Writer Report: Emergence

Writer Report: Emergence — Blue Ink Alchemy

The last week or two have been very difficult for me. I've been fighting off a pretty nasty bout of depression, and feelings of lethargy and frustration had been vying for my attention. I think I'm emerging from the other end of it, though, and taking steps towards a better future. This is improvement, even if it's minuscule, and I'll take it. Cold Streets is close to finished, and I want to bear down and push through to the end of the draft. For weeks I've been saying I need to line up test readers. Well, to give myself a deadline, here's what I'm gong to do. The first draft of Cold Streets will be finished by August 27. By then, I will like to get at least half a dozen test readers to look it over after that. If you want to be one of them, drop me a comment here, email me, or reach out to me via any of the social media outlets I use. I'll send you an invite to the Google Document once everything is set up. Thank you in advance! I'm also going to outline Godslayer, get a character bio document together, and do some other world and universe building. If I'm going to do this epic novel thing, I think I just need to go back and rebuild some things from the ground up. I have most of the ideas lined up; I just need to get them on paper.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Last Saloon

Flash Fiction: The Last Saloon — Blue Ink Alchemy

After an unfortunate false start last night, I re-rolled for Chuck's flash fiction challenge "Another Roll of the Dice". The new rolls gave me the "Grindhouse" genre, with the elements "a troublesome dog" and "a hidden compartment".

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The road stretched out into the inky darkness, pierced only by the headlights of the purring 1960 DeSoto Adventurer plunging into it. Deke knew he had to get out of town, and fast, before the law came down hard on him. It didn't matter that the bullets they took out of the poor guy were all silver; they'd see it as murder, not the supernatural pest control that it was. Still, a wife (well, widow now) and kids were safe, as was their town, and they'd never have to fear a full moon again. Zeke perked up from his place in the passenger seat, looking out the window. Deke put his foot on the brake, just a little. "What is it, boy?" Zeke's tail thumped the leather seat, and he began to pant. He was excited by something. Long years on the road had taught Deke to trust the bull terrier's instincts, and he pulled into the saloon parking lot. The Adventurer rattled to a stop, and Deke stepped out, followed quickly by the dog. Deke looked down at Zeke, his hands on his hips. "Can I count on you to stay on the porch?" Zeke cocked his head to one side. "Yeah... I thought so. Just don't be a menace, okay? Be nice." Zeke responded with a short, upbeat bark. Inside, the saloon was lit mostly with neon lights. Pool balls clacked on their table in one corner. Deke found an empty table near the back wall and sat where he could see the rest of the saloon. His waitress, tall and curvy with long dark hair, walked up moments later. "Get you something to drink, sugar?" "A cold bottle of beer, miss, if you don't mind." He put a few bills on the table, and she took them to the bar. Deke had to pull his eyes away from what her hips were doing to focus on the rest of the saloon. His thumbs tapped the buckle of his belt idly, and he took a deep breath. You're just keyed up from the werewolf fight. Calm down. It could just be a seedy bar. He heard the bikes outside moments before the riders entered. Three men, all broad-shouldered under their leather jackets, and a woman walked right up to the bar. Deke's waitress returned, and he could see her smile was a bit less natural this time. "What's your name?" "Rachel." Deke smiled. "That's a good and lovely name, for a good and lovely lady. Rachel, what can you tell me about the foursome that just walked in?" Rachel glanced nervously at the bar. "It's best if you don't ask." Deke leaned forward. "If it's trouble, I might be able to help." Rachel took another glance, then leaned over to whisper to Deke. He tried to ignore how she looked. "They tore up a lawman who came 'round here a few months ago. All he did was ask about a few missing person cases. Next thing you know..." She shook, visibly. Deke laid his hand on her wrist, the silver rings on his first and third fingers catching the neon lights. "Outside there's a white DeSoto. I want you to go and open the passenger side door, then the glove compartment. Don't do anything else, and do not get in the car. Do you understand?" "Not... really." He smiled. "It will be all right. Just trust me." "Rachel!" The bartender's bellow was unpleasant. "Flirt on your own time!" Biting her lip, Rachel nodded at Deke, then dropped off her tray as she said she was taking a break. Deke watched the bikers more closely. The moon was still full, and their arrival was on physical vehicles. That narrowed the possibilities considerably. He finished his beer, stood, and approached the bar to hear what was being said. "I'm telling you," the female biker was saying to the bartender, "now that the furball's gone, there's nothing to stop us now. His territory's ours for the taking." Deke whispered a quick prayer, then tapped the closest biker on the shoulder. "Pardon me." The burly man whirled, clearly ready for a fight. Deke's fingers flicked the clasp of the hidden compartment on his belt, and the vial dropped into his hand. His thumb popped the tiny cork, and a snap of his wrist put the contents in the biker's face. The hissing was immediate, and the biker fell back, screaming. "Holy water," the woman said, looking Deke up and down. He smiled, and he heard Zeke barking outside. "I had a feeling. You lot always squabble with werewolves over good hunting grounds." She lunged for him, and he stepped back, but not far enough to avoid having his shirt clawed open. His silver cross spilled out into the air, and the trio still standing stepped back. Zeke bounded into the bar, grabbing one of the bikers by the ankle in his powerful jaws. Deke grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it against the bar. The one unfettered male biker came at him, fangs out, a deadly undead missile. Years of training and less than favorable scraps put Deke on his back, a shard of wood aiming up. The improvised stake found its target and the biker rolled away, grabbing the wood protruding from his chest. "Zeke! Fire!" The dog let go of the ravaged throat of his victim and shot outside. The female hissed, stalking Deke as he stood. "You won't leave here alive, holy man." "Who said I was alive in the first place?" Deke pulled at the hole in his shirt, showing the scars across his chest. "One of your kind killed me a long time ago. God brought me back to make sure your kind never rules the earth." "I'll send you back to your god right now." Zeke returned, a can of lighter fluid in his jaws, his tail wagging. Deke smiled, producing his matches. "Ma'am, with all due respect, I think you'll be getting to where you're going first."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Last Saloon

