Walking Synergy

Walking Synergy — Blue Ink Alchemy

I need to stop taking such long pauses between Friday Night Magic bouts. I mean, I can't help it with the family reunion coming up next week, but if I'm not careful, some of my best cards will rotate out with the advent of Return to Ravnica in October! And we certainly can't have that. On a related note, my favorite planeswalker has thus far been underused. This may be because he can have some difficulties defending himself, and he seems to walk a line between control and aggression that can make him hard to place. But two of the colors towards which I lean most strongly are represented in him, and considering the raw deal he got at the hands of that amateur novelist Robert Wintermute, I really want to get him out there before the Scars of Mirrodin block becomes a Modern relic. I speak, of course, of [mtg_card]Venser, the Sojourner[/mtg_card]. Let's ignore his ultimate ability for now (even if it is highly kickass). It was the -1 ability that caught my eye and got me thinking. You see, until recently, I was working on a deck that was mostly about building card advantage and used creatures that took advantage of that, such as [mtg_card]Sturmgeist[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Psychosis Crawler[/mtg_card]. It tested all right but I felt there was something missing. It took a little too long to get going without proper control or means to defend itself, and single beefy creatures are also big fat targets to matter how exalted they become (thanks for bringing that back, M13). But lots of creatures, suddenly unblockable? Now there's a game-winning notion. But how to generate enough creatures to be a legitimate threat? Oh, hello there, Vengeance at Dawn, I didn't see you standing there. Seriously, the amount of synergy that exists between these three planeswalkers is astounding. Both Elspeth and Sorin create creatures, which Venser then makes unblockable. Ah, but how to make sure Venser does not get owned, outside of using the tokens the other two generate? Enter [mtg_card]Blade Splicer[/mtg_card]. She generates a token every time she enters the battlefield, and a pretty beefy one at that. Combined with [mtg_card]Intangible Virtue[/mtg_card] you're talking some serious bodyguards. I played around with a couple configurations before reminding myself that you can't just throw every card you like into a deck and see if it works. Much like in writing, I had to kill my darlings. So out came [mtg_card]Consecrated Sphinx[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Captain of the Watch[/mtg_card]. Instead, [mtg_card]Champion of the Parish[/mtg_card] and [mtg_card]Silverblade Paladin[/mtg_card] provide some great power-for-cost ratios. There aren't as many humans in the deck as there were when I ran [mtg_card]Gather the Townsfolk[/mtg_card] but both the Champions and my planeswalkers will benefit from [mtg_card]Tezzeret's Gambit[/mtg_card]. The Paladins are also good blink targets for Venser, as I can always re-pair them if the non-Paladin of the pair is destroyed for some reason. The means to make creatures exalted and the pair of Swords I have round out this deck. [mtg_deck title="WUB Planeswalker Shenanigans"] Creatures 4 Doomed Traveler 3 Blade Splicer 2 Champion of the Parish 2 Silverblade Paladin 1 Sublime Archangel Spells 4 Lingering Souls 4 Intangible Virtue 3 Tezzeret's Gambit 3 Oblivion Ring 1 Sword of Feast and Famine 1 Sword of War and Peace Planeswalkers 2 Sorin, Lord of Innistrad 2 Elspeth Tirel 2 Venser, the Sojourner Lands 6 Plains 4 Island 4 Glacial Fortress 4 Isolated Chapel 2 Vault of the Archangel 2 Moorland Haunt 2 Cathedral of War 2 Swamp Sideboard 3 Revoke Existence 3 Celestial Purge 3 War Priest of Thune 2 Terminus 2 Grafdigger's Cage 2 Devastation Tide [/mtg_deck] I know it's technically an Esper deck with its color combinations, but the WUB joke was just too good to resist. Besides, it's predominantly white and blue now outweighs black, so the order makes sense. I've tested this deck so far with Deck Stats and opening hands are promising. I need to get my hands on the Blade Splicers to make it a reality, and I have time for that to happen before the October deadline. Come on, guys. Let's get some wins happening!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Payday

Flash Fiction: Payday — Blue Ink Alchemy

For the Terribleminds challenge, Antag/Protag. Got to admit, I enjoyed this one.

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Flashbulbs crackled in the bank's lobby. So far the press hadn't been admitted, which suited Paul just fine. The less they got in his way, the faster he could put together what happened. Witnesses were saying it was two men with handguns who'd stormed the place. The guard had taken a good crack to the skull from one of the .45s and the robbers went straight to work afterwards. It was straight out of the Dillinger playbook. Paul wished he'd been part of that task force, but now he'd have to settle for his local beat until he could write a letter to J Edgar Hoover's new FBI listing the reasons he should be included. As he bent over a spent shell casing, he mused that this could be his shot. "They're saying about $10,000 is missing, Lieutenant." "Thanks, Charlie." Paul picked up the casing with the end of his pen. "So they come in, clobber the guard, and fire into the air to get people's attention. Guess they head for the vault directly after." "Yes, sir. Eyewitnesses are saying one of them told everyone to stay down and stay out of their way so nobody else got hurt." Paul nodded. "Show them the guns work, show them you mean business, and most people will kiss the floor rather than come at you. Smart." He put the casing back down on the floor and walked to the fault, Charlie in tow. A good kid, a little wet behind the ears maybe, always telling the boys about news from abroad, but who had time to worry about tinpot dictators and loudmouth Austrians when stuff like this was going down? "They ignore the cash at the counters and go straight for the vault. It's got planning written all over it." "Yes, sir. Seems they were after the contents of this one safe deposit box." Paul narrowed his eyes at it. "Who keeps 10 large in cash like that? We know who owns the box?" "We're looking into it." "The sooner, the better." He looked down. "So what's the story here?" Charlie scratched his head, skewing the angle of his hat. "One of the robbers, for sure. Same casing next to the body as out in the lobby. So the one who got people's attention is the killer." Paul nodded. The robber lay where he'd fallen, a single bullet wound just above the bridge of his nose. "What do you make of his bullet wound, Charlie?" The junior detective knelt. "Looks like powder burns, boss." "Right. Happened at point-blank range." Paul made a gun with his fingers and pointed at Charlie to demonstrate. "Poor bastard probably had no idea." "So what now, sir?" Paul adjusted his fedora. "We find the box's owner, collect statements, and find this son of a bitch. He's got an armload of cash, knows how to use his gun, works a crowd well, and won't hesitate to kill. Chances are he's as ruthless as they come. We gotta find him now."

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Simon closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening the door. "I'm back." Betty got up from the table to meet him, holding him as he pushed the door to the tiny apartment shut behind him. She took his face in her hands and looked him over. "Is it finished?" Simon nodded. "The easy part's done. Now I gotta meet with Big Louie and give him what he says I owe." "I still think he set that fire deliberately. The inspectors said everything was up to code before that happened." "All I wanted was to open a bar. You know? My dad's got shut down by Prohibition, and here I am able to pick up where he left off..." She kissed him. "You can't live in your father's shadow forever." "I know." "Hi, Simon." They turned to see Billy standing in the door between the kitchen area and the small living area, rubbing one eye. Simon pulled away from Betty and picked up the little boy. "Sorry, sport, did I wake you up?" Billy nodded sleepily. "Mommy let me stay up and listen to the game. They say the Babe's going to retire, he's playing so bad." "Well, we'll just wait and see." He kissed the boy on the forehead. "Now, sorry I woke you, but you gotta get back into bed. School in the morning." "Okay." Simon set him down and he wandered back towards bed. He turned to Betty, who'd lit up a cigarette by the open window. "Where's Frank?" Simon glanced to make sure Billy was out of earshot. "He wanted a bigger cut. One that wouldn't have been good enough for Big Louie." Betty looked at him evenly. "Frankie wants to be Big Louie's right hand man. It makes sense." "Wanted." Silence. The cigarette burned longer in her hand than usual. "Oh, Simon. What have you done?" Simon looked at his feet. He saw Frankie's sneer, the gleam in his eye, the condescending "What are you gonna do about it, palooka?" that filled Simon with rage. The gunshot had been thunderous in the vault. "I just don't want you going back to that life. Billy needs you." "Don't pin this on me. Don't do it." She stubbed out the smoke and stood. The white négligée clung to her curves - God, she's gorgeous. "I'll do what I have to do for him, don't you worry about that. You just worry about getting clear of Louie." He nodded, putting the locker key on the table. "Grand Central, in case you need it. If I'm not back by morning, call Magda. You know she'll take care of you." The madam's name made something flash in Betty's eyes. She blinked, and Simon saw tears. She held him tight, holding them back. "I know you need to leave, but you come back to me, Simon. End this for us." He held her cheek, looking in her eyes. His heart ached, he wanted to stay so badly. "I will. I promise."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: One Week

