Here We Go Again

Here We Go Again — Blue Ink Alchemy

More life is happening, more crises, more fires to put out, more more more. And I was almost done with today's post last night. Ugh.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: You Don't Bring Me Dead Things Anymore

Flash Fiction: You Don't Bring Me Dead Things Anymore — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art By Stephan Martiniere (Sources: Here and Here). For the Terribleminds challenge "The Titles Have Been Chosen". Pleased as I am that mine, "Always Have An Exit Strategy", was one of the finalists, I didn't want to just pick my own title. Maybe that's just me.

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"Cordelia! Where is that sulfur I asked for?" Without the proper preservative, the professor's experiments would not last into the reanimation stage. He looked down again at the first, he hoped, of many successful human subjects. The burst heart, damaged liver, and ragged kidneys had needed to be replaced, but the brain had been intact. He was not quite at the point of programming brains or toying with memories. However, Cordelia's efforts in that regard had been promising so far. When the door to the laboratory opened, he smiled and turned to face her, beginning to loosen his heavy rubber gloves. "There you are. How did it go?" "The mortuary was empty, as usual." Cordelia didn't make eye contact with him. Her long, dark hair slid from behind her ear and obscured her face. The professor blinked, studying her. Usually she enjoyed sneaking into laboratories and mortuaries to get what they needed. But her body language was more nervous, even trepidatious. He moved away from his tray of tools. "Cordelia? Are you all right?" "Professor... I think I need to leave." The professor blinked. "What happened? What's going on?" Cordelia still didn't look up. "When I was in the mortuary I saw a victim who looked like he'd been eaten by small animals." "That happens all the time." "How many of them have bites with acid burns?" The professor furrowed his brows. "Weren't you going to try and catch that mouse after it ate through its cage?" "I did find it. I broke its neck and threw it in a hearthfire." "What? I could have used it! I could have rebuilt it!" She shook her head. "No, Professor. I can't let you do this anymore." "I don't understand. Are you unhappy here? Have you forgotten the dreams we had when we attended university together? The notes passed during lectures given by narrow-minded fools? The long nights by the river, whispering of a better tomorrow?" "They were foolish dreams, Professor. And I was a foolish girl." One of his gloves came off with an angry snap. "No. This behavior is foolish. We are so close, Cordelia." He gestured behind him, at the corpse on the slab. "Everything is in place! We just need the preservatives, the excitable elements, the initial electrical spark, and..." "We've stolen so much already, Professor. How much damage have we done? How much more will we do?" "All science comes from sacrifice, Cordelia. It takes strength of will and clarity of vision to see past the tedium and roadblocks right in front of us, and stay focused on the ultimate goal. Think of it: a world where death is a mere inconvenience rather than the end. We'll build a world of immortals, where the time you always felt you should have had can be purchased and gifted." "The price is more than money. We've taken these chemicals, these organs, from people that need them. In giving life back to one, we take it away from many. Science should make life for everyone better; it should not give us the choice of who lives and who dies." "Medical doctors make those choices every day. Are you going to stand there and tell me that they somehow have that right when we do not?" "That's triage. This is different." "It's absolutely different! Imagine having the great minds of our age preserved and continuing to think and produce for ages to come!" "Please. Just... just let me go." He removed his other glove and set them aside. "Cordelia, listen to me..." "No." Cordelia finally looked up, fixing the professor with her bright blue eyes. "No, you listen. I'm tired of this dreary laboratory. I'm tired of cleaning up all of your messes. I'm tired of simply being handed a dirty dish or container and being expected to clean it, without so much as a thank you. I'm tired of being used by you, for..." She shook all over. "For everything." He blinked at her. He struggled to find something to say, some way to keep her from leaving him. "How about this... we start again. I get rid of all of this, and we start over. We share in the chores. We work together. And you... you don't bring me dead things anymore. How about that?" To his shock, she smiled a little. "No. No, there's one more dead thing I will give you." He hadn't seen the revolver until that moment. He raised his hands, a gesture he'd always found odd in others. What, would the gesture magically ward off his scalpel, or his knife, or in this case, Cordelia's bullet? "Cordelia..." "I thought about simply leaving. Just going away with no note, no way for you to find me. But I know you would find me. And what you do... what we've been doing... it has to stop. There has to be an end." "I won't follow this research any further, Cordelia. From this day forward. I promise." She smiled more. A bright smile, with teeth and dimples, the one that had captured his heart. "Yes... I know." The revolver roared in the space of the laboratory. He was cold throughout his body. That, he did not expect. His eyes dropped, and he saw the ragged hold in his lab coat, the red spreading out from it. He looked up again at Cordelia, as she stood in the doorway, strong and certain, smoking revolver in her hand. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to say he would stop treating her as he had, that he would not take her for granted. He wanted to ask her what he could do to make things right between them. Bloody froth was all that came from his mouth. His body dropped to its knees, disconnected from his brain and its command for him to remain standing. He hit the grimy lab floor a moment later. The door slammed shut, and he was left there, with the dead things.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: You Don't Bring Me Dead Things Anymore

Flash Fiction: You Don't Bring Me Dead Things Anymore — Blue Ink Alchemy

Art By Stephan Martiniere (Sources: Here and Here). For the Terribleminds challenge "The Titles Have Been Chosen". Pleased as I am that mine, "Always Have An Exit Strategy", was one of the finalists, I didn't want to just pick my own title. Maybe that's just me.

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"Cordelia! Where is that sulfur I asked for?" Without the proper preservative, the professor's experiments would not last into the reanimation stage. He looked down again at the first, he hoped, of many successful human subjects. The burst heart, damaged liver, and ragged kidneys had needed to be replaced, but the brain had been intact. He was not quite at the point of programming brains or toying with memories. However, Cordelia's efforts in that regard had been promising so far. When the door to the laboratory opened, he smiled and turned to face her, beginning to loosen his heavy rubber gloves. "There you are. How did it go?" "The mortuary was empty, as usual." Cordelia didn't make eye contact with him. Her long, dark hair slid from behind her ear and obscured her face. The professor blinked, studying her. Usually she enjoyed sneaking into laboratories and mortuaries to get what they needed. But her body language was more nervous, even trepidatious. He moved away from his tray of tools. "Cordelia? Are you all right?" "Professor... I think I need to leave." The professor blinked. "What happened? What's going on?" Cordelia still didn't look up. "When I was in the mortuary I saw a victim who looked like he'd been eaten by small animals." "That happens all the time." "How many of them have bites with acid burns?" The professor furrowed his brows. "Weren't you going to try and catch that mouse after it ate through its cage?" "I did find it. I broke its neck and threw it in a hearthfire." "What? I could have used it! I could have rebuilt it!" She shook her head. "No, Professor. I can't let you do this anymore." "I don't understand. Are you unhappy here? Have you forgotten the dreams we had when we attended university together? The notes passed during lectures given by narrow-minded fools? The long nights by the river, whispering of a better tomorrow?" "They were foolish dreams, Professor. And I was a foolish girl." One of his gloves came off with an angry snap. "No. This behavior is foolish. We are so close, Cordelia." He gestured behind him, at the corpse on the slab. "Everything is in place! We just need the preservatives, the excitable elements, the initial electrical spark, and..." "We've stolen so much already, Professor. How much damage have we done? How much more will we do?" "All science comes from sacrifice, Cordelia. It takes strength of will and clarity of vision to see past the tedium and roadblocks right in front of us, and stay focused on the ultimate goal. Think of it: a world where death is a mere inconvenience rather than the end. We'll build a world of immortals, where the time you always felt you should have had can be purchased and gifted." "The price is more than money. We've taken these chemicals, these organs, from people that need them. In giving life back to one, we take it away from many. Science should make life for everyone better; it should not give us the choice of who lives and who dies." "Medical doctors make those choices every day. Are you going to stand there and tell me that they somehow have that right when we do not?" "That's triage. This is different." "It's absolutely different! Imagine having the great minds of our age preserved and continuing to think and produce for ages to come!" "Please. Just... just let me go." He removed his other glove and set them aside. "Cordelia, listen to me..." "No." Cordelia finally looked up, fixing the professor with her bright blue eyes. "No, you listen. I'm tired of this dreary laboratory. I'm tired of cleaning up all of your messes. I'm tired of simply being handed a dirty dish or container and being expected to clean it, without so much as a thank you. I'm tired of being used by you, for..." She shook all over. "For everything." He blinked at her. He struggled to find something to say, some way to keep her from leaving him. "How about this... we start again. I get rid of all of this, and we start over. We share in the chores. We work together. And you... you don't bring me dead things anymore. How about that?" To his shock, she smiled a little. "No. No, there's one more dead thing I will give you." He hadn't seen the revolver until that moment. He raised his hands, a gesture he'd always found odd in others. What, would the gesture magically ward off his scalpel, or his knife, or in this case, Cordelia's bullet? "Cordelia..." "I thought about simply leaving. Just going away with no note, no way for you to find me. But I know you would find me. And what you do... what we've been doing... it has to stop. There has to be an end." "I won't follow this research any further, Cordelia. From this day forward. I promise." She smiled more. A bright smile, with teeth and dimples, the one that had captured his heart. "Yes... I know." The revolver roared in the space of the laboratory. He was cold throughout his body. That, he did not expect. His eyes dropped, and he saw the ragged hold in his lab coat, the red spreading out from it. He looked up again at Cordelia, as she stood in the doorway, strong and certain, smoking revolver in her hand. He wanted to tell her he was sorry. He wanted to say he would stop treating her as he had, that he would not take her for granted. He wanted to ask her what he could do to make things right between them. Bloody froth was all that came from his mouth. His body dropped to its knees, disconnected from his brain and its command for him to remain standing. He hit the grimy lab floor a moment later. The door slammed shut, and he was left there, with the dead things.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Recovery Period