Flash Fiction: The Last Saloon — Blue Ink Alchemy

After an unfortunate false start last night, I re-rolled for Chuck's flash fiction challenge "Another Roll of the Dice". The new rolls gave me the "Grindhouse" genre, with the elements "a troublesome dog" and "a hidden compartment".

---

The road stretched out into the inky darkness, pierced only by the headlights of the purring 1960 DeSoto Adventurer plunging into it. Deke knew he had to get out of town, and fast, before the law came down hard on him. It didn't matter that the bullets they took out of the poor guy were all silver; they'd see it as murder, not the supernatural pest control that it was. Still, a wife (well, widow now) and kids were safe, as was their town, and they'd never have to fear a full moon again. Zeke perked up from his place in the passenger seat, looking out the window. Deke put his foot on the brake, just a little. "What is it, boy?" Zeke's tail thumped the leather seat, and he began to pant. He was excited by something. Long years on the road had taught Deke to trust the bull terrier's instincts, and he pulled into the saloon parking lot. The Adventurer rattled to a stop, and Deke stepped out, followed quickly by the dog. Deke looked down at Zeke, his hands on his hips. "Can I count on you to stay on the porch?" Zeke cocked his head to one side. "Yeah... I thought so. Just don't be a menace, okay? Be nice." Zeke responded with a short, upbeat bark. Inside, the saloon was lit mostly with neon lights. Pool balls clacked on their table in one corner. Deke found an empty table near the back wall and sat where he could see the rest of the saloon. His waitress, tall and curvy with long dark hair, walked up moments later. "Get you something to drink, sugar?" "A cold bottle of beer, miss, if you don't mind." He put a few bills on the table, and she took them to the bar. Deke had to pull his eyes away from what her hips were doing to focus on the rest of the saloon. His thumbs tapped the buckle of his belt idly, and he took a deep breath. You're just keyed up from the werewolf fight. Calm down. It could just be a seedy bar. He heard the bikes outside moments before the riders entered. Three men, all broad-shouldered under their leather jackets, and a woman walked right up to the bar. Deke's waitress returned, and he could see her smile was a bit less natural this time. "What's your name?" "Rachel." Deke smiled. "That's a good and lovely name, for a good and lovely lady. Rachel, what can you tell me about the foursome that just walked in?" Rachel glanced nervously at the bar. "It's best if you don't ask." Deke leaned forward. "If it's trouble, I might be able to help." Rachel took another glance, then leaned over to whisper to Deke. He tried to ignore how she looked. "They tore up a lawman who came 'round here a few months ago. All he did was ask about a few missing person cases. Next thing you know..." She shook, visibly. Deke laid his hand on her wrist, the silver rings on his first and third fingers catching the neon lights. "Outside there's a white DeSoto. I want you to go and open the passenger side door, then the glove compartment. Don't do anything else, and do not get in the car. Do you understand?" "Not... really." He smiled. "It will be all right. Just trust me." "Rachel!" The bartender's bellow was unpleasant. "Flirt on your own time!" Biting her lip, Rachel nodded at Deke, then dropped off her tray as she said she was taking a break. Deke watched the bikers more closely. The moon was still full, and their arrival was on physical vehicles. That narrowed the possibilities considerably. He finished his beer, stood, and approached the bar to hear what was being said. "I'm telling you," the female biker was saying to the bartender, "now that the furball's gone, there's nothing to stop us now. His territory's ours for the taking." Deke whispered a quick prayer, then tapped the closest biker on the shoulder. "Pardon me." The burly man whirled, clearly ready for a fight. Deke's fingers flicked the clasp of the hidden compartment on his belt, and the vial dropped into his hand. His thumb popped the tiny cork, and a snap of his wrist put the contents in the biker's face. The hissing was immediate, and the biker fell back, screaming. "Holy water," the woman said, looking Deke up and down. He smiled, and he heard Zeke barking outside. "I had a feeling. You lot always squabble with werewolves over good hunting grounds." She lunged for him, and he stepped back, but not far enough to avoid having his shirt clawed open. His silver cross spilled out into the air, and the trio still standing stepped back. Zeke bounded into the bar, grabbing one of the bikers by the ankle in his powerful jaws. Deke grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it against the bar. The one unfettered male biker came at him, fangs out, a deadly undead missile. Years of training and less than favorable scraps put Deke on his back, a shard of wood aiming up. The improvised stake found its target and the biker rolled away, grabbing the wood protruding from his chest. "Zeke! Fire!" The dog let go of the ravaged throat of his victim and shot outside. The female hissed, stalking Deke as he stood. "You won't leave here alive, holy man." "Who said I was alive in the first place?" Deke pulled at the hole in his shirt, showing the scars across his chest. "One of your kind killed me a long time ago. God brought me back to make sure your kind never rules the earth." "I'll send you back to your god right now." Zeke returned, a can of lighter fluid in his jaws, his tail wagging. Deke smiled, producing his matches. "Ma'am, with all due respect, I think you'll be getting to where you're going first."