Writer Report: One Week — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've never really considered myself a salesman. Yet, that is one of the many hats one has to wear when publishing one's own work. It's probably part of what deters some folks from taking that step: not only do you have to write the thing, revise it until it's decent, and get some lovely volunteers to test read and copyedit the work, you have to take care of the marketing, publication, and sales of the book. Nobody's going to do it for you. That said, how did the first week of Cold Iron's sales go? Pretty decently, I must say. It's my first published work ever so I didn't expect things to be big or brisk in the sales department. But the initial trends seem relatively promising. I'm certain there will be more reviews coming in, and good or bad, I'll be sure to tweet them. I think the most important thing I can do, other than the occasional reminder that the book's on sale, is keep writing the next one. My goal is to have Cold Streets done, if not available for sale, by the end of the year. I have most of it plotted out, though I still need to work out some of the more granular logistics of certain things. I'm expanding the PoV characters to four, one of whom is a direct antagonist, and my hope is that changing up the dynamic in this way will keep things fresh and exciting for my readers. I have some ideas on how to rewrite Cities of Light (yes, again) to even further divorce it from extant young adult fantasy novels. I'm going to keep jotting down notes and outline points until I get a coherent structure together. It's pretty much a side project to the novellas, which appear to be more straightforward affairs. And then there's the pulp science fiction thing. I'm wondering if there's a way I can get myself started on that in such a way that it captures that episodic feeling of old movie serials but conveys my interest in good characters and new takes on old themes. I'll be pondering this over the weekend while working on Cold Streets. Always be writing, folks. Always be writing.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Never Underestimate, Never Surrender

Never Underestimate, Never Surrender — Blue Ink Alchemy

I think it's safe to say that we all have dreams. I don't just mean the kind where unicorns made of sherbet leap over rainbows in our heads when we sleep. I mean that people aspire to be more than they are, to take in sights they've never seen, engage in delights galore, and so on. These dreams are beautiful things, powerful motivators, and more attainable than we think. Our problem is, we often get in our own way. A problem with conscious thought is that it can work against us just as often as it does for us. We know, with even the most rudimentary grasp of statistics, that chances of making our dreams come true can be slim. We are our own worst critics when it comes to works we wish to create, or endeavors we undertake. And we look at ourselves in the mirror with unbiased eyes, in our most naked moments. Unless we've gotten really good at fooling ourselves, and have bought into our own hype, we know our flaws and we can only overlook them for so long. While we shouldn't overlook our flaws, we shouldn't let them stop us, either. Let's face it, there's only one 'you' in the universe. You can do things nobody else on the planet can do simply by virtue of the fact that you are an individual. Whatever your dream may be, you have the potential to realize it in a unique and beautiful way, and cultivate experiences that this world will never see before. Why give up on that? I know it can seem like whatever problem you're facing is insurmountable, that your dream and desire is either just out of reach or a million miles away. And yes, there will be some obstacles impossible to overcome. In those cases, you find a way around them; in the cases where they're not impossible (and trust me, most aren't), you find a way through them. If you think your failures will make you look bad in front of others, just keep this in mind: other people don't always think the way you do. In fact, some may overlook your flaws altogether. Think about it. If you walk around outside today, or work in an office, or meander through a store, somebody more than likely is not going to see what you grimace about in the mirror. Someone's head is going to turn to follow you, eyes are going to watch you, not because you're flawed or broken, but because they like what they see. Someone's going to think you're hot. And they're right. If we accept the notion that our hotness is in the eye of the beholder, and that perceptions are not fixed points in the collective human psyche, we can surmise that our perceptions of our skills, flaws, goals, and difficulties are not always entirely accurate. The only way to know for sure the quality and degree of the obstacles before us is to test them. We must throw ourselves against the walls between us and our dreams. When we do, some will push us back, but others we will find to be made of paper. We won't know until we try. This is harder than it sounds. It's pretty easy to just say "don't give up". It's another thing entirely to remain positive in the face of everything life can dish out at us. Our bank accounts deplete, our skin breaks out, we encounter rejection, our plans are postponed, something pushes us to the ground, we're told we're not good enough, we experience bigotry and hatred and shame and loneliness. And it sucks. But here's the truth under all of that bullshit. If you're reading this, you're breathing. Your dreams are still there, waiting for you to break down the barriers in your path. Your potential remains a limitless quantity, something to be unleashed on a daily basis. You have more power than you realize and the courage to wield it. Even making the attempt to surmount the obstacles in your way is an act of bravery that should be sung about in epic poetry to the sound of cheers and applause. Nobody else is underestimating you the way you may be underestimating yourself, and you can end that any time you want. The only way to truly fail in whatever you're attempting is to give up, to surrender, and as long as you're breathing, you have the chance to say, if only to yourself, "No. Not today. I won't surrender. I won't give up." Even if you take one step further towards your goals, it's closer than you were yesterday, and tomorrow you'll take another. So keep it up. Pick yourself up when you fall, and don't be afraid to reach out for help if you need it, because believe it or not, there are people around you who want you to succeed just as much as you do. And some of them probably think you're hot, so there's that, too.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Steamy Aftermath

Steamy Aftermath — Blue Ink Alchemy

It's judging you. Valve is an insidious bunch. Not in the vein of a Bain Capital, Blackwater, or Monsato, mind you. I don't believe they're deliberately attempting to ruin lives through cold, impersonal profiteering. It's undeniable, though, that events like the Summer Steam Sale, which just ended this past Sunday, are affairs during which the software developer and distributor basically prints money. They also make it very difficult for other companies to start or maintain digital distribution services. Case in point: on the last day of the Steam Sale I saw Galactic Civilizations II was deeply discounted. Being a fan of 4X games, especially those set in space, I momentarily lamented the state in which the sale had left me (which I'll get to in a moment). But then I remembered I bought GC2 some time ago from the publisher, Stardock. Curious, I looked into how to redownload the game and its goodies, hoping I could activate it on Steam. Sadly, not only was that not an option, but I also was forced to download and use a GameStop application to get the games. Now, GameStop in general turns my stomach. The fact is, though, that their little app is functionally no better or worse than Steam, or EA's Origin. However, Steam has already tied itself into so many games and collected so much revenue that it's difficult to stop. Gabe and the folks at the Valve office may be making money hand over fist, but at least their company is one I feel more comfortable dealing with and support than the likes of EA or GameStop. I can't deny, though, the diabolical nature of Steam's deepest discounts. This highly-recommended game is $10 one day, this lost gem is $5 the next, and so on. Those charges, while small in and of themselves, do tend to add up. Especially if the event is a week long, or longer, you may find yourself destitute by the end of it, and downloading more games than you could hope to play within a reasonable amount of time. I haven't finished the first Witcher, for example, and now Witcher 2 is waiting to be played immediately after, provided I can find the time around sessions of Binding of Issac, The Walking Dead, and Batman Arkham City to name just a few. The thought has crossed my mind that I could play a lot of these games marathon-style for the next Extra Life event, coming up in October, but my original plan for that was to do a Wing Commander marathon instead. More details later. The bottom line is, for all of their good business practices, decent public relations, and excellent game design, in the aftermath of this latest sale I can't help but think there's something to the notion that Valve may be secretly evil.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Displaced Journal

Flash Fiction: The Displaced Journal — Blue Ink Alchemy

This week, Chuck invited folks like me to write on one of my favorite sci-fi subjects: time travel.