Writer Report: Recovery Period — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm trying to think of the last time I was seriously injured. I don't think it happened in conjunction with anything like flat tires and waiting for payday to roll around, however. It's just been a comedy of errors here all week, and I'm still trying to roll with the punches. I've managed to get a bit of writing done, and Cold Streets is moving along. I'm hopeful that we'll have at least a working draft by the end of the summer. I've had a few ideas for Godslayer as well, and there's also a non-novel project I've been working on that may require more than just an investment of time and words. More on that as it develops. I'm still working from home and still recovering, I guess. So I better get back to that. Enjoy your weekend!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Levine's Infinite Fancy

Levine's Infinite Fancy — Blue Ink Alchemy

For years, Ken Levine has been keeping gamers on their toes. System Shock 2 built on player expectations of both shooting games and the original System Shock. BioShock reminded modern audiences that action and terror could be balanced well and coupled with good storytelling and multi-dimensional, memorable characters. And now, BioShock Infinite has delivered one of the best gaming sucker-punches since Spec Ops: The Line, though he did so at the very end of his game with what has been called a bit of an exposition dump. Given the nature of the dialog, and the method of it's presentation, one might even go so far as to say Levine a pretentious dick for doing what he did... and you know what? That's okay. Spec Ops was also a bit pretentious. Braid, Journey, Bastion... all of these games use their gameplay to move the story forward and play on themes that are above and beyond the scope of many of their contemporaries. They work on higher levels, and sometimes multiple levels. The pretense upon which such games work (hence the word 'pretentious') is that their story is just as important as the accuracy with which the player can shoot dudes, or the level of challenge in their puzzles. There's nothing wrong with this. In fact, I'd argue that in terms of game development and presentation, Ken Levine is an example of someone doing everything right. BioShock Infinite may not be a perfect game, and it may be flawed, but what it does is done so well it's likely to be towards the top of many Game of the Year lists. Like its true predecessors, it builds on player expectations before yanking the rug out from under them. BioShock parsed past the linear progression of many other shooters (even some that came after it) and showed just how artificial that sort of pacing could be by making the player's character a literal pawn in somebody else's game. Very few of the choices the player makes in that game are their own; outside of weapon and plasmid selection, the phrase 'would you kindly' rips any agency out of the player's hands and pushes them towards the game's conclusion. While there's nothing wrong with linearity in games, especially ones so heavily concerned with story, I always got the impression that Levine was demonstrating how important choice and consequence truly are by exposing this sort of railroading. In a way, this has always been his crux: make the wrong choices in System Shock 2 and it becomes impossible to complete, "A Man Chooses, A Slave Obeys" in BioShock, and in BioShock Infinite we see the choices made by both Booker DeWitt, and especially Elizabeth, changing the world around them. A choice made by Booker alters things forever, and he may be the player's surrogate in the world of Columbia, but I don't think the game is his story. The first thirty minutes or so of BioShock Infinite involves you exploring Columbia once you arrive and its exposure for what it is beneath the bright, idealized facade. The story proper, for me, didn't really kick in until our first conversation with Elizabeth. Not only is she a fascinating and well-rounded character, her presence draws out more development for Booker, she has a direct effect on the world both during the shooting and as part of the narrative moving forward, and the story literally would not be possible without her. As much as 'focus testing' showed that target audiences wanted Booker on the cover of the game, it was clear to me that Elizabeth is the true protagonist of BioShock Infinite, the one who makes the more difficult choices and truly grows as a person, coming into the full realization of her powers and potential. While Booker does face truths about himself and comes to terms with his past, his arc is simply not as interesting as Elizabeth's, and the fact that Levine was able to get this story into the hands of those who did not expect it just tickles me. I think there are a lot of game designers out there who really want to make a difference. They see the state of gaming and interactive storytelling, and they want to change things for the better. It's a little fanciful to think it can be done, but Ken Levine has shown one of the ways you do that. I called Bioshock Infinite a sucker punch because the nature of its story, the degree to which we care about Elizabeth, and the final revelatory walk through the many worlds and lighthouses are all things most gamers did not expect. Like his other games, this is one that bears re-playing, and enjoying all over again, and not just for the challenges of the gameplay or the unlocking of achievements. Ken Levine's ideas on how to tell stories in games and how that can change things may be fanciful - but it also works.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

On The Mend

On The Mend — Blue Ink Alchemy

I hate posts like this. I really do. To me, they're an indication of failure. Not enough time carved out for writing. Insufficient thought given to ideas beforehand. A cavalcade of excuse. So on and so forth. But I can't go back and write posts just to fill space. So here I am saying the schedule is off again, this time due to a back injury. Things like this are particularly galling, to me. My mind doesn't operate any more slowly if my body's working against me, why is it harder for me to make time to write and maintain my focus when I'm in 'recovery mode'? I should be banging out thousands of words as I lay supine on the couch or sit with pillows propping me up. I'll just have to try harder for the rest of this week, especially since I'll be working from home, thanks to Vera encountering another flat tire. Needless to say, I hope your days are a lot better than mine have been.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Crash

Flash Fiction: The Crash — Blue Ink Alchemy

Since this week's Flash Fiction Challenge was nothing but a title, I turned to my Brainstormer, which selected "Prey to misfortune", "alien", and "crossbow".

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As she came to, past the throbbing pain in her cranial cravity, she tried to assess her situtation. The crash had clearly ruined the environmental systems, given the hissing noise above her head. No klaxons were sounding, meaning the power core was intact. She gently pushed herself out of the gravity couch and looked around. The navigator was also coming around, holding his head in his upper left appendage and groaning softly. "What in the name of Gvalix hit us?" She clicked her mandible. "I have no idea. I was busy trying to keep us on course." "That course should have been free of hazards. Something definitely hit us." "You DO know that the cosmos is a vast and mostly empty space, correct?" The navigator's segmented eyes caught the flickering lights of the sputtering consoles. "If you're trying to throw blame around, your Highness..." "Stop..." Both of them turned to where the third gravity couch should have been. Their view was mostly obscured by the collapsed section of hull that had all but crushed the engineer's seat. She moved towards it, gripping the metal with all four sets of claws, but it barely budged. She was female. Her strength was superior. No male-made structure should be able to withstand her, and yet the hull did not move. "I will get you out of there." The engineer shook his head. His abdomen was crushed beneath the wreckage, and green blood seeped through cracks in his thorax. She reached down and stroked between his antennae as he spoke. "It is too late for me, Your Highness. What is important now is your survival. With the beacon active, a rescue party will be dispatched. You must... you must live." "As must you. All of my mother's children are precious." A cough from the engineer spattered green ichor all over the wreckage and his thorax. He shook his head again. "You will make a fine... a fine Queen someday. But you must... must survive first. Take... take our treaty and... and..." A final cough was the last sound the engineer made. She stood, turning to the navigator. He was wringing his claws and looking away. She turned and walked towards him, her wings twitching as she tried to hold down her own emotions. "Listen to me. We still have a mission to complete. He wanted us to complete it, and that is what we are going to do. Do you understand?" After a moment, the navigator looked up at her and nodded. "We were pupae together, your Highness. We haven't been apart for cycles..." "I understand. I helped raise both of you. But we cannot stay here." "Where will we go? We do not know where we can find the means to repair our ship. If it can be repaired..." "One thing at a time, Navigator. First we have to determine where we actually are." They slowly picked their way aft to the airlock. Its seals were intact. The navigator's claws activated the external scanners on the door. "Largely a nitrogen atmosphere, my lady. A large proportion of oxygen, other trace gasses..." "But we will be able to survive in it?" "Yes. We should be prepared, however." "I agree." They entered the airlock, pulling out filter masks, translator rigs, and sidearms. The navigator triggered the outer hatch, and was the first to climb out of the ship. He reached back and helped her emerge. "Thank you. I will take a look." It felt good for her to flex her wings after their long journey. It was night, and the wildlife was quiet. They seemed to be in a rather desolate place, with the lights of a city in the distance. She looked up at the stars, at the single moon high in the sky, and down at the crash site. Then, she returned to the navigator's side. He was looking at a holographic display on a device he held in his lower claws. "As far as I can tell, your Highness, we are halfway spinwards across the spiral arm. This is the third planet in the seventh star system of the Xafflid constellation. We suspected it could sustain life but had not yet sortied a scout mission. It is in the neutral zone between us and the Clusters of Bix..." "So we were on course. I apologize for my tone." "And I for mine. You piloted very well to set us down as you did." One of her antannae twitched, picking up the vibrations of an incoming craft. She turned to the navigator. "What do you make of it?" "Crude. Rotating wing propulsion. Likely armed." He was aleady reaching for his sidearm. "No. We don't want to appear threatening. These may be a primitive species, by our standards." The craft cleared the bluff near their crash site, bathing them with a harsh light. Over the din of the craft's blades, she could make out words from one of the crew within. "Roswell, this is Crossbow. Located the site. Unknown forces present, potentially hostile. Awaiting orders." She turned to her navigator. "Back into the ship, your Highness?" "No. If we can speak with them, they may be able to help us." The craft landed, and the occupants emerged. They were much smaller than either of the survivors, with soft exteriors of various colors under cloth uniforms, and each carried a magazine-fed projectile weapon. The navigator began to move to step between her and them, but she held out her right arms, preventing him. She flipped her translator rig to learning mode and scanned local transmissions. In moments, it had the information she needed. "People of Earth." The words felt strange in her mouth, oddly shaped and clipped in their pace. But she pressed on. "We come in peace!" The humans looked at one another, then back at her. They slowly lowered their weapons. "You need to come with us," one of them said. "We will take you to our base. We'll take care of you there."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Thoughts on Boston