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

A Few Words on Rights

A Few Words on Rights — Blue Ink Alchemy

I really don't have anything more important to say today than this: DOMA is dead. Prop 8 was dismissed. There have been a lot of vocal arguments on both sides of the issue. Equal rights is a matter of logic more than it is a matter of morality. Think about it. If you want a happy populace within your nation-state, those people should have equal representation. There's also the fact that who individuals live with has literally zero impact on the forward progress of the nation-state. It doesn't matter if the legislators or judges or executors of the government live alone or with a spouse or who that spouse might be, what matters is the laws they pass, enforce, and uphold. It is not the job of the government to impose a particular line of thought, a moral code, or a flavor of faith onto the individual. Hell, no one individual should try to impose that upon another. To do so is bigotry and ignorance and hate, and if we are going to survive as a species, we need to do better than that. It comes down to this. No matter what narrow-minded courts, bigoted legislators, or shouting troglodytes say, nobody can tell you how to feel or who to love. And if someone does tell you how to feel or how to think or who to love, you tell that person to go straight to hell.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Long Days

Long Days — Blue Ink Alchemy

I still feel like I'm behind the 8-ball. I'm still running on less than my usual level of energy, with long days and longer nights racking up against me. It's going to be a couple months until I'm officially on vacation, so I'll just scrape together what rest I can until then. Carving out time for writing remains one of my biggest challenges, and I feel I'm failing a lot more than I'm succeeding. Even this blog entry is coming in the middle of the morning the day it's going up. That feels wrong, to me. I'm going to try and correct that going forward. Emphasis on 'try' of course. Most of the other things going on are of a personal nature, and I do try to keep that stuff out of this blog. This is a space for fiction, discussions and criticisms of fiction, examinations of its inner workings, and the occasional update on where I am with things. So let's just leave it there for now, shall we?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The (Physically) Written Word

The (Physically) Written Word — Blue Ink Alchemy

In the words of the inimitable Ferris Bueller, "Life moves pretty fast." I spent equal parts of this past weekend wrapped up in my Internets and staying away from them. I started watching Supernatural with the missus, got some chores done, played some Magic. I played some games, watched more Doctor Who, celebrated the release of The Avengers on Netflix. That last thing gave me more thoughts on superheroes, which I will share later this week. I fit in a little bit of writing, but didn't get to Chuck's latest Flash Fiction challenge. I will roll the dice tonight. And I resolved to write more letters. I think that writing actual letters is an art we are in danger of losing. It's far, far too easy to just dash off an email instead. Or launch out a vindictive or pithy tweet. All you need is 140 characters! Fit in some swear words! Hashtag something relevant! Retweet! Reblog! Go, go, go! Writing a letter forces you to slow the hell down. You have to think about what you're writing more when you're writing it by hand. Not only do you want it to be legible, you want it to be coherent and lasting. This is especially true in letters. It can take days or weeks for your words to reach your recipient. The words that you write need to remain relevant for that entire time, if not longer. This takes time and consideration. There is actual art involved with this; don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Life moves pretty fast. Sometimes, you just have to flow with it. Others, you need to take a deep breath, get some ink your pen, and start writing one word at a time. It's the same for letters as it is for anything else we write. Do other writers out there write letters? Do you still get them? Are "pen pals" still a thing?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Stubborn Stinkbrain

