciousness. Are you scared yet? Do you zerg bastards even get scared?" Larry, there is no more time. It will... "I know it, woman. Get out of our heads while you can. I'm in too deep for it to stop me now!" Larry... "Melponia! Go!" The hydralisk was overwhelmed with the orders, the urge, the need to kill the human. It roared, yanking itself back off of the knife and raising one of its scythes. Crockett, in spite of the fearsome sight that had caused battle-hardened marines to soil their power armor, grinned, his eyes lit with an intense mental fire. "Ah-HA! Here you are, you invertebrate stinking alien son of a...!" The hydralisk brought its scythe down into Crockett's skull. The bone weapon sank through muscle and brain as the cerebrate suddenly changed its mind. Its last command had been for the hydralisk to stop. It'd been a cry of desperation, an unexpected and frightening turn of events. But now there was only silence. The silence was filled with white light for a split-second, and then there was nothing. Some time later, the task force appeared in the void on the outskirts of Pridewater's star system. The half-dozen protoss carriers were loaded for bear, ready to cleanse the planet of its infestation, primed for purification. Scout Melponia. Task Force Command awaits your report. Melponia respected the fact that her commanders did not probe her thoughts. She was still processing all that had occured, the residual scans of Pridewater and the odd sensation her mind experienced when it turned to that planet. "The planet is free of infestation, Command. Long-range radiological scans detected a nuclear detonation consistent with the stockpile of a terran battlecruiser. It is logical to assume that a survivor of the Dominion task force set off the stockpile to protect the colony. No zerg life signs remain on the planet. Preliminary data suggests some form of attack on the psychic level, possibly a sympathetic echo from so many dying at once in nuclear fire." This is an astonishing turn of events. How did this come to pass? "The data suggests..." We are no longer interested in the data. What do you think happened down there? Melponia turned to look out the canopy of her scout vessel towards Pridewater. The sense was definitely still there, the impression left by a mind she had touched. It lingered there, quietly contemplative, a silent guardian. "A ghost inhabits the planet of Pridewater." We do not understand. "Pridewater is haunted, Command." Her gaze didn't break from the planet. "Haunted."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers Have Attention Deficit... Ooh, Shiny!

Writers Have Attention Deficit... Ooh, Shiny! — Blue Ink Alchemy

So I've been reading Double Dead, which you should be doing if you're a fan of vampires, zombies or the writing styles of Chuck Wendig. I noticed it was part of something called "Tomes of the Dead". Flipping to the back of the book, as I bought a physical copy instead of the perfectly viable e-version, I beheld quite a few promises of other novels with zombies in. What happened next was a bit unexpected: I got inspired to write one of my own. I mean, there are quite a few zombie stories and games and films and memes out there, but few of the narratives tackle how a zombie apocalypse might start and if such a thing could be prevented. It could make for a good story, especially if elements of the supernatural exist throughout and one isn't trying to make concessions for science. Before that thought train even left the station, though, I put the brakes on. I thought back to several lessons from my would-be writing mentor and told myself that starting a new novel is a stupid idea when I already have two in need of rewriting. One's been through the wringer several times, sure, and the other one is a bit shot at the moment but we can fix that in post, right? That's when the counter-argument appeared on my opposite shoulder and reminded me that Chuck also tells us his first couple novels may never see the light of day. He mines them for ideas and holds onto them because they're still words he's written, they just aren't very good. They don't cut the mustard. What's to say my first couple stabs at long-form genre fiction aren't similar? Maybe I'm not cut out for the young adult market and I should stop agonizing over nailing the opening. After all, don't I already have enough headaches? Dayjob, bills, chores, planning for trips to Canada, Chicago and PAX East... The counter-counter-argument is that when the writing is hard is when I need to write the most. It feels little drill-sergeant like, a bit of the no-pain-no-gain mentality of hardcore gym folk, but there's also an element of truth to it. We don't get anywhere or achieve anything without sacrifice. Writing when it isn't one's career involves investments of time and energy away from things one would rather be doing, and that includes writing other works. "Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing," right Mr. Durden? I'm glad I can at least slow down my thoughts to examine them in this way, even if I struggle to resolve them on my own. I don't want indecision to keep me idle creatively for long. That way leads stagnation and the heat death of my brain. I do have one more short project to finish this week, but after that? There be dragons. I wonder how much of this indecision I can chalk up to attention deficit disorder or something similar. I'd like to think I'm not alone in moments like this, as the aforementioned Terribleminds post would indicate, but at times like these I prefer to voice my doubts and thoughts just to be sure. Any advice, Internet? I welcome all comers.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Control

Flash Fiction: Control — Blue Ink Alchemy

Terribleminds and my iPhone told me this story should be titled after this VNV Nation song.

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She whistled to herself as she emptied the garbage cans. Most people were gone for the evening. The vast control room only had a few people in it. Even so, she had to wait until one of them left to use the bathroom, leaving a corner of the space unoccupied. She smiled under the brim of her baseball cap as she moved to the back of the room. Quick as she could, she connected one end of the extendable USB cable to one of the terminals. The other end went into the smartphone in her pocket. A tap here, a slide there, the process was soon underway. These bozos already had the files in their system, all that she had to do was rearrange things a bit. She'd been studying the file structure for weeks before the pink slip had come. Not that she got a physical pink slip, just a heartfelt talking-to about market shares, sustainability and a bunch of other buzzwords. Her contention that something vital had been lost, that the original vision of the founders was all but forgotten fell on deaf ears. It had all become about ad revenue and trendy programming. They'd finally gotten annoyed enough to find a reason for firing her, and this was how she was fighting back. The process finished, she disconnected her phone and pocketed it as she walked away. She'd never been near the control room so there was no chance they'd recognize her. She returned the cart to where she'd found it and left the building. She didn't get to see her handiwork until the next day. Millions of people tuned in for another episode of the latest flaky reality show that afternoon. Sure it wasn't the best show in the world, but it was fun to laugh at idiots as they sat around making hundreds of thousands of dollars per episode as they groomed, slapped and humiliated each other. It was what the viewing public expected. What they got was totally different. Foghat. The Ramones. Led Zeppelin. The Buggles. On and on through the afternoon and into the night, as people in the control room scrambled to find the worm that kept changing locations, one music video after another aired. There were a few entitled idiots who complained about missing their shoes, but younger people had a good laugh at the expense of the programming department while digging on the tunes. The girl was picking up some supplies, preparing for a move across town to a smaller apartment, when she caught a snippet of conversation. "That's some crazy stuff, man." "Yeah, I know. Who knew that MTV actually played music?" It took every ounce of her strength not to burst out laughing. She smiled to beat the band, though, and there was a spring in her step all the way home.

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Blue Ink Alchemy