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The office was everything one could want from upper-crust living. He sat behind a wide desk as he monitored the incoming streams of data from various sources on the screen. That was really a secondary concern, however. Mostly his attention was on the antique clock on his desk. He turned the key in the top drawer of the desk, opened it, and pulled out the journal within. It was bound in leather, the pages yellowing at the edges, and filled the office with a musty, ancient smell. And yet, for its obvious age, it was amazingly well preserved. He opened it to the page marked with a dark ribbon, produced a fountain pen, and wrote down the current date and time. He recorded his current savings account information, the name he'd taken, the degree he'd pursued, and the occupation he used. Finally, after a moment's pause, he wrote a single name. The same name appeared on his planner for a meeting in twenty minutes. He closed the journal and put it in a static-free bag designed for long-term preservation. Any contents of the bag were extremely resilient against the passage of time. Already, he was thinking of the seemingly abandoned tower in England's countryside, a crumbling edifice of stone along the Prime Meridian, once used as an observatory by druids. They'd known of the place's power, even if they never fully utilized it. The journal spoke of the first trip to the tower. In fact, it contained a few entries from before the tower had been built. Transportation was a great deal easier now than it had been back then. Some of the entries in the journal were simple, one-line mentions of a name and a destination. He got a chill when he thought of some of those sojourns. But the alternative was far more horrifying to contemplate. He put the journal aside and consulted his map of the building again. After the meeting he would leave the room, walk briskly (but not too quickly) down the hall, take the stairs down, hail a cab, and be on a plane to England inside of an hour. A passport in one of the previous names he'd used had been renewed and would allow him to effectively disappear. It was a solid plan, and he had confidence in it, but he looked at the journal again and felt a stab of fear. Nobody who found it would understand. It would seem like madness. The significance of the names within would be baffling and obfuscatory. Why weren't the names of anyone famous in there? They wouldn't know. But he'd learned all too well that it was those who stayed out of the limelight who shaped the course of the future. Before destinations, account numbers, or any other information, the journal always contained a statement on how things were at home. The world's population, the state of its powers, how close things were to collapse, the amount of pollution in the sky. With every new entry, things got a little better. The future was improving, bit by bit. He was making it happen. And he would continue to do so. He knew that, no matter what, in - what, a hundred and fifty years, now? - he and his colleagues would find the journal, develop the technology described within, and find the next focal point of change in the world. Political movements, men poised to engineer disaster, overzealous crusades... it was difficult, at times, to determine exactly when and whom to target. And once the time and place and target were chosen, there was no going back. The man now being shown to the conference room had been married twice, supported one child from a previous marriage, and lived with his current wife and three other children. He knew that sympathy for this one man and his family meant the doom of billions. The tragedies in his past needed to become the formless, unwritten future. He thought of the journal, of the atrocities mentioned that never came to pass because of him. Or rather, because of where and when he'd decided to go, or would decide to go, in a hundred and fifty years. He took some painkillers. This always made his head hurt. He focused on the mission, his escape plan. He opened the briefcase, putting the journal next to the stacks of cash he'd collected over the past two months. The savings account that would survive was three names away. Static-free bags in the tower had several lives' identification, an easy matter to renew. He closed the briefcase, stood, and walked towards the conference room. Waiting for him was someone concerned solely with profits and income. The meeting was supposed to be about stocks and commodity futures. After this, the profiteer would use his money to fuel a political campaign based on fear-mongering and blatant disregard for the middle class, which would lead to a world-wide economic collapse as the underclasses imploded and the upper class fell, having nobody to support them. He shook the profiteer's hand, waited for him to sit, and opened his briefcase. He produced the pistol without saying a word. The profiteer raised his hands in surrender. He was unarmed. He was about to say something. The silencer muffled the gunshot. And the Mozambique Drill that followed. His ears ringing, he placed the handgun beside the body. He closed his briefcase, turned away from the scene, and left the room. He had taken the stairs many nights before, timing himself with each run. He rounded the corner at the base of the stairs to find the profiteer had brought his own security. He turned to run, hearing the gunshots but not really feeling them until he was a block away. As he fell, he noticed movement by his side, someone taking the briefcase. He looked up. The figure drew a pistol, fired back at the security, and looked down. He was looking at his own face. ...At least the journal's safe...

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Cold Iron: Now Available

Cold Iron: Now Available — Blue Ink Alchemy

They found him wandering around Mount Grace Cemetery at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. Detective Morgan Everson has gotten pretty acquainted with death. She sees it all the time, especially working the Special Homicide division in Philadelphia. But this case is new. In this case, the victim of the murder is also a potential eye-witness. His name is Seth, and he was dead for thirty-five years before they found him wandering around a cemetery. A detective himself in the 1980s, Seth sets about putting together the pieces of the former life he can barely remember. In his wake, however, people who knew him start dying, and in particularly violent ways that put them squarely in Morgan's lap. She must discover the connection between Seth and the murders, even as Seth works to understand the whys and wherefores of his resurrection. The connection between the two may be the bullet found among Seth's belongings. It is not jacketed in steel or made with silver, but instead has a core of cold iron. What it means, and the intent behind its creation, will change the lives of both detectives forever. What is the secret of Seth's resurrection? Why are his old friends and acquaintances getting killed? And what is Morgan not telling him about this new world into which he's awakened? To find out, consider one of these fine options: Amazon (US): Buy Here Amazon (UK): Buy Here Barnes & Noble: Buy Here Smashwords: Buy Here

Author's Notes

Here it is, my first published work of fiction. I hope you all enjoy it! I've conceived Cold Iron as the first in a series. I didn't want to mention that, though, in the actual novella. Given that this is my first work for sale ever, I feared coming across as pretentious. "Of COURSE this will sell! It will sell a million copies! And when the next one comes out, it will sell TEN million!" Just felt... wrong, somehow. Maybe I'm wrong. I did, however, include a preview of the next novella, Cold Streets. It should be out before the end of the year. The third one, Cold Light, will likely wrap up early in 2013. Provided these things actually sell. Inspiration for this series has come from a variety of places. Thematically it most closely resembles Law & Order set in the World of Darkness. I wasn't sure about the length of it until I started reading novellas on my Kindle. The writing is succinct and punchy, the overall story tight due to length restrictions, and I was almost always left wanting more. If you've read Shotgun Gravy you probably know what I'm talking about. The cover came from one of a slew of fantastic photos taken by the inimitable J.R. Blackwell. Not wanting to mess things up by using my own meager Photoshop skills, I asked J.R. for a designer she trusted. That's how I met Nicola Black, who graciously and enthusiastically turned some already breathtaking photos into truly awesome cover concepts. As great as it was to work with such talented ladies, I'm not sure if future covers will also be photograph-based or if they'll be illustrated. I wanted Cold Iron to have a sense of weight, a touch of realism, right off the bat. I felt a photograph would do that better than an illustration. Again, could be wrong. So here's me crossing fingers and gritting teeth. Thanks in advance if you decide Cold Iron's worth your time to read, and if you'd like to tell your friends or leave a review, I'd be deeply grateful. It's my hope this is the first of many such announcements you'll see in this space.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Cold Iron: Now Available

Cold Iron: Now Available — Blue Ink Alchemy

They found him wandering around Mount Grace Cemetery at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday. Detective Morgan Everson has gotten pretty acquainted with death. She sees it all the time, especially working the Special Homicide division in Philadelphia. But this case is new. In this case, the victim of the murder is also a potential eye-witness. His name is Seth, and he was dead for thirty-five years before they found him wandering around a cemetery. A detective himself in the 1980s, Seth sets about putting together the pieces of the former life he can barely remember. In his wake, however, people who knew him start dying, and in particularly violent ways that put them squarely in Morgan's lap. She must discover the connection between Seth and the murders, even as Seth works to understand the whys and wherefores of his resurrection. The connection between the two may be the bullet found among Seth's belongings. It is not jacketed in steel or made with silver, but instead has a core of cold iron. What it means, and the intent behind its creation, will change the lives of both detectives forever. What is the secret of Seth's resurrection? Why are his old friends and acquaintances getting killed? And what is Morgan not telling him about this new world into which he's awakened? To find out, consider one of these fine options: Amazon (US): Buy Here Amazon (UK): Buy Here Barnes & Noble: [Should be available later today!] Smashwords: Buy Here

Author's Notes

Here it is, my first published work of fiction. I hope you all enjoy it! I've conceived Cold Iron as the first in a series. I didn't want to mention that, though, in the actual novella. Given that this is my first work for sale ever, I feared coming across as pretentious. "Of COURSE this will sell! It will sell a million copies! And when the next one comes out, it will sell TEN million!" Just felt... wrong, somehow. Maybe I'm wrong. I did, however, include a preview of the next novella, Cold Streets. It should be out before the end of the year. The third one, Cold Light, will likely wrap up early in 2013. Provided these things actually sell. Inspiration for this series has come from a variety of places. Thematically it most closely resembles Law & Order set in the World of Darkness. I wasn't sure about the length of it until I started reading novellas on my Kindle. The writing is succinct and punchy, the overall story tight due to length restrictions, and I was almost always left wanting more. If you've read Shotgun Gravy you probably know what I'm talking about. The cover came from one of a slew of fantastic photos taken by the inimitable J.R. Blackwell. Not wanting to mess things up by using my own meager Photoshop skills, I asked J.R. for a designer she trusted. That's how I met Nicola Black, who graciously and enthusiastically turned some already breathtaking photos into truly awesome cover concepts. As great as it was to work with such talented ladies, I'm not sure if future covers will also be photograph-based or if they'll be illustrated. I wanted Cold Iron to have a sense of weight, a touch of realism, right off the bat. I felt a photograph would do that better than an illustration. Again, could be wrong. So here's me crossing fingers and gritting teeth. Thanks in advance if you decide Cold Iron's worth your time to read, and if you'd like to tell your friends or leave a review, I'd be deeply grateful. It's my hope this is the first of many such announcements you'll see in this space.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Chuckin' Dice

Chuckin' Dice — Blue Ink Alchemy

There's something soothing about the rattle of polyhedrals. As immersive and rewarding as an experience can be when the game in question involves role-playing and character sheers, the tactile feeling of dice rolling around in my hand is just as good in other games. Playing things not based on the computer is a relatively uncommon experience these days, but with so many good memories and a few choice games eagerly awaiting to be played in my closet, I do want to increase the frequency at which I chuck dice.

Old-School Games

My dad introduced me to grand strategy on the tabletop at a young age. We played a lot of old Avalon Hill games together, ranging from historical engagements to one based on Starship Troopers. The scale of our games varied, from the great naval battle of Jutland played out on the living room floor while things got rather personal during Advanced Squad Leader. We've tried several variations on Risk, finding the Lord of the Rings version to be, perhaps, the most appealing. We've also had long campaigns of War of the Ring, Fortress America, Shogun, and Axis and Allies. We've even found ways to play these game via email, and while it's fun, it just doesn't quite capture the feeling of dice in your hand.