Stubborn Stinkbrain — Blue Ink Alchemy

I used to be really, really good at quitting. I can think of several instances in my past where I would be attempting something, run into the first real obstacle, and just give up. I would avoid putting myself in positions where I would have to deal with any major difficulties or consequences. I hate to admit it, but I was something of a coward. While I still remain afraid of screwing up, letting people down, or hurting the feelings of those I care about, I've learned that giving up before all alternatives are exhausted yields only more doubt, disappointment, and is generally less favorable than making legitimate efforts. It feels a bit odd for me to talk about hardships and difficulties when I'm a white cis male in the first world, which is about as privileged as you can get. I'm not really wanting for food, shelter, clothing, or any of the essentials a human being needs. It should be an easy life for me. I'm choosing to make it more difficult by involving myself in the things I choose to be involved in, and in that I am engineering my own defeats. And yet, I know if I simply enjoy my privileges and do not take steps to share what I can with the world around me, I am no better than a day-trader on Wall Street or a corrupt corporate executive. So I try to make the world a better place, and sometimes, the world seems determined to remain terrible. Case in point: I've made the choice to be an Enforcer, part of the PAX volunteer staff, and by extension, I am tangentially connected to Penny Arcade and its creators. Mike ("Gabe") has a habit of putting his foot in his mouth when it comes to sensitive issues, and this was the case yesterday. He made a comment that was offensive to the transgender community, and the resulting exchange has caused people to call for PAX boycotts and, if I understand the situation correctly, several of my fellow Enforcers have quit in a show of solidarity with those offended by Mike's comment. They more than likely see Mike's apology and exchange with Sophie Prell as half-hearted or perfunctory or some other word for insincere. I for one am willing to give Mike the benefit of the doubt. As I see it, the possibilities are that he makes comments that he thinks are funny and only occasionally gets it right; he puts his foot in his mouth more often than not by tweeting before he thinks; or he's a deplorable human being through and through. What I have seen and heard of the man leads me to believe that the first two cases are the most likely. Considering his brand is one that is mostly comedic, the first is the logical conclusion for me to draw. Penny Arcade has done a lot for the gaming community, children's charities, and a more inclusive Internet in general; why would I want to disassociate from that? Don't get me wrong. Anybody who feels strongly enough to quit or boycott has my understanding. Not everybody is wired the way I am. And, to be frank, I could be wired completely wrong. I'm willing to consider and even accept that, if presented with sufficient evidence. But I refuse, to the core of my being, to quit now. Not when I can try to change things for the better. I know that I can't change people who don't want to change. And I know that my words and actions may have zero effect on the people or world around me in general. I accept that. What I will not accept is the idea that I cannot change anything at all on an individual level. I don't want to muck around with people's brains to make them what I would consider "better" - each individual is entitled to be and think and feel however they want to be and think and feel. I have no claim to change things within another person's being by force. That isn't right. All I can do, all I want to do, is be the best human individual I can be, engage as often as possible in what I consider to be better behavior, exemplify compassion and understanding for my fellow human beings, and do what I can, small as it may be, to make the world around me a better place. Every person deserves to be treated with respect, and the best way for me to get that idea into the heads of others is to be as respectful as I can with everyone around me, especially strangers. As an Enforcer, I meet thousands of strangers. This, to me, is an excellent way to ensure that I am doing as much as possible to be the change I want to see in the world. I may affect even more if I can get more writing off the ground; time will tell on that score. But I'm not going to quit either, I'm not going to quit giving people the benefit of the doubt, I'm not going to quit being me, even if I can be overly optimistic and occasionally gullible and something of a stubborn, tactless, somewhat arrogant stinkbrain from time to time. This is who I am. This is who I choose to be. Take it or leave it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Stubborn Stinkbrain

Stubborn Stinkbrain — Blue Ink Alchemy

I used to be really, really good at quitting. I can think of several instances in my past where I would be attempting something, run into the first real obstacle, and just give up. I would avoid putting myself in positions where I would have to deal with any major difficulties or consequences. I hate to admit it, but I was something of a coward. While I still remain afraid of screwing up, letting people down, or hurting the feelings of those I care about, I've learned that giving up before all alternatives are exhausted yields only more doubt, disappointment, and is generally less favorable than making legitimate efforts. It feels a bit odd for me to talk about hardships and difficulties when I'm a white cis male in the first world, which is about as privileged as you can get. I'm not really wanting for food, shelter, clothing, or any of the essentials a human being needs. It should be an easy life for me. I'm choosing to make it more difficult by involving myself in the things I choose to be involved in, and in that I am engineering my own defeats. And yet, I know if I simply enjoy my privileges and do not take steps to share what I can with the world around me, I am no better than a day-trader on Wall Street or a corrupt corporate executive. So I try to make the world a better place, and sometimes, the world seems determined to remain terrible. Case in point: I've made the choice to be an Enforcer, part of the PAX volunteer staff, and by extension, I am tangentially connected to Penny Arcade and its creators. Mike ("Gabe") has a habit of putting his foot in his mouth when it comes to sensitive issues, and this was the case yesterday. He made a comment that was offensive to the transgender community, and the resulting exchange has caused people to call for PAX boycotts and, if I understand the situation correctly, several of my fellow Enforcers have quit in a show of solidarity with those offended by Mike's comment. They more than likely see Mike's apology and exchange with Sophie Prell as half-hearted or perfunctory or some other word for insincere. I for one am willing to give Mike the benefit of the doubt. As I see it, the possibilities are that he makes comments that he thinks are funny and only occasionally gets it right; he puts his foot in his mouth more often than not by tweeting before he thinks; or he's a deplorable human being through and through. What I have seen and heard of the man leads me to believe that the first two cases are the most likely. Considering his brand is one that is mostly comedic, the first is the logical conclusion for me to draw. Penny Arcade has done a lot for the gaming community, children's charities, and a more inclusive Internet in general; why would I want to disassociate from that? Don't get me wrong. Anybody who feels strongly enough to quit or boycott has my understanding. Not everybody is wired the way I am. And, to be frank, I could be wired completely wrong. I'm willing to consider and even accept that, if presented with sufficient evidence. But I refuse, to the core of my being, to quit now. Not when I can try to change things for the better. I know that I can't change people who don't want to change. And I know that my words and actions may have zero effect on the people or world around me in general. I accept that. What I will not accept is the idea that I cannot change anything at all on an individual level. I don't want to muck around with people's brains to make them what I would consider "better" - each individual is entitled to be and think and feel however they want to be and think and feel. I have no claim to change things within another person's being by force. That isn't right. All I can do, all I want to do, is be the best human individual I can be, engage as often as possible in what I consider to be better behavior, exemplify compassion and understanding for my fellow human beings, and do what I can, small as it may be, to make the world around me a better place. Every person deserves to be treated with respect, and the best way for me to get that idea into the heads of others is to be as respectful as I can with everyone around me, especially strangers. As an Enforcer, I meet thousands of strangers. This, to me, is an excellent way to ensure that I am doing as much as possible to be the change I want to see in the world. I may affect even more if I can get more writing off the ground; time will tell on that score. But I'm not going to quit either, I'm not going to quit giving people the benefit of the doubt, I'm not going to quit being me, even if I can be overly optimistic and occasionally gullible and something of a stubborn, tactless, somewhat arrogant stinkbrain from time to time. This is who I am. This is who I choose to be. Take it or leave it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Console Conundrum