Thoughts on Boston — Blue Ink Alchemy

Normally, on Fridays, I talk about how my writing's going. I whine about how busy I get. I try to be funny. I really don't have any of that in me today. I gave thought to some sort of ultra-positive, quasi-patriotic post about how terror will never conquer this country. I do believe that we are stronger than terror. That there are too many helpers, too many good people, too many folks with kind hearts and indomitable wills to succumb to fear and paranoia. We may be a somewhat arrogant, occasionally backwards, largely do-nothing (CONGRESS!), and marginally out-of-shape lot in America, but for the most part, our hearts are in the right place. I just don't know if that's more signal or more noise, at this point. So I'll say this. I fell in love a little bit with Boston the last time I was there. I miss the friends I made there, and I worry about their safety. All I can offer from here is my attention, my good vibrations, and my prayers. I'll give blood in a couple weeks to help shore up the supply that's certain to be depleted. This has been a terrible week. Hopefully, however, the worst of it is rapidly disappearing from our rear-views. All that really matters, in the end, is the road ahead.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Justice League: Doom

Movie Review: Justice League: Doom — Blue Ink Alchemy

Even when I was younger, I knew there was something that set Batman: The Animated Series apart from other cartoons. At the time I chalked it up to visual style - the black cels really sold the noir asthetic of Gotham. However, looking back, the writing is incredibly solid and often goes to dark places for what is obstensibly a children's program. I haven't watched a great deal of the Justice League or Justice League Unlimited series, but after watching Justice League: Doom instead of shelling out for Injustice: Gods Among Us, I may have to correct that oversight. Batman is, as a rule, paranoid. He's a very rich man with a very odd nightlife and some very interesting friends, ranging from nigh-invincible aliens to smart-alec test pilots with magic jewelry. He knows for a fact that they're good people, these friends of his, but he also knows that good people can be mislead, controlled, manipulated, or even turn bad. So he has plans for dealing with each and every one of these friends. Now what, do you suppose, happens when these plans get stolen, cranked up, and unleashed on Batman and his friends in the Justice League? This is the brainchild of immortal douchebag Vandal Savage and his newly forged Legion of Doom. What Justice League: Doom does right is taking the focus away from major super-powered threats or earth-shattering kabooms. The scope of this film is a lot smaller, its tone more intimate, than most stories that deal with super-heroes, especially teams. With animated features, where special effects are less limited by things like budget, the temptation can exist for a creative team or vision to override more character-focused story points. Thankfully, Doom does not fall into that trap. For most of its running time, we see how Batman's contingency plans wreck havoc in the lives of his teammates. And since the plans are meant to deal these super-powered individuals on both a physical and a psychological level, the plans can be rather insidious, and make for good watching.
The art style is crisp but may seem too childish or anime for some. The nature of the conflict is matched by good pacing and excellent voice work all around. Both Kevin Conroy and Tim Daly reprise their long standing roles as Batman and Superman, respectively. I happen to like Hal Jordan as Green Lantern, and Nathan Fillion supplying the voice was a great bonus. With this core of talent, the characters really come to life. This helps drive home some of the moments that could define, or destroy, these heroes. There's also the fact that many of those moments go to very dark territory. We have bombs bolted to people's bodies, live burials, major psychological trauma, and even people getting shot point-blank in the chest. It's clear from the outset that this story isn't messing around. Unfortunately, Justice League: Doom is not perfect. The nature of the Legion of Doom's formation means that each member other than Savage has a personal beef with an individual hero on the Justice League, and pairings pretty much remain fixed throughout the final battle. For example, Mirror Master might have given Superman a run for his money, and how would Metallo fare against Green Lantern? Another problem is in said final battle; since the plans are resolved as a prelude to said battle, most of the interesting character points have already happened or are largely inconsequential. It feels a great deal like the final minutes of Justice League: Doom simply run out of steam, which is a shame considering it's good opening and fantastic second act.
I really like Mirror Master's design. The see-through look nails the character. Stuff I Liked: The implementation of the plans to take out the Justice League. I liked seeing these versions of Bane, Star Sapphire, Metallo, and particularly Mirror Master. Batman revealing he's always got kryptonite available made me grin like an idiot. Stuff I Didn't Like: Vandal Savage is perhaps my least favorite kind of villain: he's evil for evil's sake. His plan is megalomaniacal in the extreme and he has only the most paper-thin of excuses for carrying it out. I'm still not a huge fan of Superman; it seems difficult for a given writer to decide just how much power kryptonite has over him or how long it takes for the glowing rocks to weaken him. Stuff I Loved: The voice acting is very good. There's a moment about halfway through involving Cheetah and Vandal Savage that really impressed me with its audacity. I'm not too ashamed to say I enjoyed Superman getting shot. Hal Jordan remains my favorite Green Lantern, and having him voiced by Nathan Fillion was a great moment of fanboy enjoyment for me. Bottom Line: For all of the imperfections I saw emerging, Justice League: Doom still tells a decent story and inhabits some of the more fantastical characters of the DC universe with some humanity and vulnerability. As good as it could have been with some elements mixed a bit more and a couple more chances taken, what it does is done well.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Sometimes Life Happens

Sometimes Life Happens — Blue Ink Alchemy

Last night was kind of a disaster in some regards and life just happens from time to time. I'll be back on track tomorrow with a review that's kind of sort of relevant to Injustice coming out this week. My thoughts & prayers are with Boston and the fantastic folks there, and I hope everybody makes it through this Wednesday okay.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Anatomy of a Hero

Anatomy of a Hero — Blue Ink Alchemy

Last week we talked about the Chosen One. Specifically, we talked about how the Chosen One's starting to look a little creaky and doesn't hold up in modern storytelling. In all honesty, the divergence of heroes from the idea of them being the Chosen One is nothing new. Nobody would call Jay Gatsby, a 'self-made' man, or Holden Caufield, a disenfranchised youth on the cusp of adulthood, anything resembling 'the Chosen One.' But rather than diving into these great American novels (which you can do here and here, respectively), let's stick with Harry Potter. Since we dissected the young wizard last week, let's examine the anatomy of this would-be hero. Also, while I refer to the main character as a 'hero', you can easily swap in 'heroine'. These attributes have nothing to do with gender. Or species. But let's get into it before I get bogged down in semantics. First and foremost, as mentioned last week, Harry remains a human being throughout his arc. I don't mean that he doesn't evolve into a centaur or something; his emotions and thoughts and growth stay very grounded. This is essential for a would-be hero. Say what you want about Luke Skywalker's whining or Steve Roger's aw-shucks approach to others, they are part and parcel of the characters' core and growth. Luke has to lose his innocense, Steve is faced with a world that cares nothing for his ideals, and Harry must overcome his initial adoration for the wizarding world to deal with the challenges to come. What makes a hero a hero, in addition to being human, is a willingness, reluctant or otherwise, to put that humanity and their personal needs and wants aside for something greater than themselves. This is a conscious choice they make, a decision based on their situations and the abilities and resources at their disposal. Instead of it just being part of their destiny, the hero weighs the options in front of him and chooses the harder path, the one towards danger, the one that does not guarantee a happy ending. And given that the hero is human, and that they made this hard choice, you can be certain things are going to go wrong. The machinations of the villains may not even need to become involved, either. Part of what makes a hero heroic is how they deal with adversity, and that includes their own fuck-ups. And the thing about human beings is, sooner or later, they are going to fuck up. The mistake can cause the hero harm, force the loss of progress, or even cost them the life of someone dear to them. But tragic or unfortunate as the moment itself can be, it's the moments after that show us what a hero is really made of. Beyond any yammering about destiny or curses or fate or intervention, it is in these darkest moments that the heroes we remember, that we adore, that we idolize, shine the brightest. These are what I consider to be the essential parts of a hero. Feel free to leave anything I might have missed in the comments!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Genevive's

Flash Fiction: Genevive's — Blue Ink Alchemy

This week, Chuck admonished us to choose our opening line, so I did.