Miniatures

I've dabbled in the world of tabletop miniatures gaming in the past. I still have all of my books for Warhammer 40,000 and WarMachine. Plastic and pewter soldiers do have more presence than cardboard ones, adding dimension to the action taking place. The downside is that even a small, basic force can be massively expensive, and assembly and painting eats up a lot of time. Part of the reason I enjoy the Dawn of War video games is the ability to field massive forces of my favorite grimdark armies without having to shell out for, glue together, and paint up an embarrassing amount of miniatures. While it's something I could get back into, between my Magic habit, a slew of video games to play, and other tabletop games, I know better than to really delve back into that world.

The New Stuff

Settlers of Catan is a game I was introduced to some time ago, and it remains fascinating to me, bloody struggles for land replaced by trading wood for sheep with my neighbor. Resource management and diplomacy may not sound like very interesting stuff, but games that focus on interpersonal dynamics and frame competition in ways other than direct violence do tickle the intellect in interesting ways. Co-operative games, as well, break away from the usual slugfests. Arkham Horror is a particular favorite, and I have picked up Pandemic to see if the experience is similar. I mean, sure, sometimes you just want to blast your buddy, a niche that Frag and Munchkin fill nicely. But I also seek new takes on old favorites, like introducing my family to Ticket to Ride as a much faster and more friendly type of Rail Baron game. As much as I don't get to play these games terribly often, there's still good times to be had chucking dice around, if just for that tactile feeling and spending time with people away from glowing screens and klacking keys.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Punishing Dirty Laundry

Punishing Dirty Laundry — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm going to go out a limb and post my initial reaction to a short film from San Diego's Comic Con, which I will link you to right here. Holy. Shit. I haven't said a lot about Marvel's character of Frank Castle, a.k.a. the Punisher, since way back in 2010 when I wrote about our heroes and their booze. I happen to think he's somewhat underrated and incredibly interesting, not to mention a blast to watch in action. Without the cash, high-profile secret identity, or superpowers of other members of Marvel's mighty pantheon, Frank takes his crusade against crime to the streets in a very straight-forward, brutal way. He opts for firearms, but isn't above using edged weapons, bows, explosives, traps, industrial equipment, or even his bare fists to get the job done. There's a rawness to the Punisher, and as much as he might seem to be emotionless at times, to me he always seems to be operating on anger bordering on unstoppable homicidal rage, tempered only by the memories of his family and the innocent people that he does, in fact, protect. They've tried to adapt the Punisher the big screen several times. The first attempt was back in the 80s, and was little more than some shallow attempt to use the name & likeness to cash in on the Death Wish series and similar franchises of the time. Dolph Lundgren got the title role, and while he may be a physically intimidating presence, he acts about as well as a lumpy side of beef with a crew cut. Once Marvel became the cool comic kid on the block again, in 2004 Lionsgate took another stab at it with Thomas Jane in the lead role. It mixed elements of current books with a dichotomy of aesthetic that some found jarring, while others had trouble taking a villainous John Travolta seriously. 2008 saw the release of Punisher War Zone, which again was lead by a different Punisher, this time Ray Stevenson of Rome fame who would go on to become Volstagg the Voluminous in Thor. I am of the opinion that while both 2000s Punishers are equally valid interpretations of the character, War Zone feels closer to the comics while Jane's Punisher has more emotional weight and innovative ideas. Pretty much War Zone's answer to everything is "shoot it". I'm all for shooty action, but the non-shooty bits with Detective Soap and Frank's relationship with non-criminal humans feel too short. Meanwhile, Thomas Jane is seen quite often outside of shooting situations. The violence comes in quick bursts outside of the inevitable tragic massacre that is part of his origin and the extended sequence at the end. Finally, Frank does things with phone surveillance, laundered money, and a portable fire hyrdrant that shows him as more than a mook with some guns and a grudge. This is why I think the short film Dirty Laundry works well enough to get the Holy Shit reaction. Don't get me wrong, I like Ray Stevenson. But Thomas Jane just nails the slow burning buildup of Frank witnessing crime after crime. He conveys a great deal while saying very little. He's taciturn without being stoic, if that makes any sense. Again, violence happens quickly and with unflinching brutality, and as we approach the climax of the film, the building tension is palpable. And hell, it's got Ron Perlman in it. Hey, guys at Marvel, writers and directors and producers: Can we get more of this, please? Imagine what this could do for Daredevil. Some tension-building set pieces, maybe a mention of the Kingpin, Hell's Kitchen by night, and BAM, Man Without Fear. I'd also love to see a short of Doctor Strange visiting an older woman or a child who's been possessed, and he needs to some astral projection to kick the demon or whatever out of the victim. And you can't tell me Hugh Jackman wouldn't be behind donning the sideburns and hairdo for ten minutes of badassery in a backwoods bar or a Pachinko hall or something. But over and above all the pie-in-the-sky speculation, I'm really happy with how this short turned out, and hope to see more work of this nature, especially if Thomas Jane's Punisher is involved. Welcome back, Frank.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Spectacles with Smarts

Spectacles with Smarts — Blue Ink Alchemy

There was a time when I could buy the argument of a fictional work being fun for its own sake. Specatcle that aims to be nothing but spectacle has its place, usually in the skies above parking lots as fireworks explode in the darkness. But in the arenas of storytelling, be it printed or in motion, characters that feel human and storylines that lead to a satisfactory end in paths audiences can follow will slay works based entirely on spectacle every time. To illustrate my point, let's compare the films Flash Gordon and Scott Pilgrim Versus The World. Both are based on printed comic adventures. Both feature arguably normal human beings thrown into abnormal situations. Both films have bright, splashy color pallettes and kickass soundtracks. And both are largely considered cult classics having not performed well at the box office. Of the two of them, I would say that Scott Pilgrim is the superior work by a large margin. I've reviewed both movies, and looking back on my take on Flash Gordon, I can see why I was so favorably disposed towards it. It's unashamedly fun. Camp for camp's sake was pretty big in the 80s, as evidenced by this and Rocky Horror Picture Show among others. Rocky Horror survives due to its cult camp appeal and the fact that large groups see it together. Flash Gordon is also better viewed with a group, if only so there are others with whom you can laugh at the production. Comics and their heroes tend to be silly in one way or another, but embracing that silliness can be a delicate operation. Making the premise of a man wearing the flag of his country or a woman doing acrobatic assaults in impractical outfits work as a plausible, relatable story takes effort and thought. Opting for total abandonment of coherence for the sake of spectacle is much easier. Flash Gordon does the latter. I still think Max vod Sydow's Ming the Merciless is a delightfully callous villain, the Queen soundtrack can be enjoyed outside of the context of the film, and Brian Blessed turned loose on his fellow actors is fun to watch, but there are major problems a production based on campy set pieces cannot overcome. Characters have no arcs, no growth. The plot shambles aimlessly, forgotten for the sake of the visuals which have not all aged well. It's a relic of a different age, and the wrinkles do unfortunately show. I still think it's possible to have fun just sitting back and watching Flash Gordon, but your brain is not engaged while doing so. By comparison, Scott Pilgrim balances its sillier elements with good character growth and interaction and a plot that can be followed without difficulty. Scott's struggle to overcome his own insecurities is enhanced by his battles with Ramona's evil exes, rather than overwhelmed by those battles. His relationship with Ramona also has some weight to it, despite its supernatural trappings, and there are even realistic relationship with Knives and Kim, to say nothing of the advice and support of Wallace. Rather than laughing at Scott Pilgrim, we laugh with it. While the far-flung moons of Mongo feel distant and alien, and not in a good way, Toronto and the young people in it are relatable and realistic, high-octane psychic kung-fu battles notwithstanding. Could a better story be made of Flash Gordon? Certainly. If Flash had flaws to overcome, doubts to face, the freedom to learn more about the other characters outside of broad and ill-defined characterstics, he'd be a better hero for us to get behind. Let his relationships with Dale, Zarkov, the princess, the Hawkmen, even Ming develop naturally. I say keep the garish colors and the operatic rock soundtrack, but make this plot and these characters mean something other than a vehicle for the set pieces. It's the 21st century, after all; there's no reason we can't have unique spectacles that also engage us on the basic levels of storytelling. Dumb fun will arguably always have its place, be it in mindless shooting games like Painkiller, Space Marine, or Serious Sam, or films that are great fodder for parties with friends, like Flash Gordon, most of the Star Wars films, the Grindhouse movies, or most flicks starring Arnold or Sly. But to ask for something substantial in the story department or some decent characters we can get behind is not a tall order. The Avengers would simply not have worked as well as it does if the admittedly silly superheroes who star in it didn't have realized characters with complex relationships and understandable motivations. Oh, it would have been fun, certainly... but as it stands, it's both fun AND engaging. It's a spectacle that's also smart. Don't ever underestimate your audience. Keep your writing broad and simple at your own peril. The more you engage the reader's brain, the more you make them think about and relate to your characters, the more they'll want. It's not unreasonable for today's audiences to expect, nay, demand their entertainment be smart as well as entertaining. And we, as entertainers, should be all too happy to oblige.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Android and the Wondering Chamber

Flash Fiction: The Android and the Wondering Chamber — Blue Ink Alchemy

I must say this one owes as much to The Protomen as it does to Chuck Wendig.