The Console Conundrum — Blue Ink Alchemy

I know it's not an original joke at this point, but I think it's funny, so there. I was rather pleased when I got home from work last night to discover that Microsoft has backed off on its draconian DRM policies for its upcoming console, the X-Box One. It seems that consumers making their voices heard on business policies they disagree with does, in this case at least, make a difference. The pitch of the console still leaves a bad taste in my mouth, however, moreso than the initial reveal of the PS4 did. As much as Sony has come out of the E3 conference looking like a paragon of consumer-friendly virtue, it seems to me that all they've done is nail down their niche in the new console market. It's pretty clear what's going on, at least to me. Rather than scrambling for the same market, the big three manufacturers have refined their efforts. Nintendo is continuing their family-friendly approach, and I think the next few months will see more Wii U games emerge that either offer new family game night experiences or provide adults something to play after the kids go to bed. Sony is clearly more interested in the dedicated gamers in their late teens and into early 30s. As their games emerge and their price point comes down, the plan seems to be to appeal more and more to folks looking to get the most bang for their console gaming buck. As for Microsoft, their focus seems to remain on people interested in using the Internet for every entertainment need ever. And while they're ratcheted back on their desire to be Emperor of All Games, the broad scope of the console's functionality still smacks of desperation, and the Kinect always, always, watching or listening is no less creepy now than it was when they first suggested it. To me, however, the conundrum of new consoles is that I have around zero interest in any of these machines, provided they don't have any exclusive titles (Damn you, Bayonetta 2!). The fact is that a new video card for my PC will almost always be less expensive than a brand new next-gen console. I know this may put me in the "glorious PC gaming master race" category and somewhat marginalize my opinion in the minds of others, but that's how I see it. With Steam and GOG.com providing all sorts of gaming from big glitzy titles to experimental independent titles, I have yet to come up with a justification for spending hundreds of dollars on a new way to do this. Local multiplayer that doesn't require a local area network is a plus, to be certain, but few are the brand new games that fill that niche that hasn't already been filed by Golden Axe or Perfect Dark or Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. And with the Ouya (full review coming soon, I swear!) providing both new titles and emulation of old favorites at a fraction of the cost of the big boys, the rationalization for a new large box taking up entertainment center space grows smaller and smaller. How do these consoles look to you? Have you pre-ordered a PS4 or XBone? Are you waiting to see what titles will be available on PC as well as new consoles?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Failure to Carve

Failure to Carve — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes A question that I've seen asked of those in my profession is, "How do you know if you're a writer?" To answer, let me give you a real-life example of what it feels like. The last few days have been, for me, alternating exercises in fatigue and frustration. Difficulties I've been dealing with for weeks are so tantalizingly close to resolving themselves, and I find myself both wanting to push harder to get the results I'm after and holding back for fear of being a selfish prick. Add the dayjob workload and maintaining things around the apartment, and you get a recipe for wanting to do exactly zero when you finally have a little time to yourself. This is incredibly frustrating to me because I know that should be my time to write. Disapproving voices would tell me to write anyway, regardless of how tired or worn out or seethingly furious I might feel. I know. I'm one of those voices. I need to bite that bullet, make more coffee or chai, put on good tunes that shut out the world, and plunge into the word mines. There's no other way they're going to get written. It's down to me, no compromises, no excuses. If I write, I write; if I don't, I fail. The gnawing, growling, nigh-constant feeling of irritation at my own inability to maintain high energy levels is how I know I'm a writer. If I cared less about it, if I didn't have faith in my abilities, I'd cut the stressor from my life and stop worrying about it. But I can't. I won't. The need to tell stories and give people the gift of escape to another world, other lives, a new experience or even just some distraction from what's in front of them is too great to be ignored, set aside, or discarded. The spirit is willing, and angry, and full of notions and dreams. The flesh is weak, and flabbier than I'd like, and smells funny if I don't bathe often enough. I'm going to try and turn this around. I can't be on the bad end of bullshit forever. I'm sharpening my knives and inking my pens. You can knock me down, sure. But there's no way in hell I'm staying down.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Movie Review: Man of Steel