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It's always midnight somewhere. When you got one of the black business cards with these words embossed upon it, it was an invitation. It meant one of Madame Genevive's girls thought you were really something special. Lots of girls in town had pimps; those that worked for Madame Genevive were a cut above as it was. Finding one of them "walking the beat" as they called it could be a rarity; getting an invitation to the center of Genevive's operation was another matter entirely. James looked again at the address on the back of the card. The storefront was an antique book store, stuffed wall to wall with tomes new and old. Baskets out front were available for browsing, signs saying there were discounted and even available for lending or those without books to take if they so desired as long as a note was left. Walking in, he found a beautiful girl behind the desk, her hair restrained by a pair of chopsticks, green eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses focused on a novel in her hands. He showed her the card. A small smile touched her ruby-red lips, and she cast her eyes to an antiquated grandfather clock in a corner of the store, within sight of the desk but hidden from the front door. He walked to it, studying it for a long moment. The hands of the clock were unprotected by glass. He reached up, gently, and turned the hands until the clock struck midnight. It chimed, rumbled, slid back from the shelves, and swung aside. Stepping past the shelves, James found a spiral staircase leading down, low lights pulsing beneath him, the smell of incense and, faintly, sweat. Swallowing, he took the steps one at a time. The clock returned to its position behind him. The lights in the underground room were kept dimmed, and the pulsing came from the dance floor, where a few couples gyrated together to the thumping beat. Some girls occupied poles, others laps, as men on the couches and recliners watched them move. A girl by the stairs smiled, told him the rates, and took his hand to place a small stamp on his knuckle. James examined it with a small smile - getting here had taken no small amount of effort. The elaborate security meant officers of the law almost never made it down here unless it was personal business. He could see two city council members and a judge among the denizens in the shadows, drinking in the undulating curves before them. He tried to keep himself focused on the task at hand. It took a few minutes of wandering the floor and gently refusing the attentions of some very lovely girls before he found who he was looking for. The man was well-built, his physique the mix of plastic surgery and body building that indicated the level of both his income and his vanity, and he was pulling the hips of a girl to him, slapping her ass on every downbeat. She continued to grind him, but her eyes betrayed an annoyance that James caught easily even in the low lights. She saw him watching, and the annoyance faded, replaced by curiosity. Does he like to watch? seemed to be the thought crossing her mind. James placed a finger to his lips, and flicked his eyes to the rooms towards the back. The girl turned to straddle her eager companion. She whispered in his ear, and then took him by the hand to lead him towards an available room. James fell into step behind them, reaching under his jacket. When she opened the door to allow her john to enter, James slipped the thimble carefully into her hand, wrapped in a few large bills. He caught a glimpse of her look, then stood back from the door and found a place to sit. Presently, the girl screamed. The woman from upstairs came running down. James ordered a drink from a shaken waitress, not even bothering to turn as the unfortunate man was carried out of the room. The conversation was hushed, uncertain, excited: Did they know who this man was? Wasn't he the son of the local Don? Would there be retribution? James smiled. The toxin was subtle. A little elevated heart rate was all it took to activate it, and as the poison stimulated the adrenal glands and other parts of the body, the heart just kept speeding up until it simply burned out. Anybody using plastic surgery to achieve that look was not above using a little blue bill for potency, and everybody knew those things had side effects... The girl returned, wearing a short, frilly robe over her naked body. James met her gaze over the rim of his glass. "He's been coming here for months," she whispered. "And every time it's been..." "Rough?" She shook her head. "Rough, I can handle. He was just so... He was a dick about it." "Not surprising." "Did you know him?" "Only from his reputation." She licked her lips, nervously. "Will the Don's men be coming here?" James set aside his glass, leaned towards the girl, and took her hand. "Who do you think hired me?" Her painted lips, finally, began to smile. "I knew someone would come for him eventually. But I'm glad it was someone so handsome." "I have a few hours here before my next assignment. How would you like to fill that time?" Her smile brightened. Her eyelids fluttered. And her robe hit the floor without a sound.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Genevive's

Flash Fiction: Genevive's — Blue Ink Alchemy

It's always midnight somewhere. When you got one of the black business cards with these words embossed upon it, it was an invitation. It meant one of Madame Genevive's girls thought you were really something special. Lots of girls in town had pimps; those that worked for Madame Genevive were a cut above as it was. Finding one of them "walking the beat" as they called it could be a rarity; getting an invitation to the center of Genevive's operation was another matter entirely. James looked again at the address on the back of the card. The storefront was an antique book store, stuffed wall to wall with tomes new and old. Baskets out front were available for browsing, signs saying there were discounted and even available for lending or those without books to take if they so desired as long as a note was left. Walking in, he found a beautiful girl behind the desk, her hair restrained by a pair of chopsticks, green eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses focused on a novel in her hands. He showed her the card. A small smile touched her ruby-red lips, and she cast her eyes to an antiquated grandfather clock in a corner of the store, within sight of the desk but hidden from the front door. He walked to it, studying it for a long moment. The hands of the clock were unprotected by glass. He reached up, gently, and turned the hands until the clock struck midnight. It chimed, rumbled, slid back from the shelves, and swung aside. Stepping past the shelves, James found a spiral staircase leading down, low lights pulsing beneath him, the smell of incense and, faintly, sweat. Swallowing, he took the steps one at a time. The clock returned to its position behind him. The lights in the underground room were kept dimmed, and the pulsing came from the dance floor, where a few couples gyrated together to the thumping beat. Some girls occupied poles, others laps, as men on the couches and recliners watched them move. A girl by the stairs smiled, told him the rates, and took his hand to place a small stamp on his knuckle. James examined it with a small smile - getting here had taken no small amount of effort. The elaborate security meant officers of the law almost never made it down here unless it was personal business. He could see two city council members and a judge among the denizens in the shadows, drinking in the undulating curves before them. He tried to keep himself focused on the task at hand. It took a few minutes of wandering the floor and gently refusing the attentions of some very lovely girls before he found who he was looking for. The man was well-built, his physique the mix of plastic surgery and body building that indicated the level of both his income and his vanity, and he was pulling the hips of a girl to him, slapping her ass on every downbeat. She continued to grind him, but her eyes betrayed an annoyance that James caught easily even in the low lights. She saw him watching, and the annoyance faded, replaced by curiosity. Does he like to watch? seemed to be the thought crossing her mind. James placed a finger to his lips, and flicked his eyes to the rooms towards the back. The girl turned to straddle her eager companion. She whispered in his ear, and then took him by the hand to lead him towards an available room. James fell into step behind them, reaching under his jacket. When she opened the door to allow her john to enter, James slipped the thimble carefully into her hand, wrapped in a few large bills. He caught a glimpse of her look, then stood back from the door and found a place to sit. Presently, the girl screamed. The woman from upstairs came running down. James ordered a drink from a shaken waitress, not even bothering to turn as the unfortunate man was carried out of the room. The conversation was hushed, uncertain, excited: Did they know who this man was? Wasn't he the son of the local Don? Would there be retribution? James smiled. The toxin was subtle. A little elevated heart rate was all it took to activate it, and as the poison stimulated the adrenal glands and other parts of the body, the heart just kept speeding up until it simply burned out. Anybody using plastic surgery to achieve that look was not above using a little blue bill for potency, and everybody knew those things had side effects... The girl returned, wearing a short, frilly robe over her naked body. James met her gaze over the rim of his glass. "He's been coming here for months," she whispered. "And every time it's been..." "Rough?" She shook her head. "Rough, I can handle. He was just so... He was a dick about it." "Not surprising." "Did you know him?" "Only from his reputation." She licked her lips, nervously. "Will the Don's men be coming here?" James set aside his glass, leaned towards the girl, and took her hand. "Who do you think hired me?" Her painted lips, finally, began to smile. "I knew someone would come for him eventually. But I'm glad it was someone so handsome." "I have a few hours here before my next assignment. How would you like to fill that time?" Her smile brightened. Her eyelids fluttered. And her robe hit the floor without a sound.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: Can't Talk. Working.