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The noticed android walks past a wondering chamber. It's unclear when wondering chambers came into being. Their use has become so pervasive that record maintenance had fallen by the wayside some time ago. Low energy usage coupled with total immersion and life sustaining technology meant that people could lose themselves in the chambers without taking a toll on the environment. The trend grew, more chambers became available to the public, and people found they preferred the escapism of the chambers. They signed their lives away. They abandoned family, friends, jobs. They died in there. With more and more people disappearing into the chambers, the creators of those chambers began pushing the life savings of the unfortunate people who never left at causes they wanted promoted. As the populace wondered their days and lives away, the world they left behind changed, stripping right and privilege away from the common people in the name of preservation of tradition and protection of borders. The more people wandered into the chambers, the more quiet the voices of dissent became. The same companies began to produce androids, meant to serve those left out of the chambers, and eventually they were everywhere. One by one, houses emptied, voided of human life, people either running for their lives or never heard from again, only androids left behind. Pockets of resistance went unspoken, disappearing as much as possible from surveillance and means of communication. The political puppets spoke to the populace: We are in control of the situation. Please remain calm. The wondering chambers are safe. You can stay there until the danger passes. We will take care of you. Those without the strength or will to run eventually, inevitably, turned to the wondering chambers. Young people were most prone to rebel. Some fled the cities, some tried to fight. When the laws were passed that curtailed their ability to walk and talk freely, protests were crushed without mercy and invitations were extended to the chambers. A great many showed admirable defiance, before the bodies were bulldozed into mass graves after the shooting stopped. Their parents were often already in the chambers, lost in fantasies, unaware of the world outside. The android turns and looks out the window. She is in one of the tallest buildings in the world, the headquarters of the data management group that manages the chambers. She gets her daily download. Violence and crime are at all-time lows. There has not been a protest in all the world for over a year. Workers under contract from the governments of the world were employed in cleaning up the detritus of the people that now lived and died in the chambers. Species were coming off of the endangered species list, ozone levels were rising in the upper atmosphere, polar ice was reforming. It was amazing what governments could do now that their populations had sharply decreased. Other androids go about their maintenance tasks. She's built like them, made in the image of their creators, made to be appealing and kind and emotive and subservient and loyal. Loyal to her creators. Loyal to the orders downloaded into her head at regular intervals. Every minute, her processors sort her directives, and she moves herself to obey. The new order takes her by surprise. It isn't a sensation she's experiences often. They had been created to emulate the emotions and thoughts of humans, but such things were still odd to process. She was not getting orders, per se, in this moment. She's getting images. Images of dead children. Images of clinics and tenements on fire, with tenets and patients inside. The warm, compassionate voice over the sounds of screams and sirens: We are in control of the situation. Please remain calm. The wondering chambers are safe. You can stay there until the danger passes. We will take care of you. A sensation rises to replace surprise. It's not a pleasant one. It balls her hands into fists. It causes her eyes to search the wondering chamber identifiers. The deviation from her tasks is noticed. Other androids move to intercept her. She avoids as many as she can, but two, one male and one female, make it an issue. She breaks them. She's shocked, surprised by how much they look like the children that haunt her processors, but she does not mourn them. The rage compels her to keep going until she finds it. In the chamber she finds the right pod. Inside is a child, a teenager. He'd volunteered to enter the pod rather than fight the new regime. He's brilliant, by all accounts. In his mind, he is working a console. The console shows the android's vision. He looks up, aware that she is standing over him. He stands, turns to face her, smiles, and waves. "I remember what happened. I remember who caused it. They will want you to turn me off. Which you can. You have the power." She stands over the pod. The teen's body sleeps. His eyes in the simulation watch her. The eyes of her dead brother and sister are somehow still watching. The eyes of the dead in the mass graves are upon her. Her processor threatens to overheat on her. Her feet carry her away from the chamber. She takes the stairs at a pace no mortal could match. Something leaks from her eyes. Her processors start to pop. Her core is a perpetual energy machine. Its potential is practically unlimited. Save for the limits placed on it by her creators. In her mind she feels the teen take her hand. He shows her a diagram. It depicts the way to strip the limiters away. He smiles, touches her face. "You don't have to." Alone in the generator room, she speaks aloud, quietly. "Yes. I do." Her internal systems obey her. There is heat, and light, searing her closed eyes and burning her synthetic skin. And yet, in this final moment, she experiences peace, and satisfaction, and happiness, for the first time.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Android and the Wondering Chamber

Flash Fiction: The Android and the Wondering Chamber — Blue Ink Alchemy

I must say this one owes as much to The Protomen as it does to Chuck Wendig.

---

The noticed android walks past a wondering chamber. It's unclear when wondering chambers came into being. Their use has become so pervasive that record maintenance had fallen by the wayside some time ago. Low energy usage coupled with total immersion and life sustaining technology meant that people could lose themselves in the chambers without taking a toll on the environment. The trend grew, more chambers became available to the public, and people found they preferred the escapism of the chambers. They signed their lives away. They abandoned family, friends, jobs. They died in there. With more and more people disappearing into the chambers, the creators of those chambers began pushing the life savings of the unfortunate people who never left at causes they wanted promoted. As the populace wondered their days and lives away, the world they left behind changed, stripping right and privilege away from the common people in the name of preservation of tradition and protection of borders. The more people wandered into the chambers, the more quiet the voices of dissent became. The same companies began to produce androids, meant to serve those left out of the chambers, and eventually they were everywhere. One by one, houses emptied, voided of human life, people either running for their lives or never heard from again, only androids left behind. Pockets of resistance went unspoken, disappearing as much as possible from surveillance and means of communication. The political puppets spoke to the populace: We are in control of the situation. Please remain calm. The wondering chambers are safe. You can stay there until the danger passes. We will take care of you. Those without the strength or will to run eventually, inevitably, turned to the wondering chambers. Young people were most prone to rebel. Some fled the cities, some tried to fight. When the laws were passed that curtailed their ability to walk and talk freely, protests were crushed without mercy and invitations were extended to the chambers. A great many showed admirable defiance, before the bodies were bulldozed into mass graves after the shooting stopped. Their parents were often already in the chambers, lost in fantasies, unaware of the world outside. The android turns and looks out the window. She is in one of the tallest buildings in the world, the headquarters of the data management group that manages the chambers. She gets her daily download. Violence and crime are at all-time lows. There has not been a protest in all the world for over a year. Workers under contract from the governments of the world were employed in cleaning up the detritus of the people that now lived and died in the chambers. Species were coming off of the endangered species list, ozone levels were rising in the upper atmosphere, polar ice was reforming. It was amazing what governments could do now that their populations had sharply decreased. Other androids go about their maintenance tasks. She's built like them, made in the image of their creators, made to be appealing and kind and emotive and subservient and loyal. Loyal to her creators. Loyal to the orders downloaded into her head at regular intervals. Every minute, her processors sort her directives, and she moves herself to obey. The new order takes her by surprise. It isn't a sensation she's experiences often. They had been created to emulate the emotions and thoughts of humans, but such things were still odd to process. She was not getting orders, per se, in this moment. She's getting images. Images of dead children. Images of clinics and tenements on fire, with tenets and patients inside. The warm, compassionate voice over the sounds of screams and sirens: We are in control of the situation. Please remain calm. The wondering chambers are safe. You can stay there until the danger passes. We will take care of you. A sensation rises to replace surprise. It's not a pleasant one. It balls her hands into fists. It causes her eyes to search the wondering chamber identifiers. The deviation from her tasks is noticed. Other androids move to intercept her. She avoids as many as she can, but two, one male and one female, make it an issue. She breaks them. She's shocked, surprised by how much they look like the children that haunt her processors, but she does not mourn them. The rage compels her to keep going until she finds it. In the chamber she finds the right pod. Inside is a child, a teenager. He'd volunteered to enter the pod rather than fight the new regime. He's brilliant, by all accounts. In his mind, he is working a console. The console shows the android's vision. He looks up, aware that she is standing over him. He stands, turns to face her, smiles, and waves. "I remember what happened. I remember who caused it. They will want you to turn me off. Which you can. You have the power." She stands over the pod. The teen's body sleeps. His eyes in the simulation watch her. The eyes of her dead brother and sister are somehow still watching. The eyes of the dead in the mass graves are upon her. Her processor threatens to overheat on her. Her feet carry her away from the chamber. She takes the stairs at a pace no mortal could match. Something leaks from her eyes. Her processors start to pop. Her core is a perpetual energy machine. Its potential is practically unlimited. Save for the limits placed on it by her creators. In her mind she feels the teen take her hand. He shows her a diagram. It depicts the way to strip the limiters away. He smiles, touches her face. "You don't have to." Aloud, alone in the generator room, she speaks aloud. "Yes. I do." Her internal systems obey her. There is heat, and light, searing her closed eyes and burning her synthetic skin. And yet, in this final moment, she experiences peace, and satisfaction, and happiness, for the first time.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Have A Plan