Movie Review: Man of Steel — Blue Ink Alchemy

I kidnapped my father to see Man of Steel in celebration of both Father's Day and his birthday, which fall on the same date this year. I will admit I went into the movie theater carrying some fears. It was my hope that Zack Snyder's visual panache, Hans Zimmer's music, and the performances of these actors could put those fears into the Phantom Zone and I could truly fall in love with Superman on the big screen. It's difficult to put yourself in front of a big summer blockbuster and eject all preconcieved notions from your had, but I did my best when the lights went down and this film began. Krypton was a world destroyed by its own hubris. Having exhausted its resources and bent its population to a strict genetic template, it was on the cusp of disaster when its most brilliant scientist, Jor-El, chooses to have a natural born child with his wife, Lara Lor-Van. At the same time, General Zod and his officers stage a violent coup. When Zod comes for the Codex, a Kryptonian device containing the aforementioned template, Jor-El fights him off while Lara launches the rocket containing their son, Kal. Kal-El lands safely on Earth while the last act of his doomed homeland is to banish Zod and his followers to the Phantom Zone. Thirty years later, Kal (known as Clark Kent thanks to his adoptive parents) is on the cusp of unlocking the secrets of his past, while a mysterious spacecraft makes contact with Earth. That's about as concise as I can make the synopsis of the plot of Man of Steel. It's a little convoluted and some things are explained at great length, but then again, this is David S Goyer and Christopher Nolan we're talking about. Now, I like these guys. They gave us three very good Batman movies in the Dark Knight trilogy. But something DC Comics writers discovered years ago is you can't write a Superman story the way you write a Batman story. Batman is all about a lonely man waging a neverending and possibly self-destructive war on crime with his wits and funds. Superman is about a truly alien immigrant making a place for himself amongst puny creatures that, for all of their flaws and failings, he really admires and finds himself fond of. He's supportive of us, as a whole. He wants to challenge us to aspire to greater things. He's whimsical about us.
And damn if he ain't a fine-lookin' specimen. My big hangup with Man of Steel, the thing that keeps me from outright loving it as a whole, is that there's no whimsy. There's no levity. There's barely even any humor at all. Much like the Dark Knight trilogy, the film is solidly grounded, quite cerebral, and intent on explaining everything to us in detail. I very nearly shouted "SHOW, DON'T TELL!" at the screen at least once. As much as I admire the time spent with the Kryptonian world-building (more on that in a bit), so much of it was laid out in plain English rather than relying on visual storytelling that it fails to engage on any emotional level whatsoever. A story like this needs pathos to overcome its more fantastical elements, not an in-depth schematic on how those elements work. Time spent outlining the particulars of those schematics is time that could have been spent making characters people instead of ciphers. Thankfully, one of the things Man of Steel has is an extremely talented and very well directed cast. Zack Snyder, on top of his legendary visual chops, has a habit of getting good performances out of his actors even when the material involves superhumans rearranging atoms or half-naked warriors spouting fatalistic platitudes. And Henry Cavill, our new Kal-El, has an easy and natural charm about him, an aspect that's clearly evident whenever the script lightens up enough to let him crack a smile (which isn't often enough). Amy Adams is a clever and pro-active Lois Lane, but again, the script undercuts her and requires her to put forth more effort to connect both with her co-star and with us. I loved Russel Crowe's Jor-El for a variety of reasons, even if the script seemed to be pushing some messianic overtones extremely hard. And while Zod may be bound by his genetic template to be a conqueror, Micheal Shannon not only makes this role his own but gives us depth and nuance to what would otherwise be an extremely one-dimensional villain.
Zod could have been cartoonish; instead he has pathos, drive, and surprising humanity. The more I think about it, the more the problems I have with Man of Steel seem to be squarely in the writing department. Zack Snyder has yet to direct a film that does not jump off the screen at you, even without the ridiculous 3D markup. While Sucker Punch is still on my to-watch list, his work with 300 and Watchmen remains firmly in my mind. This is a man who grasps iconic imagery, well-paced action with clear camera work, proper scene construction, even facial tics and body language to make an actor state something without saying a word. He brought his "A" game to Man of Steel, and a good thing too, as he hammers great moments, from the most destructive of fist-fights to the most touching of family scenes, out of a script that must have been terrible to read through multiple times in perparation for performance. And here's a review that's becoming overly long and verbose in response! I'd hate to give the impression that I did not enjoy Man of Steel, because I did. The scope of the movie is grand and bombastic, worthy of the big screen. The action sequences are spectacular to behold (if a bit long towards the end). The world-building done for Krypton in the first 15 minutes is concise and fascinating, well worth the price of admission (even if it gets a re-tread 45 minutes later). Hans Zimmer's score is absolutely gorgeous, the overall look and feel of the film is amazing, and everything I said about Snyder's direction and the work of these actors makes me want to love Man of Steel without reservation. I can't. But I want to. Stuff I Liked: They did one of my favorite in-flight/in-space camera moves: wide shot, zoom in, track the object while focusing. It worked in Battlestar Galactica and Firefly, and it works here. The action is clean and sharp; no shakey cam or overt trickery here. CGI looks great. The palate feels fresh and real and grounded even if it's a bit washed-out in places; I liked the feeling of weight everything had. Stuff I Didn't Like: The script feels drab, dour, and almost clinical in places. The action gets a bit long towards the end. They easily could have used either the opening sequence on Krypton or the history lesson Jor-El gives his son; they didn't necessarily need both. They spent a lot of time explaining things in detail when they could have been fleshing out characters, or letting Superman rescue a cat from a tree or something. Come on, Chris, come on, David, lighten up, would ya?? Stuff I Loved: This cast, you guys. This. Cast. They are not just enjoying this opportunity to be these characters, they are working like crazy to give life to lifeless lines. Even the bit players amongst the military felt pretty fleshed out, and had actual presence alongside superhumans - great work by Christopher Meloni in particular. Zack Snyder's direction brings out the best in the actors as well as driving home all of the action folks found lacking in Superman Returns; even the film's most drawn out passages are quite watchable thanks to his touch. I'm still humming the score. I want a sequel, because I think this universe and these characters have so much potential to break out of the shackles of this dreary origin story. And I love the fact that I believe I will like it more if I see it again. Bottom Line: Man of Steel is a great summer blockbuster and a decent Superman movie. Do not go in expecting the levity or whimsy of Richard Donner's Superman films, or even the relfective humanity of Superman Returns, and you should be fine. Ignore what you can of the over-wrought, over-complicated script, and focus on the characters, the action, and the potential this has to become something even greater than it is. That, after all, is what Superman - and the human experience - is all about.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Dad Bias