Writer Report: Can't Talk. Working. — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes This has been a week of, frankly, getting back in the goddamn saddle. My workouts are up, my dayjob is going well, and I'm back to writing in Cold Streets at the average rate of 350 words per weekday. Not much else to report, if I'm honest. And I'm a bit busy at the moment with everything else that's going on. I really need to carve out more time to prep these posts beforehand.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Game Review: BioShock Infinite

Game Review: BioShock Infinite — Blue Ink Alchemy

It's worth noting that BioShock was one of the very first video games I reviewed. It's clear that in those days I was still learning the ropes and refining opinions, however, as my review of BioShock 2 ended up being overly generous. If I had the inclination, I would go back to the entry and edit in a couple more things that I've realized I didn't like, but that's old ground that's been tread several times. Let's just leave it at this: until now, BioShock did not have a worthy sequel. It had a map pack and some skins and a multiplayer mode, bundled and sold as a game. BioShock Infinite is the actual sequel to the first BioShock game, and it has a lot to live up to. It's not every day that a gaming franchise gets a saving throw. The year is 1912, and we find ourselves portraying hard-bitten private detective Booker DeWitt. A veteran of the infamous 7th cavalry and a former Pinkerton agent, Booker's a little down on his luck, having racked up some debts from gambling. He is given a mysterious offer: "Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt." The girl, according to the box on his lap as he is taken to the lighthouse, is Elizabeth, a tower-bound prisoner in the airborne city-state of Columbia. At first, the city seems peaceful and prosperous, even if the citizens worshiping the founding fathers of the United States is a bit off-putting. Soon, however, DeWitt is on the run from the constabulary, who are admonished by their leader and patron saint, Z.H. Comstock or "the Prophet", to destroy the "False Shepherd" DeWitt before he can lead "the Lamb," Elizabeth, astray. The games of Ken Levine have always had evocative environments, and BioShock Infinite is no exception. Columbia joins the underwater metropolis of Rapture and the corridors of the Von Braun in creating a living, breathing place with its own unique atmosphere. However, instead of the harrowing sci-fi horror of the first game or the objectivist utopia gone wrong of the second, BioShock Infinite turns a glass on history rather than literature or a genre. Specifically, Columbia invokes the so-called American exceptionalism of the turn of the 20th century. Much like the pundits of FOX News and other conservatives, the people of this time believed that they were the rightful heirs of a nation of immigrants and disparate peoples, which of course meant it was unfit for immigrants and disparate peoples. To the game's credit, things like jingoism, racism, and sexism are handled in a largely subtle fashion, simply presented as they were or would have been in 1912 rather than dwelling on our modern views on the matter, and does not allow any pontification get in the way of the story of Booker and Elizabeth.
"Um... Miss? I really hope that book isn't loaded..." Perhaps the strongest part of the game is that story, which I will not spoil here. There was some controversy before the game's release concerning the decision to put Booker front and center instead of Elizabeth, and now that I've played it, I can say that I agree with those who think Elizabeth deserves her place on the front cover. She's a well-rounded, interesting, strong, and engaging character. It was conjectured by some that the bulk of the game consisting of a glorified escort quest would make the game dull or uninteresting. As much as there are some flaws in the gameplay, Elizabeth's role is not one of them. Not only is her ability to open rifts between parallel universes crucial to the plot, she can assist in combat by pulling in cover, turrets, and items when you find the right rift. In addition, she will occasionally find money, health, ammunition, or Salt (which powers your Plasmids Vigors) in the middle of a firefight. Finally, she will point out if some enemies have specific weapons so you can prioritize. Outside of combat, as you explore Columbia, Elizabeth and Booker will converse, banter, and even argue. Their conversations feel natural and spontaneous for the most part, which is a credit to the writers and voice actors. I often found myself frustrated with a shooting section because I wanted to spend more time with these two rather than shooting at dudes. BioShock Infinite is not perfect, and its biggest flaw may be the shooting at the core of the game. While the guns function well, there's very little skill involved in it. Much like its previous games, this BioShock focuses less on the building of your character's abilities and more on what the character does between combat sequences. One of the things that really bothered me is that Booker is limited to two guns, while all eight Vigors are always available once discovered. There aren't that many tactical decisions to make, and between the pushover human enemies to the Handyman encounters that make the Big Daddies look like rather friendly folks, not a great deal of variety. It doesn't completely derail things, and the Skyhook's ability to zip you around the gallery rather than confining you to cover helps quite a bit, but it does keep BioShock Infinite from reaching its full potential as a gaming experience. As good as the story is, the player's interaction with it is somewhat minimal. No significant decisions are made, and the outcome of the game cannot be changed. As worthy as the destination is of the journey, I feel like an opportunity was missed in favor of rendering the Automated Patriots, which are probably the most fun enemies to fight. But I digress.
Gives new meaning to the term "rail shooter". Stuff I Liked: The weapons had a good, turn-of-the-century look and feel about them. I like that audio logs, environmental messages on the walls, and open non-linear level design remain a part of this gaming series. The presentation of the Vigors is very good. The combat can be satisfying at times, especially when the Skyhook gets involved, but... Stuff I Didn't Like: I felt hamstrung because I was limited to two weapons. There are portions later in the game where it felt like an incredible liability. As good as the story was, more could have been done to make the player feel included in the experience, rather than simply being an observer. That said... Stuff I Loved: The story IS well-presented, paced decently, and ends in a very satisfactory manner. The character of Elizabeth is fantastic. Booker adds a great deal of personality by not being a silent protagonist. I adore the British twins. The music is great, the graphics are beautiful, and the city of Columbia invokes curiosity and fascination as you explore. Bottom Line: Despite its flaws, BioShock Infinite is an extremely good game. Few games present their stories with this much humanity, pathos, and personality. The world is very well-realized and encourages you to spend time there. While the combat isn't great, it does have some interesting bits to offer, and it provides the promise of a universe where BioShock 2 never existed.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

One Of Those Hiccups

One Of Those Hiccups — Blue Ink Alchemy

Sometimes things just don't go right. Things at home have been a bit in flux of late, and a mishap & slip of my own mind had me forget to enable my alarm this morning. As a result, I ended up running behind. I opted for hitting the gym over completing any writing, and ended up stuck in a snarl of traffic that left me in a foul mood. I'm better, now, but still staring down the barrel of a pretty full work day. The review is bumped until tomorrow, but the good news is that I'm back to writing every night. I'm going to try and keep this up, and finish the first draft of Cold Streets by mid-May. I'll be looking for test readers! Sign up in the comments below or contact me via any of my stalking methods.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Dissecting the Chosen One

Dissecting the Chosen One — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'll go on record as being a fan of the Harry Potter series. There's something that bothers me about it, though. A lot of people in the Wizarding world refer to Harry as 'the Chosen One', 'the Boy Who Lived', and so on. It's a phrase that's been used quite a bit, and not just in the arenas of young adult or fantasy fiction. It's an old chestnut, going all the way back to the earliest myths, and it's about time someone cut this geezer open to pull out what works and discards the rest. Our stories still need their heroes, that's not in question, but as things stand, "the Chosen One" is definitely showing its age. There are a lot of traditional views of heroism in fiction. Many times, the hero is "chosen", set aside by some greater power or the magic of destiny or something like that. This simplistic explanation allows the focus to remain on the hero's journey, and in these cases the Campbellian archetype applies more often than not. Throughout their growth, doubts, victories, failures, and apotheosis, the hero is a very present figure, unmired by a past that usually has little or nothing to do with the task at hand. They've been chosen to be the hero, and that is that. In case it isn't obvious, there are more than a couple problems with The Chosen One. Firstly, it robs the hero of a great deal of their agency. Being 'chosen', their decision-making happens on a very micro level, simply overcoming challenges as they are presented, rather than working towards a larger, self-defined go. 'Fulfill your destiny' is, somewhat ironically, not all that fulfilling as a motivation. On top of that, the Chosen One often does little to earn their power and influence. Their abilities are tested, to be sure, but much like the hero's decision-making, these successes more often than not fail to grow the hero in any meaningful way, and even the loss of magical weapons or fond companions are only temporary difficulties, since 'the power was inside all along'. This brings me to a third (and, for the moment, final) flaw in The Chosen One as a hero: other characters around the hero suffer as a result of the hero's 'chosen' nature. They are often reduced to cannon fodder or, usually worse, comic relief, rather than forcing the hero to work harder, do better, grow and change. Because the hero has no agency, neither does anybody around them. It's possible to make the story of The Chosen One charming, and flesh out the characters to a degree that these flaws are minimized, but they're not going away. Even tales I love have these flaws, at times glaringly. And one of your jobs as a writer is to work on doing better at telling stories than your favorite author can or would do. While we can't all be JK Rowling or George RR Martin or Terry Pratchett or JRR Tolkien or Isaac Asimov or Chuck Wendig, we still can and should do a better job with the central figures of our stories than we've seen or read or heard about in the past. Back to Harry. How JK avoids the pitfalls above is that Harry remains a very human character, in every measure a boy growing into a man. After the initial rush of breaking free of his mundane and abusive life, he doesn't much care for the hoopla and labels that surround him. His 'destiny', if we want to call it that, was not gifted to him, but rather the side-effect of one of the most horrific events of his life. Rather than things coming easily to him, he struggles in his studies and in his interactions, often coming close to failing if not completely screwing the pooch. He wouldn't have gotten as far as he does without his friends, who like him are realistic and well-rounded characters in their own right, never feeling disposable unless a film director isn't sure what to do with Ron Weasley (but that's hardly Ron's fault, or Ms Rowling's). And his refusal of his destiny's call never feels like a token moment meant to check off a box on the Campbellian list. So how does one make a hero work? What makes for a good hero? If there's bad points for the Chosen One, what are the good ones for a hero? Tune in next week, and find out.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Dissecting the Chosen One