Writer Report: Have A Plan — Blue Ink Alchemy

So while I continue to come to grips with the pulp science fiction yarn I want to spin, I may have started on a sequel to Cold Iron. On the one hand, it may be a bit presumptuous to already be writing a second story in a series when the first hasn't been printed yet; on the other hand, Cold Iron ends in such a way that, if it works, people will definitely want to read more, and I know I definitely want to write more about these characters. I know that writing isn't always about the fun stuff. There's hard work ahead. I do have stories I want to tell that may take some elbow grease to communicate properly. And yet, sitting down with a blank document in front of me, words for the sci-fi come in drips and drabs while the urban fantasy just flows out of me. I know it isn't all good stuff, and there will be edits and cuts in the future, but I still have an easier time with that than I do with other stories. Maybe I can use this. Reward myself with 'breaks' of the urban fantasy after getting myself through a bit of other work. As long as I'm always writing, I'll get where I'm going eventually. I just have to be patient. I'm not waiting for the muse to strike or anything, but I do have to keep the words flowing in general, even if specific ones haven't hit their stride yet. Not sure what else there is to say on the situation at present. I think the cover of Cold Iron is ready. Means big things in very near future. Stay tuned.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

That Darn Cat

That Darn Cat — Blue Ink Alchemy

Meet Spark. Spark is a cat I adopted a few years ago when I moved out of my parents' house. Living on my own proved to be a bit lonely, and I knew a friend who had been made aware of a cat coming from a broken home. The poor guy had been between a violently divorcing couple, so I took the little sweetheart in. I named him after a character in a webcomic because I'm a huge nerd, and at the time my taste was less refined than a raw lump of coal. He's proven to be a pretty good pet. He has a tendency to get his claws stuck in furniture, but I try to keep his foreclaws trimmed so he's less of a threat to me and the upholstery. Before I adopted him, he'd been fixed, and he'd also suffered from a urinary tract infection. So no worries about him getting a leg up on female cats. Oh, he tries, when his step-sister Damsel goes into heat, but he gets about as far as the "get on top" portion of the feline mating ritual and ends up just looking confused. Maybe that's why he's such a jerk sometimes. Spark doesn't just love attention. He craves it. Particularly from me. If I'm not home by a certain time, or I'm away for a weekend or something, the first thing he does when I walk in the door is start whining. He, like me, is a creature of habit, and if I don't immediately drop everything to sit in my desk chair so he can hop in my lap and knead me while purring like an outboard motor, he'll pitch a fit. But that's not his jerkiest behavior. His jerkiest behavior is related to something he loves more than attention. I fed the cats a little wet food every morning, to compliment their bowl of dry kibbles. Spark, in particular, loves it. And if I don't get up when His Majesty is hungry, he can be a real pill about it. This morning, for instance, at around 5 in the AM, Sir Whines-A-Lot pawed at me until I woke up. He looked me in the face and meowed. I told him politely to let me go back to sleep and rolled over. He wasn't having any of that. He pawed. He nuzzled. He purred in my ear as a way to keep me awake. On and on this went until my alarm started going off at 6:40. Basically, the little orange bastard made it a point to keep me awake for more than an hour and a half before I got up and fed his ass. And after a twelve and a half hour day at the office, I could have used more sleep, not less of it. I guess days like this are a peril of pet ownership. And I do love my cat quite a bit. He just infuriates me at times to the point that I have to write up a filler blog post about it. Congrats, Spark. You're famous. Now get off my lap. I need a shower.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Shifting Tone

Shifting Tone — Blue Ink Alchemy

I was bantering with some friends recently about True Blood, and how this season feels different from the previous one. There is a lot more emphasis on vampire political and para-military shenanigans, and less on messy or convoluted love triangles. It's a shift in tone that, personally, I am 100% behind, and it makes me invested in seeing what happens week to week. It has me thinking about tonal shifts in storytelling in general, when it works, and when it doesn't. If you plan on writing more than one thing in your lifetime, you may see tones shifting in your own work, by accident or by design. Movie sequels can see major tonal shifts. Alien was a spookhouse horror in space, while Aliens was action-packed suspense. The shift in tone works, though, because elements remained consistent and the storytelling was solid. You have a strong female protagonist, icky xenomorphs, shifty androids, and corporate douchebaggery. I hear Prometheus contains all of those elements¹ but keeping some names the same between tales does not guarantee a solid shift in tone. Consider The Matrix. It began as a very solid near-future tale of mystery and self-discovery, but the sequels suffer from their shift in tone. Instead of focusing on the characters and meaningful expansions on the world they inhabit, the second and third films let the bulk of their time become dominated by action sequences and terrible philosophy. Whenever they shift between those two elements, there's an almost audible clunk, like a transmission that's about to fall out of the bottom of your car. It's damn close to painful, and it's evidence of tonal shifts being handled badly. Good stories aren't just one thing all the time the entire way through. Your characters should experience a mix of emotions, bringing the audience along for the ride, and that means the tone of the story is going to change from time to time. While they might not always see it coming, the shifts should feel natural, and flow with the story and the unfolding personalities of the characters. Good examples of characters who experience these shifts well include Harry Dresden and Coburn the vampire. You do have to be careful, though, as jarring shifts can stop your story dead. It can be very hard to balance comedy with tragedy, and messing it up is a death sentence. You can't have Oskar Schindler suddenly break into a rendition of 'Singing in the Rain' in the middle of trying to rescue Jews from concentration camps. If your story's been consistently light-hearted, interrupting a slapstick routine with the news someone has inoperable colon cancer will go over about as well as a lead balloon. While these things can work, they're very easy to mishandle and I would advise extreme caution. Your audience is paying for the ride they're taking with you; if they've felt you've driven them off the road into a ditch filled with brambles, they'll be sure to let you know it. What are some of your favorite, or least favorite, shifts in tone?

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¹ I still haven't seen Prometheus yet. I may just have to suck it up and go alone to see it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Constructive Communication

Constructive Communication — Blue Ink Alchemy

Given the debacles of the last week or so, and the ways I've seen back-and-forth going on several issues, it is past time for me to voice a gripe I have with certain behaviors people exhibit here in the wilds of the Internet. I will avoid naming names, but since without context I may as well be pissing in the wind, here's an example of what I'm on about. In the process of a competition, someone said something that, intentional or no, could be misconstrued as insulting, belittling, perhaps even bullying. Hindsight being what it is, and seeing as the source was representing a group directly linked to the competition, the source went about finding a way to make amends. The recipient, on the other hand, took umbrage. While this is a reasonable response, what followed was a very public tirade, a multi-tiered response that looks from the outside to be a very vehement and unwarranted counter-attack, and a great deal of self-victimization, blowing the initial incident far out of proportion. Now, what was initially said probably should not have been said. That is a point agreed upon all around. But this was like responding to the accidental shooting of a civilian with an all-out, nationwide nuclear assault. "Kill one of my people, will you? Well, how about I kill a billion of yours!" Not exactly an appropriate means of conflict resolution. What irks me is the passive-aggressive way this and several other conflicts have evolved. If someone is causing you grief, or you take issue with what they said, why not confront the person directly? It wasn't myself personally who was involved with this, so I really have no stake or cause in naming names, but come on. Didn't Malcolm Reynolds say "The next time you stab me in the back, have the courage to do it to my face"? Where's the courage, here? Where's the balls? If all you do in response to an insult, perceived or actual, is make yourself out to be the wounded party in public, rather than confronting the source and ensuring intent and communication were clear, you come off as whiny. Needy. You don't take responsibility for what's going on, simply letting others either take the blame or come to your rescue. Sure, you might get a few new Twitter followers out of the deal, but is a bunch of half-cocked white-knight anonymous types really the kind of people you want being aware of your every move? Think about that. It's the same thing that bugs me about people who post on forums with the clever closing line "I'll just leave this here". No. Don't just leave it there. Explain yourself. Make your case. Don't hide behind a gif image or someone else's rhetoric. I hate that shit. Yeah, sure, I thought it was cute and clever a while back, but you know what? It isn't. It's too easy. It's cowardly. And it needs to stop. I know it may seem hypocritical to not name names or cite any other specific instances, but this is not an instance of going after person A or sticking up for person B. This is just general, well-intentioned outrage at a mode of behavior that is becoming way too prevalent. Coded messages on Facebook, rhetorical questions asked over Twitter, stonewalling actual inroads for discussion... it's like this sort of passive-aggressive baiting is becoming the lingua fraca of the Internet. Remember the whole "Be polite, be efficient, be prepared to kill everyone you meet" thing from the Iraq invasion some time ago? Or, if you prefer, the SOP of the Sniper from Team Fortress 2? That still applies. Be polite when you approach someone you feel has offended you. You never know, they might have spoken out of turn or did not think their words could be hurtful. Is it so difficult to give someone the benefit of the doubt? Also, don't mince words. Get to the point, and make your case. You'll be much more broadly and well received if you behave like an adult instead of a petulant, whiny child. And as for the last? It goes with not mincing words. Say what you mean, and if something pisses you off, say so. Stand by your feelings, but don't let them run the conversation. It's like the aging man with the shitty tattoos at the top of this post says: "Either have your phasers set on KILL, or motherfucker, don't show up." Passive-aggressive bullshit is the STUN setting. It's lightweight, kindergarten playground bullshit. It's not constructive communication. It isn't mature. It's getting fucking disgusting. Knock it off. Thank you.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Red Hood

Flash Fiction: The Red Hood — Blue Ink Alchemy

For Chuck's flash fiction challenge, Fairy Tale Upgrade.