Dad Bias — Blue Ink Alchemy

This weekend turned out to be busier than I thought it would be. Hence, no flash fiction until tomorrow. And it's going to be difficult for me. I have to write about a "bad dad". I have to say my exposure to examples that I can relate to personally is somewhat limited, because I've been blessed with pretty fantastic parents. My father's birthday fell on the same day as Father's Day this year. Saturday for his gift I kidnapped him to the movies (my review of said movie goes up tomorrow). Sunday there was a surprise party in his honor. Nobody hid behind furniture or anything; friends just showed up at random throughout the late afternoon bringing food and goodwill, and much to my mother's relief, everything went off without a hitch. Dad was quite surprised and delighted. To me, my parents have always been a big part of my life. There was a time when I was so invested in having them favorably disposed towards me I imagined they had certain expectations for my life. The decisions I made as a result of that were in no way, shape, or form their fault, as (a) said expectations didn't exist, and (b) I was never completely out of control of my actions. It was still something of a revelation to hear my mother and father both say "We just want you to be happy, whatever that means for you." I do what I can to imagine other individuals complexly and understand their circumstances, but it's very difficult for me to comprehend a parent who does not have this attitude towards their child. I cannot claim to have any great shakes at being a father myself. I constantly ask myself "Is this enough? What more can I do? What more should I do?" I compare myself to my father in these terms and I feel myself coming up woefully short. I have to remind myself that my circumstances are not his, my life is not his, and the future is more important than the past. I can't undo the mistakes I've made; all I can do is learn what I can and do my best not to make new ones. Anyway, the point is, I don't want my bad dad story to be autobiographical or too heavy-handed. That's the writerly challenge in front of me now. That, and actually finishing Cold Streets sometime this year.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Dad Bias

Dad Bias — Blue Ink Alchemy

This weekend turned out to be busier than I thought it would be. Hence, no flash fiction until tomorrow. And it's going to be difficult for me. I have to write about a "bad dad". I have to say my exposure to examples that I can relate to personally is somewhat limited, because I've been blessed with pretty fantastic parents. My father's birthday fell on the same day as Father's Day this year. Saturday for his gift I kidnapped him to the movies (my review of said movie goes up on Wednesday). Sunday there was a surprise party in his honor. Nobody hid behind furniture or anything; friends just showed up at random throughout the late afternoon bringing food and goodwill, and much to my mother's relief, everything went off without a hitch. Dad was quite surprised and delighted. To me, my parents have always been a big part of my life. There was a time when I was so invested in having them favorably disposed towards me I imagined they had certain expectations for my life. The decisions I made as a result of that were in no way, shape, or form their fault, as (a) said expectations didn't exist, and (b) I was never completely out of control of my actions. It was still something of a revelation to hear my mother and father both say "We just want you to be happy, whatever that means for you." I do what I can to imagine other individuals complexly and understand their circumstances, but it's very difficult for me to comprehend a parent who does not have this attitude towards their child. I cannot claim to have any great shakes at being a father myself. I constantly ask myself "Is this enough? What more can I do? What more should I do?" I compare myself to my father in these terms and I feel myself coming up woefully short. I have to remind myself that my circumstances are not his, my life is not his, and the future is more important than the past. I can't undo the mistakes I've made; all I can do is learn what I can and do my best not to make new ones. Anyway, the point is, I don't want my bad dad story to be autobiographical or too heavy-handed. That's the writerly challenge in front of me now. That, and actually finishing Cold Streets sometime this year.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Dad Bias