Dissecting the Chosen One — Blue Ink Alchemy

Harry Potter series. There's something that bothers me about it, though. A lot of people in the Wizarding world refer to Harry as 'the Chosen One', 'the Boy Who Lived', and so on. It's a phrase that's been used quite a bit, and not just in the arenas of young adult or fantasy fiction. It's an old chestnut, going all the way back to the earliest myths, and it's about time someone cut this geezer open to pull out what works and discards the rest. Our stories still need their heroes, that's not in question, but as things stand, "the Chosen One" is definitely showing its age. There are a lot of traditional views of heroism in fiction. Many times, the hero is "chosen", set aside by some greater power or the magic of destiny or something like that. This simplistic explanation allows the focus to remain on the hero's journey, and in these cases the Campbellian archetype applies more often than not. Throughout their growth, doubts, victories, failures, and apotheosis, the hero is a very present figure, unmired by a past that usually has little or nothing to do with the task at hand. They've been chosen to be the hero, and that is that. In case it isn't obvious, there are more than a couple problems with The Chosen One. Firstly, it robs the hero of a great deal of their agency. Being 'chosen', their decision-making happens on a very micro level, simply overcoming challenges as they are presented, rather than working towards a larger, self-defined go. 'Fulfill your destiny' is, somewhat ironically, not all that fulfilling as a motivation. On top of that, the Chosen One often does little to earn their power and influence. Their abilities are tested, to be sure, but much like the hero's decision-making, these successes more often than not fail to grow the hero in any meaningful way, and even the loss of magical weapons or fond companions are only temporary difficulties, since 'the power was inside all along'. This brings me to a third (and, for the moment, final) flaw in The Chosen One as a hero: other characters around the hero suffer as a result of the hero's 'chosen' nature. They are often reduced to cannon fodder or, usually worse, comic relief, rather than forcing the hero to work harder, do better, grow and change. Because the hero has no agency, neither does anybody around them. It's possible to make the story of The Chosen One charming, and flesh out the characters to a degree that these flaws are minimized, but they're not going away. Even tales I love have these flaws, at times glaringly. And one of your jobs as a writer is to work on doing better at telling stories than your favorite author can or would do. While we can't all be JK Rowling or George RR Martin or Terry Pratchett or JRR Tolkien or Isaac Asimov or Chuck Wendig, we still can and should do a better job with the central figures of our stories than we've seen or read or heard about in the past. Back to Harry. How JK avoids the pitfalls above is that Harry remains a very human character, in every measure a boy growing into a man. After the initial rush of breaking free of his mundane and abusive life, he doesn't much care for the hoopla and labels that surround him. His 'destiny', if we want to call it that, was not gifted to him, but rather the side-effect of one of the most horrific events of his life. Rather than things coming easily to him, he struggles in his studies and in his interactions, often coming close to failing if not completely screwing the pooch. He wouldn't have gotten as far as he does without his friends, who like him are realistic and well-rounded characters in their own right, never feeling disposable unless a film director isn't sure what to do with Ron Weasley (but that's hardly Ron's fault, or Ms Rowling's). And his refusal of his destiny's call never feels like a token moment meant to check off a box on the Campbellian list. So how does one make a hero work? What makes for a good hero? If there's bad points for the Chosen One, what are the good ones for a hero? Tune in next week, and find out.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

Free Fiction: Miss Weaver's Lo Mein

Free Fiction: Miss Weaver's Lo Mein — Blue Ink Alchemy

Since this week's Terribleminds flash fiction was a single sentence, and my weekend was too jam-packed to make use of Brainstormer, I dug around and found an as-yet unpublished work of fiction. This is in the tradition of most of my other free fiction, in that it reworks an old tale in a new way. Specifically, this is a Chinese folk tale done as a modern romance. I hope you enjoy it. If you'd prefer to read the story in PDF-form, check out this page. If you'd prefer a format like MOBI, let me know and I'll see what I can do!