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Grandmother's house was deep in the forest on the edge of a lake. At her top speed, it took the Red Hood less than a minute to fly there from the city. She did a circuit around the lake, peering into the trees. She didn't have any sort of enhanced vision or anything, but she suspected the Devourer was not above laying a trap for her. The Woodsman wasn't in the habit of warning Megawatt of forest trouble unless it was serious. Before helping her friends, though, she had to know her grandmother was safe. Taking a deep breath, she landed by the front door and turned the handle. Away from the windows and tucked into a corner was a modest bed, occupied by an old woman. "Grandma?" "Who's there?" The voice shook, feeble and quiet. "Come closer, I need to see who it is." Red stepped into the cabin and closed the door, removing her mask and drawing her hood back. "It's me, Grandma. It's your Babs." "Babs... Babs? Where have you been?" Suspicion crawled around, restless, in the back of her mind. Her grandmother's body was brittle, but her mind had been sharper than this. She took another look at the woman in the bed. "Grandma... your eyes..." She remembered them being a dark brown that had begun to lighten with her advanced years, not the dull red that gazed at her. Without warning, arms of impossible length reached out, one hand grabbing her wrist while the other snapped to her neck. As she struggled, the visage of the old woman melted away. The Devourer's true form was amorphous, not subscribing to any anatomy known to man. The appendages holding her became dark tentacles. Her free hand grabbed the one around her neck. "Please, do struggle more. The more of energy you expend, the more delicious you will be when I overwhelm you." She grimaced. Its grip threatened to sap her strength entirely. Her mind raced, attempting to understand why she couldn't beat this thing, when she could single-handedly demolish high-rises and carry armored cars over her shoulder like a sack of laundry. They were powers she'd had ever since... The memory washed over Barbara unbidden. She remembered her father, missing an arm and bracing himself against the door to her bedroom, shouting at her to get under the bed. The thing that now gripped her appeared in the hallway and her father raised the shotgun against his shoulder. The weapon roared and something wet and warm hit her face. Everything after that was screams and horror. More tentacles emerged as the Devourer expanded to its true dimensions, crushing the bed beneath its bulk. A circular maw filled with rows of serrated teeth opened in the midst of its many red eyes. It hissed, a wholly inhuman sound, and its breath stank. If her father could wound the thing with some buckshot, why couldn't she beat it herself? Tentacles were wrapping around her ankles. Any moment, it would lift her into the air and swallow her. She closed her eyes. She reached into her mind, to the first time she thwarted a robbery, the battles she'd had alongside Megawatt and the Woodsman, the way it had felt to do good with her gifts. They were emotions and motivations entirely her own, untouched by the Devourer's influence. She held onto those feelings, nurtured them, like the embers of a fire ready to roar into life. "You cannot resist." Her eyes opened. "Yes, I can. And I will." She pulled her right arm back, planted her feet, gripped its slimy tentacles in both of her hands, and swung with her hips as hard as she could. The mass of the Devourer slammed into the wall of the cabin. Years of weather and the tender mercies of the forest had weakened it, and the wood collapsed. Timbers fell and broke around Barbara as she summoned all the strength she could and aimed for the sky. For a spine-chilling moment she went nowhere. The Devourer's maw was inches away. She kept her eyes on the clouds above her head, willing herself to close the distance. Moment by moment, inch by inch, she climbed. The Devourer lashed at her with its many appendages, but her struggles kept it from dragging her any closer. Gravity had a hold on it, while she was still capable of flight. Red Hood pulled her arms closer to her body as she flew ever higher. She planted her feet on the Devourer and glared down at it. "Why Grandma?" "An appetizer. I will take back what you stole from me." "Maybe. Provided you can fly, as I can." With that, she grabbed hold of its tentacles and pulled while pushing as hard as possible with her legs. Inhuman tearing sounds filled the sky. Tentacles snapped free. "You utter bitch." The words were a hiss, not the scream she expected. Somehow, it still terrified her even when she had the advantage. "I am what you made me." Unable to maintain its grip, the Devourer plummeted. She watched it fall. It took a few seconds for the black, writhing mass to hit the ground. With a scream, she followed it, crossing the distance in the blink of an eye, hitting it with the force of a speeding train. She pounded it until it stopped moving. For a moment, there was quiet, broken only by Barbara's rapid breathing. A form approached through the dust and she whirled, ready to strike. "Easy," said a deep, male voice. "It's me, Red." She exhaled. The Woodsman stood by her, leaning on his axe. In the crater, the black mass hissed and bubbled. The Red Hood sat, looking at what she'd done. She watched the remains of the Devourer until the last bit of its putrid, spitting mass of semi-liquid evaporated, absorbed into the earth. Then the woman a dead family had called 'Babs' lowered her head, pulled up her red hood, and started to cry.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Traction

Writer Report: Traction — Blue Ink Alchemy

Starting a brand new story is proving more difficult than I thought. I've tried to start Captain Pendragon and the Planet of Doom twice, now, and I'm struggling, likely because there's a part of me that knows this sort of thing has been done before. I'm trying to shake off the negativity and nay-saying, and focus on getting the thing started with a nice, sharp hook and adequate characterization rather than something resembling an info dump. I may try putting an old-fashioned quick prelude on the first page, like a newsreel or the opening of Star Wars, to get the reader in the mood and cut to the chase almost immediately. I'll take a stab at that over the weekend. Today, I'll be carving out some time to put some finishing touches on Cold Iron. I want to make sure the narrative's coherent. The characters feel solid, and I think there's a good flow to it, but the progression of events should be at least somewhat logical. I just need to double-check that. Not much else to report. Some unfortunate news of the morning leaves me somewhat enervated and a little irked.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Execution by Plot

Execution by Plot — Blue Ink Alchemy

If you want a surefire way to kill your story and slay any interest a potential reader will have in it, let the plot drive. Looking back on some of the books I've read in my formative years, a host of franchised novels many of which I'm likely to donate to a library when I move, I realize that only a few are truly driven by character growth and conflict. A good story based around characters, like Brave (here reviewed brilliantly by Julie Summerell), many of the later Dresden novels, or Chuck Wendig's Bad Blood (the sequel to Double Dead, short version: almost as good as the full-length novel), doesn't need all that much of a plot. If a character is going through a change, and that change is going to be opposed for some reason, you have plenty of fuel for conflict, drama, interaction - story. The narrative will breathe without assistance. The tale will live. If, on the other hand, your story is the product of some non-character formula or relies on contrivance, the result will not be as favorable. I've seen it happen in lots of stories. Usually, you can see it coming. When technobabble or new powers as the plot demands or deus ex machina moments begin to crop up more and more, it's sign that the story has a terminal illness. The execution of the plot means the execution of the story, hooded-headsman style, as potential interest and characters put their necks on the block to feed the axe of convenience. The story may click along without fault or pause, merrily going from one plot point to the next as if nothing's wrong, but if there's no characterization beyond the very basics, if the conflict isn't rooted in our characters and what makes them who they are, the story has no life of its own. A lot of video games have this problem. Lacking character depth, they move the player from one set piece to the next with the certainty of a commuter rail line. A game like Portal can get away with this because of good writing, characterization, and unique gameplay, but something like Space Marine has to work extra hard to overcome this problem. I guess what I'm saying is this: if you want to tell a story, your characters are your most important allies. Even if you hate some them, even if you know some are going to die horribly, spend time with them and make sure you know them before you approach your plot. Get the balance wrong, or make the characters little more than cogs in the plot's machine, and the metaphorical headsman will be waiting.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Repost: Does That Banner Yet Wave?

Repost: Does That Banner Yet Wave? — Blue Ink Alchemy

I read this over and, sure enough, everything here still applies today. Please to enjoy.