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To say that Caroline Weaver didn't get out much would be an understatement. In terms of creature comforts, she wanted for nothing. She had a spacious apartment within walking distance of her father's office. Weaver & Weaver had been in the commodities business practically since there was a commodities business, and it was a long-standing, solid and above-board company handed down from eldest son to eldest son. When Joe's sons and wife were killed in a car accident, he turned to Caroline and immediately began grooming her to take his place when he was gone. The loss of her brothers and mother left Caroline numb, dedicated solely to her work. She knew how important it was. Her dad was counting on her. If someone who wasn't Weaver took over the company when Joe passed on, it wouldn't be Weaver & Weaver anymore, would it? It was something that consumed her. She ate organic food, slept near a laptop, never took vacations and no relationship she tried lasted longer than a couple months. Some of her co-workers joked the only guy she could stand on a regular basis outside of her father was "the lo mein guy." His cart was always parked across Broadway from the office building. FRESH CHINESE was the declaration on the placards bolted to the hammered metal sides. Paper lanterns hung from the opened side doors, a little MP3 player hooked up to speakers piped quiet Chinese tunes, and the smell coming from the cart was always something divine to Caroline, never greasy or fatty. It was the man behind the cart, however, that really kept her coming back. "Morning, Miss Weaver! The usual lo mein?" He was her age. He kept his dark hair short, and his eyes always had a glint of mischief in them, a laugh just waiting to explode from his mouth. More than once, Caroline reflected that there was a significant lack of laughter in her life. "Yes, please. How's the beef?" "Absolutely delicious." He grinned as he spooned noodles into her take-away container. "But you know that! You never get chicken or shrimp." "It's just that the beef is so good," she admitted. "Is it local?" "Yes, unfortunately." "Why is that unfortunate?" Caroline was speaking before thinking. That never happened. She'd been visiting this cart for months, why was she suddenly so talkative? She watched him, carefully sprinkling spices on top of the pile of beef and noodles in the paper box. Why couldn't she look away from his eyes today? "It's not as good as the beef back home. My father's a cowherd, like his father and so on and so forth." She blinked. "'Back home'? You're a Chinese native?" "Why is that a surprise?" He let out a short, barking laugh. "Is it because I speak English so well?" "Well…" She shuffled her feet. The last thing she wanted to do was offend him. If nothing else, she didn't want her food spiced with spit. "I get it all the time." He was still smiling, handing her the lunch. "I was educated at a school upstate. My father was here for years trying to secure an export contract for his beef. It never happened. He couldn't afford to move us all back home, so I stayed to make enough money on my own to do it." She handed him a few bills from her purse. "Here, and keep the change. I hope you make it home someday soon." "Me too. Thank you, Miss Weaver." His smile was infectious. She turned, face to face with a construction worker who wasn't as happy with their banter as she was. Blushing, she hurriedly crossed the street. She didn't stop blushing until well after she returned to her desk. She still wasn't sure what'd possessed her to talk to him like that. She tried not to think about it as she got her chopsticks out and ate her lunch. Hours later as she was plowing through a pile of work it occurred to her she'd never asked his name. That's exactly what she did the next day. "I beg your pardon?" "I didn't think to ask your name yesterday." She paused. "I've been coming her for months and never once have I asked your name. Wait… how do you know mine?" "You answered your cell phone once while I was making your lunch. That's rude, you know." His deadly serious face made her crestfallen. "Oh…" His eyes glimmered and he grinned. "I'm just playing. I didn't mind. Folks behind you might've, but I can't tell them how to think." She returned his smile. "I'm sorry. I've just been working a lot lately." "Aren't we all." He handed her the beef lo mein. "I'm Yuan. Sorry if I didn't say so before." "No, really, it's my fault for not asking." He handed her the lunch he'd made her. "Think nothing of it, Miss Weaver." She paid him, along with the tip she usually added. "It's Caroline." His smile lit up his entire face, and the rest of that afternoon flew by for her. Over the next few months, Caroline and Yuan began to learn more and more about each other. She didn't know much about baseball, but he hated the Yankees. He hadn't gotten to do much reading since establishing his business, and she was a huge Harry Potter fan. They shared a taste for older rock'n'roll, with Caroline marking the death of Jimi Hendrix every year and Yuan considering himself a Beatlemaniac. Caroline didn't go to the movies much, and Yuan promised if they ever did, it wouldn't be to see a romantic comedy. "I don't know if I'd have the time to go see a movie." The skies above were threatening rain that day. Yuan smiled as he stirred a fresh batch of lo mein noodles, intent on giving her the first portion of it. "But you'd be open to the idea?" She smiled. "What makes you think I wouldn't be?" "Don't people in your line of work usually associate with others in the same industry or social circle?" "I guess, but most of them are entitled self-important arrogant douchebags." Yuan snorted in laughter. "Well, I can't say I'm any different. I mean, these are the best noodles in the city." "But I can attest to that. I've tasted your noodles. I only have vapid claims to go on from those clowns. I have no interest in seeing their golf swings or art collections, and they think I'll be eager to find out how good they are in bed when their cologne could knock out a herd of angry rhinos? No, forget it." Yuan shook his head, grinning. "I think this is the happiest I've heard you. You really enjoy trashing your peers this much?" "No. I enjoy talking to you this much." He looked up at her smile, and for a moment, he was at a loss for words. He handed her the lunch box. She took it, touching his fingers for a moment before handing him the cash. "Thursday night, the cinema over on 55th. Seven o'clock?" He nodded. "I'll be there." The movie showing on Thursday night was a little independent production, and it was neither romantic nor a comedy. Still, at times the movie seemed absolutely superfluous, as Caroline was in the company of someone who made no demands of her and had no expectations. It wasn't an industry event where she was supposed to hobnob with this client or that CEO, it was simple, straightforward, uncomplicated. She didn't want it to end. He walked her to her door afterward, kissed her good night and took the train back to his self-described "rathole". She was still walking six feet off the ground when she came into work on Friday. "You seem to be in excellent spirits." She came out of the pleasant memories to look at the man standing at the door of her office. Her father. Tall and thin, with a bald head and bright blond sideburns flowing into his distinctive mustache, he entered the office and closed the door behind him. "Yeah. I… I was on a date last night." "A date? With whom? That nice boy Howards from the exchange?" "No." She hesitated. How much did she want to tell him? How much could she? "You wouldn't know him." The lift he'd had in his mustache disappeared. It was the most she'd seen him smile in a while, and now it was gone. "Well, maybe I'd like to. Give it some thought." He left her to her work, and the morning dragged by for her until she headed downstairs for lunch. "You look awful," Yuan commented as he stirred the noodles at his cart. "What's wrong?" "It's my father. I told him about our date, and…" "…he'd be less than impressed with me." He nodded slowly. "He's a high-powered executive. I understand." "Yuan, he's not a bad man, but the company is all he has. I'm important to him because of the part I play in it." "Can't you be important to him because you're his daughter?" "I was, once. Now he's pinned all his hopes and future on me." He touched her hand, gently. "That's a lot to ask of someone." She looked in his eyes. "Yuan, I'm sorry. I don't want to stop seeing you. I… you make me so happy sometimes I can barely contain it." He smiled, and gently handed her her lunch. "I'm glad we agree on that. Look, you'll see me here every day. When you're ready, we'll talk about how to handle this 'dad' situation of yours. It'll be fine. I promise." Nodding, she gave her usual generous tip, taking a moment to kiss the bills before putting them in his jar. The grin splitting his face was priceless. She returned to work in better spirits and made it through the rest of the day. The next day, however, it was Yuan's turn to be followed by a dark cloud. He showed Caroline a form that'd been delivered to him in person. "It's a deportation notice," he told her. "My visa's been revoked." "How is that possible?" She studied the form. It made no sense. "After my student visa expired, I applied for residence. Despite the fact my work permit from my previous visa hadn't expired, they're saying this-" He gestured a his cart and its delicious-smelling food. "- is illegal, and they're deporting me for it." "That is bullshit!" She slammed the form back onto the cart. "What was this officer's name? I'll find him and sort it out." He shook his head. "I've already found a buyer for the cart. I'm going to go home, help dad with the farm. The money I've made here isn't much, but…" She took his hand, ignoring the people behind her. "Yuan, they don't have to run you out like this. It isn't right. We should fight this, together." "Even if we do, I'll either be doing it from China or from jail. I'd like to hold on to my freedom, even if it means leaving a country supposedly founded on it, and you." Caroline felt tears coming to her eyes and tried to blink them away. He touched her face and smiled faintly. "It's a smaller world than you might think. I don't think it can keep us apart for too long." She leaned into his touch, kissed his hand. "I'm going to miss you." "I'll miss you too, Miss Weaver. Here's your lo mein." She didn't remember the trip back upstairs, nor leaving her lunch on her desk. The next thing she knew she was in her father's office. "This was your doing." "I don't know what you mean." He didn't look at her. Six financial reports were on his wall of televisions at once. He said it kept his mind sharp. "Yuan's deportation. You had something to do with it." "People shouldn't be here on expired permits and visas. If they can't be bothered to renew their paperwork properly, they've got no place here." "His work permit's fine, you just don't like the fact that I'm interested in someone in a lower tax bracket from you!" "I don't like your tone, Caroline." "And I don't like the way you try to control my life like it's a game of chess or something! I'm your daughter, not a slave or a pawn!" "You're also the best employee I've got, and this is our busiest time of year. I need you completely on your game with no distractions. You can have all the girlish flings you want third quarter, just as long as I don't have to see it by looking out my window." Caroline felt her hands curling into fists. She stared at her father as her nails bit into her palms. Finally, when she couldn't think of anything constructive to say, she turned and walked out, returning to her office. She managed to make it through the rest of the work day and get herself home before she broke down into tears. It was a dismal month that followed. The corner across the street from the office was soon occupied by a hot dog vendor, a large gentleman with hairy shoulders who tended to undercook the dogs. She tried to focus on her work, and as her productivity didn't dip too far, her father either didn't notice the way she dragged herself through her days, or simply didn't care. Caroline suspected the latter. Finally, after returning home from work, she found an envelope with international postage on it waiting for her. She got into her apartment, tore off her coat, sat at her tiny kitchen table and clawed the envelope open. Dear Caroline, I've never been all that good at writing things out. I try to deal with what's in front of me and not live inside my head, in words and pictures. I'm sorry if that meant I came across as cold the last time I saw you. Leaving you tore me apart. I loved that little cart and I miss it, almost as much as I miss you. We don't have the Internet out here on the farm, as my father thinks it's a superfluous expense. So I've taken to riding the train to the nearest library. Still, I have the credit card I got while I was in the States, and I used it to buy you a copy of this software that teaches you Chinese. The code for downloading it's enclosed with this letter. I've also sent you a voucher for an airline ticket, which should bring you out here around our New Year's celebration. You've got six months to learn enough Chinese to not piss off my dad. No pressure. I'm kidding. I'm sure you'll get along fine. Still, a few key Mandarin phrases won't hurt. I'm sure your dad won't be too happy with you skipping town on him, and I know your work is important to you. I'm not going to ask you to run away or anything like that. Just come see me, or at least write back. I miss you more than words can say. Love, Yuan Sure enough, the envelope had a print-out with a download code and another with information on a cross-Pacific flight. She read and re-read the letter several times, and a plan began to take shape. The exchange of letters between her and Yuan quickly became preoccupied with the particulars, as she practiced her writing of Chinese characters and he gently corrected her sentence structure. She saved all of her excitement and anticipation for after hours, ensuring her productivity remained at its usual high level. With her father pleased, he left her relatively alone. She worked her vacation request through the HR department like any other employee, knowing that her father tended to ignore the scheduling calendars of other people in his company as long as nothing they did interfered with his meetings. The Friday before she left, however, he knocked on her office door. "A two-week vacation, and I'm only just now hearing about it?" She didn't look up from her paperwork. "I'm the top earner in the company three months running. I've earned some time off." "The HR calendar doesn't say where you're going." "I didn't see how it was anybody's business." "What if you're going someplace dangerous?" "You mean like five blocks from here? I'm not going to stay shut up in this office or my apartment because of a minority of ultra-violent whackjobs." "I see your point." He lingered at the door, watching her work, before he disappeared. When he came back, he closed the door behind him and placed an envelope in front of her. "What's this?" "I moved you up to first class." He stood before her desk, his face inscrutable. "I won't have you on a cross-ocean flight for hours on end cramped in a coach seat. My daughter deserves better." She looked at the envelope, then up at her father. "You know where I'm going, then?" "Yes. And I know why." He paused. "You're right. You deserve your vacation, and the reason you're taking it there is my fault. I was… I was scared." She blinked, breath caught in her throat. He tapped the envelope, not looking her in the eye. "I know this won't make up for what I did. But I had no right to take away something that made you happy just because I feared it getting in the way of business. I'm your boss, but I'm also your father. I can't let one overwhelm the other." The muscles in his jaw danced. "I know people say this company's all I've got. But, really, Caroline… it's you. You're all I've got. And I'm scared of losing you." She took his hand. "You'll never lose me, Dad. Not really. But I can't always be here. Not when my heart is somewhere far away. I miss that little Chinese cart and the sweet guy behind it more than anything, and I'm sorry it took you this long to understand that." She smiled at him. "Don't be scared. I'm going to come back. But I need to see him. You understand that, don't you?" He nodded. "Take the time you need, be safe and come home. We'll be waiting for you." She got up from her desk and hugged him. It was the first time they'd hugged in years. Phones rang elsewhere in the building. Emails poured into inboxes. The Weavers ignored them. For that moment, they weren't co-workers anymore. They weren't commodities traders. They were a family. Two weeks later she was in China. Fireworks exploded in the streets. Paper dragons chased parades and lanters swung as people went hither and yon during the festivities. Yuan and Caroline walked hand in hand. "I'm sorry my dad's not in better health." Yuan smiled a bit in spite of his mood. "It turns out I came home at just the right time. Getting into the groove of running the farm took longer than I thought it would, but we're seeing better business than ever." "I'm glad something good came out of that. I was worried for you." "I know." He squeezed her hand. "And your Mandarin sounds good. I know you'll keep practicing when you go home." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Let's not talk about that yet. I know I have to, that it'll be a long time before we make this work. If we ever do. For now… for now, I just want this." He nodded, and smiled. "Let me take you home, then, and make you some lo mein." Firecrackers popped nearby. Miss Weaver smiled at her cowherd. "I can't wait."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Remembering Roger

Remembering Roger — Blue Ink Alchemy

Normally this would be my writer report. But I haven't been writing as much as I should for a variety of reasons, most of which are flimsy excuses so I'll spare you. I was going to engage in a little thought experiment to try and grease my wheels, but something of impact happened yesterday that bears some discussion. Roger Ebert's dead. I grew up with Roger and Gene Siskel. He was one of the first film critics I was exposed to, and his back and forth with Gene introduced me to intellectual discourse. I was very young at then so I didn't get out of it what I might now, but I was at least shown what it's like to have two adults who respect one another professionally disagree on something. Sure, voices got raised from time to time, but it was still constructive and positive discussion, a far cry from a great deal of the Internet upon which many of us now pontificate. And yet, much of his work set the precedent for several careers on the Internet. His work and persistence and intelligence and willingness to work with his audience, not necessarily against them, demonstrated that criticism as a career was more than just a tiny niche to be filled on the inner pages of newspapers; instead, they could be voices on their own, and possibly even celebrities. I know there are some people in the video gaming community who weren't fond of him. He wrote an essay saying that he didn't see video games as art. In the face of the backlash from this, though, he neither retracted his statement nor closed off his avenues of feedback. He engaged, discussed, and fostered thought. More progress and discourse came out of this back and forth with Roger Ebert than with just about anybody else out there, and it came out of one essay. One. That's powerful, thoughtful writing, and any critic or blogger or journalist out there should aspire to have that sort of impact. He battled cancer. He lost parts of his body in that fight. And he kept on writing. He kept on thinking. He never gave up on movies, or art, or his audience. He'll be sorely missed.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Boil Those Bones

Boil Those Bones — Blue Ink Alchemy

Writers, from what I've experienced, tend to be pack rats by nature. We hold on to a lot of things, from old knick-knacks to old photos, and especially old manuscripts. I have yet to meet a fellow author who's said "Yup, I destroyed all my old stories completely." Even if they never see the light of day, for whatever reason, we keep the old things around. And time, let's face it, is not always kind to old ideas. However, an equally undeniable fact is that some ideas do hold up to the test of time. Flash Gordon remains a cult classic just as much for its simplistic presentation as for its high-octane camp. Fans continue to clamor for more Star Wars even though the first movie premiered over 35 years ago. It's entirely possible that one of those old manuscripts holds a core element or key idea that can be planted in fresh, unwritten soil, to grow into something entirely new. Or, to go with a more carnivorous analogy, the meat may be rotten but the bones are intact. And the bones can use used as stock for something new and delicious. But first, all of that old meat has to come off. It can be difficult to strip an old story down to its bare elements, to delete thousands upon thousands of words that you might have spent hours or even days working on. But it has to be done. Hopefully, you are not the writer you were years ago. You've grown, learned, and gotten more used to your voice and your pace. You know what makes good characters, be they heroes or villains or some poor schmuck caught in the middle. Your descriptions are no longer than they have to be. You keep it simple. You grab the reader by the scruff. You kill your darlings. Any meat of the old stories that doesn't do the above can come off of the bones. It's messy work. It can take a while. And it's one thing to kill a darling; it's another to dismember it, to rend it to pieces that your dog might find questionable. But it has to be done. What else is that old manuscript going to do for you? Be you starved for a new idea or wondering how you can make an old one work better, to create you must first destroy. Get the rotten meat off those bones, then boil them in the clean water of a fresh and cleared mind. Start a new outline. Drop in the bones (the plot points & ideas) and build something new around them. You might be surprised at the results. That's how I'd go about it, at least.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: What Happened to Stenz

Flash Fiction: What Happened to Stenz — Blue Ink Alchemy

Image courtesy My Secret London At Chuck's behest, I entered the Secret Door, and it took me here, where I witnessed the following:

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Gordon, ironically enough, wasn't terribly fond of Gordon's. The wine bar had good vintages at good prices, it was true. It was at least a few steps from London's main thoroughfares and foot traffic, making it good for meetings. The fact was, Gordon was taller than most, and he really had to stoop to function comfortably beneath the low ceilings in Gordon's cellar. However, that was where Sir Bertram insisted on unofficial meetings. Gordon was inclined to oblige the man. So, he shook off the rain from his Macintosh, divested himself of it along with his hat and walking stick, dug into his pocket for his pipe, and lit his cavendish mix as he walked down the stairs. Sure enough, Sir Bertram was in his favorite corner table, checking his pocket watch with one hand and lifting a glass of a dark red with the other. Gordon managed to make his way there and take a seat without causing too much discomfort, and also without his tobacco going out again. He leaned back and took a long draw from the pipe. "Thank you for coming, Gordon." "You summoned me, Sir Bertram, I assume it was due to something important that could not wait until our next meeting at Scotland Yard." "Indeed." The knight took a sip of his wine. "Do you remember George Stenz?" "The German? He studied under your father at the seminary, did he not?" "The very same. Our friends from the Kaiser told me he's missing." "Missing! Where was he last seen?" "He is, or was, serving as a missionary in China's Juye County, along with two other men. He has never been one to refrain from speaking his mind, and he and his fellows were exempt from many of China's laws. So, about a week ago, twenty to thirty armed men stormed their home, and hacked his fellow missionaries to death in their beds." Gordon removed the pipe from his mouth and passed his other hand across his forehead. "Bless my soul. And Stenz is missing, you say?" "Indeed. The Kaiser is furious. His German East Asia Squadron is sailing for China as we speak." "Will there be war?" "Not if the Chinese do what we have done for them many times in the past. A little kow-tow would go a long way to soothing William's hackles. But there is the matter of Stenz." Gordon took a draw of his tobacco, his free hand's fingers smoothing his mustache. "You need me to find him." Sir Bertram's sideburns crinkled as he nodded with a stern expression. "As expediently as possible, there's a good chap." "Are we that eager to do our own appeasing of the Kaiser?" "It has nothing to do with appeasement." Sir Bertram gestured for a waiter. "On the contrary. We can't allow the Germans to have the only solid foothold in the region following this blatant attack on Christendom. In order to ensure we have something with which to bargain, and not wishing to have our own people hacked to bits, we want to return Stenz to his countrymen." The waiter poured Sir Bertram a fresh glass. "And you, my boy, are one of the very finest in Her Majesty's service at finding individuals lost in foreign lands." Gordon frowned. "My Mandarin is not as strong as my Farsi or Hindi. I'm out of practice." "You'll be perfectly fine. I have every confidence in you, and so does Her Majesty." Nodding, the foreign agent got to his feet, stooping under the low ceiling arch of the cellar. "I'll go make preparations." He paused. "How bad do you think this could get?" "Bad. The Russians and French are mobilizing delegations of their own. I have no idea what the Japanese are up to, but considering their proximity it's a fair bet they'll want to carve out something for themselves. Next thing we know, the damn Yanks could be involved." "And what about the Boxers?" "I beg your pardon?" "The Boxers. The Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists. Is it possible they're behind this?" Sir Bertram stroked one of his sideburns. "I suppose so. They do have a penchant for hunting down foreigners of different religions. But I doubt the threat will be that great." Gordon shook his head, bending closer to Sir Bertram, his hand on the brickwork arch above his head. "Sir Bertram, part of the reason I am as good as you and Her Majesty believe is because of my time spent abroad. I have spent enough of that time in China to know that the Boxers are not some minor insurgency movement. They are more numerous than you think and more disciplined than most civilian movements tend to be. They do not want us in their country, and if the Germans are the first European power to go for a slice of the Chinese pie with everyone following suit, their distaste for us could turn violent." "How violent?" Gordon took a deep breath and made a mental calculation he did not want to make. "If they do not persuade their rulers to resist us, they may rebel. There will indeed be war, and not amongst ourselves, but rather against an untested and unknown foreign power." Sir Bertram gave this a few minutes' thought. Then, draining his wine glass, he looked up at Gordon. "In that case, your orders are thus: Find Stenz. Learn what you can about the Boxers. Then return here. You will give a full report at Buckingham Palace then." Gordon nodded, turning towards the stairs. "England must be ready, Sir Bertram." "Godspeed, young man. The Crown won't forget your service." Gordon took up his coat and stick, replacing his hat as he stepped out into the foggy London afternoon. People bustled past, talking about the latest pie shop down the street or the price of this or that commodity. Gordon paid them no heed as he marched towards Paddington. He had a life, and perhaps an entire empire, to save.

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Read more about the Boxer Rebellion here.

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Blue Ink Alchemy