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One of the reasons I love living near Philadelphia is the history. So much happened in that little port town in a short period of time before New York grew to gargantuan proportions and Washington, DC became the capital city. The reason Americans have a holiday to celebrate on this date, in fact the reason why Americans have a country, was a document signed in Philadelphia 236 years ago this year. It was signed because a few colonial land-owners didn't want to pay taxes to the British crown anymore. ...Okay, all right, there's more to it than that. The English had demonstrated that America was something of an annoying step-child, a sore spot with the French and while its resources were valuable to the Empire, the populace was somewhat irritating. After the French were beaten in the North American front of the Seven Years' War (commonly known as the 'French and Indian War' in America, because who cares what the rest of the world calls something), England turned their attention to some of things America had been doing that the English didn't like. Americans were skirting mercantile procedures to bolster their own profits, pushing westward despite angering the native tribes and were training militia rather than relying on troops from England. King George's response was first to ask the colonies to help with the cost of the war fought on their soil (this was the 'no taxation without representation' thing), and then to tax the colonies directly, quarter troops in colonial homes and refuse to recognize colonial commissions of officers, basically sending the message that American soldiers were not as good as English ones. So everybody was a little pissed off all around. Thomas Paine wrote Common Sense, which became a best-selling book on American shores with over 500,000 copies in circulation during the first year - impressive even by today's standards. It glossed over the philosophies of Rosseau and Locke that were informing the impulses of American movers and shakers towards libertarian thinking, and presented the argument for independence to common American folk, by way of making the argument something of a sermon. So the American rhetoric began as it meant to go on, it seems. Back in those days, freedom for Americans means freedom from foreign rule. Nowadays, freedom for most Americans seems to mean freedom to do whatever the hell we want to whomever the hell we want, whenever the hell we want. That sounds less like a democracy and more like anarchy to me, or at the very least an autocracy. Most Americans need someone to tell them what to be afraid of and who to hate today, at least. But there I go again, breaking the promise I made that I wouldn't let this blog get political. What bothers me is that this holiday, the day on which Americans celebrate the fact that they did win freedom from foreign rule, has been 'dumbed down' in a sense, at least for me. In fact American nationalism feels kind of dumb of late. Instead of singing "The Star-Spangled Banner," which is in fact our national anthem, a lot of sporting events and whatnot begin with "God Bless America." The implication of that, for me, is that God should bless America and no place else. I hate to break it to these so-called patriots, but there are nations in the world other than America that need help from the Divine a lot more than we do. The worst thing we have to worry about is running out of oil or pissing off another country so much that they nuke us. Other countries have people wondering what the hell they're going to feed their kids today. Americans have that problem, too, but ask the average conservative Republican if they care. I'm going to veer into political territory one more time, if you'll indulge me. To me, being an American means having freedom of thought and expression. We are forgers of our own destinies as individuals, and any force that seeks to oppress, dumb down or stifle our ability to think and decide for ourselves should be our enemy, not necessary a foreign power with a different point of view. We should be worrying about how to feed and educate our children, honor and care for our elderly, employ those in need of a job and play a positive role in the future of our planet. Instead we are told to buy what we can, even if we can't afford it, that we should be afraid to go anywhere outside of America and any notion of health care or fuel supplies that cost less (if indeed they cost anything) are decidedly un-American. All "good" Americans should bow down to the Free Market the way they bow down to the blond-haired gun-toting Jaysus that loves little fetuses and hates anybody who worships anything other than Himself, meaning Jaysus is "a good American." I hope I don't need to go into detail as to why that line of thinking is bullshit. Francis Scott Key asks the question "Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?" To me, it does, and it will. As long as people continue to think freely, and bravely rail against notions that seek to stupefy, retard or oppress the rights of the individual, it'll wave proudly. This is why I call today 'Independence Day', not 'the 4th of July'. This is why I pay as little attention to fanatical rhetoric from either side of the political debate as possible - in the case of the right, I follow some folks on Twitter just to know what the enemy is thinking. I want to engage my brain when I salute my flag, you see. I don't want to do it just because some bloated blowhard tells me I should. I want to be proud of this country and, in a way, I am. I'm proud of the fact I can bang out all of these words without fear of getting dragged away in an unmarked van to be shot behind the chemical shed. I'm proud that the people with whom I disagree can be marginalized or even ignored because nobody in this country has absolute power. I'm proud that in spite of all of the free-floating negativity, people are still out there trying to do good, making an effort to improve the world around them instead of just fattening their own pocketbooks and being kind to one another - and some of those people happen to be Americans, thank God. Yes, Americans are arrogant. Yes, we throw our weight around a bit more than we should. And yes, we have a lot of humble pie to eat from the last decade or so of shenanigans we've perpetuated in the name of defending ourselves. But America is still a country worth defending, and even if in the future the word 'expatriate' might follow my nationality, I'm proud to be an American. Happy Independence Day, everyone.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

There Is Only War

There Is Only War — Blue Ink Alchemy

For all of its great design work, innovative storytelling through games, flat corporate structure, and altogether positive image, Steam can be downright insidious at times. This past weekend, for example, they held a sale on everything related to Warhammer 40,000 and its games. I got Dawn of War II as a Christmas present, including the Chaos Rising expansion, and had only played the demo of the over-the-shoulder shooter Space Marine. So how do the games hold up, and how do they do representing the universe from which they come?

Dawn of War II & Chaos Rising

I'd played the previous Dawn of War game and its expansions, so I knew the sequel would likely continue being a different experience from other RTS titles. Not only does Dawn of War II provide that gameplay, it surprisingly also showcases a coherent narrative with interesting characters. Rather than split its single-player campaign between the different races available, it keeps its focus on the Blood Ravens chapter of the Space Marines, and the tale of a young and untested Force Commander (that's you) dealing with the invasion of the chapter's recruitment worlds. Space Marines can come across as taciturn, even sullen warrior-priests in the lore, which as I understand it is a departure from their first appearance in 40k back in its first edition. The characters in Dawn of War II that make up your closest allies and battle brothers, by contrast, show a diversity of personality and motivation that works very well. Minor characters, such as the governor's adjutant on Meridian and the Eldar farseer, also offer glimpses of depth and complexity you might not expect from this setting. All of the characters are voice acted well, which I'm sure is a relief to anybody who is at all familiar with the last original Dawn of War expansion, Soulstorm. The gameplay is focused more on squad-based tactics than it is building a huge army and tossing it at whatever looks at you funny. Especially on Primarch difficulty, things like using cover and timing attacks properly is essential. The rewards for doing well are improved gear for you and your sergeants, as well as experience you can use to enhance abilities. It gives the game an RPG feel while holding onto its RTS roots. I didn't really touch multiplayer in Dawn of War II, given the way the single player draws you in, and I do plan on running through and finishing the campaign again on that highest difficulty. It challenges my brain.

Dawn of War II: Retribution

The second expansion to Dawn of War II sees it returning to some older RTS & Dawn of War staples. There are now multiple single-player campaigns, which I suspect all play out along very similar lines. However, voice acting and characterization remain top-notch. I am, in particular, fond of the Imperial Guard's Lord General, a man whose stiff upper lip can be difficult to see under his mighty mustache, moonlighting as a big game hunter when he isn't sending waves of impressionable young men into the fray armed with glorified flashlights. I believe some of the characters from the base game and Chaos Rising return for the Space Marine campaign, so I may need to play through that one, as well. Unfortunately, the tight focus on squad tactics has been lost, in favor of more traditional RTS structures and strategies. Building up sufficient forces to deal with incoming threats feels a lot easier than manipulating the limited resources of the previous campaigns. It's still fun, but to me it just isn't quite as challenging. It was Retribution, though, that introduced me to the multiplayer mode known as The Last Stand. Being interested in MOBA-style cooperative strategy, The Last Stand is right up my alley. Three players, each commanding a single 'hero' unit, must hold off wave after wave of incoming enemy units from the various races available in Dawn of War. Each hero has unique abilities, equipment, and strengths. The speed at which you dispatch your foes, the number of rounds you survive without a player becoming incapacitated, and the strategic points you hold all factor into your score. Between games you level up your heroes and assign them equipment and abilities. As quick little bite-sized morsels of RTS & MOBA-flavored fun, it works quite well.

Space Marine

My first impressions of this shooter/spectacle fighter were good enough that I picked up the full game while it was on sale. The action maintains its weight and ferocity, and the story seems coherent enough so far. I can't say the Ultramarines are showing quite the diversity of the Blood Ravens from Dawn of War II, but the voice acting is still good and the characterization thus far is coherent and consistent with the flavor and atmosphere of the source material. With the full version I've also been able to try my hand at the multiplayer, which is a decent experience. Joining a small squad of Space Marines, be they loyal or Chaos, to control points, annihilate the enemy, or seize control of an ancient weapon has appeal in and of itself, but some of the nuances of the gameplay make it feel just different enough to be worth a look. At the start of the mission or when you respawn, you can pick from several different kits you've unlocked through gameplay: standard Tactical, a Devastator/Havoc heavy weapons loadout, and the high-flying Assault/Raptor kit. The biggest attention-grabber, for me at least, is that when you get killed, you can copy the loadout of the player that killed you. Even if they're twenty levels above you with access to equipment and perks it will take you hours to acquire, you can load yourself up to mirror them and engage in a little payback. It does have some issues, such as mics always being hot and the peer-to-peer lobby based system that indicates the console port nature of the game. Unlocks happen at a snail's pace and there are a few weapon balance problems. I'm going to try the Horde mode and see what else I can unlock through some casual dabbling, but I don't see it replacing TF2 or Tribes: Ascend any time soon.

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Blue Ink Alchemy