Dad Bias — Blue Ink Alchemy

This weekend turned out to be busier than I thought it would be. Hence, no flash fiction until tomorrow. And it's going to be difficult for me. I have to write about a "bad dad". I have to say my exposure to examples that I can relate to personally is somewhat limited, because I've been blessed with pretty fantastic parents. My father's birthday fell on the same day as Father's Day this year. Saturday for his gift I kidnapped him to the movies (my review of said movie goes up on Wednesday). Sunday there was a surprise party in his honor. Nobody hid behind furniture or anything; friends just showed up at random throughout the late afternoon bringing food and goodwill, and much to my mother's relief, everything went off without a hitch. Dad was quite surprised and delighted. To me, my parents have always been a big part of my life. There was a time when I was so invested in having them favorably disposed towards me I imagined they had certain expectations for my life. The decisions I made as a result of that were in no way, shape, or form their fault, as (a) said expectations didn't exist, and (b) I was never completely out of control of my actions. It was still something of a revelation to hear my mother and father both say "We just want you to be happy, whatever that means for you." I do what I can to imagine other individuals complexly and understand their circumstances, but it's very difficult for me to comprehend a parent who does not have this attitude towards their child. While I cannot claim to have any great shakes at being a father myself, I do what I can for my son even if I don't see him very often and I made some huge mistakes before his birth and during his infancy that may end up causing me to no longer being his father in the eyes of the law. I provide his mother with the support I can, I tell him I love him and I'm proud of him, I engage him in conversation about what he loves - and I constantly ask myself "Is this enough? What more can I do? What more should I do?" I compare myself to my father in these terms and I feel myself coming up woefully short. I have to remind myself that my circumstances are not his, my life is not his, and the future is more important than the past. I can't undo the mistakes I've made; all I can do is learn what I can and do my best not to make new ones. Anyway, the point is, I don't want my bad dad story to be autobiographical or too heavy-handed. That's the writerly challenge in front of me now. That, and actually finishing Cold Streets sometime this year.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer's Report: Behind the 8-Ball

Writer's Report: Behind the 8-Ball — Blue Ink Alchemy

The Internets tell me that being behind the 8-ball means "A difficult position from which it is unlikely one can escape." I know that today is an anomaly and tomorrow is likely to be better, but that doesn't stop the feeling of being behind and stuck and frustrated all the same. I mean, it's 2 in the afternoon and I'm only now putting words down for a post. It's difficult to feel like I'm accomplishing much on days like this. Anyway, let me give you fine folks some other stuff to read. If you missed yesterday's post on The Myth of Misandry, give it a look. It's started some discussion. Chuck Wendig's done a whole series along similar veins, and I highly recommend you read this great stuff. My friend Jess got her fantasy novel a publisher, swing by her Facebook author page to congratulate her. That's all for now. Back to the code mines for me.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Myth of Misandry

The Myth of Misandry — Blue Ink Alchemy

Males of the Internet, I submit to you the following: If you think you're the target of misandry, you've probably done something to deserve it. Before I elaborate, let's cover some trigger warnings. I'm going to talk about misandry, obviously, but I'm also going to talk about misogyny, degradation and devaluation of women, acerbic Internet culture, racism, homophobia, defamation, and rape. Just so we're clear before I start rambling. There are some folks out there who would like to tell you that gaming culture has always been 'a certain way'. The prevailing sentiment is that everything from teabagging in first-person shooters to calling someone a faggot for inadequate game performance is normal. You can tell someone they're about to get raped or suggest they kill themselves or get cancer when they beat you, and it's fine. That's "just how it is". "Oh, you know how gamers are." "Don't be a little bitch, learn to take a joke." And so on. Lately, some folks have been fighting back against this. Everything from Anita Sarkeesian's series on Tropes vs. Women in Video Games to posts about sexism and misogyny in areas outside of gaming (like this great stuff from Chuck Wendig) has emerged to fight back against this rather callous and insensitive habit of men to use the defamation of women, minorities, and the LGBTQ community as a source for humor that reinforces their need for cultural dominance. And what has their response been? The threats of rape, I get. That's a knee-jerk, juvenile reaction from a knee-jerk, juvenile culture. It's a three-year-old stomping their feet while screaming and maybe chasing the cat with a crayon intending to draw dicks in poor kitty's fur. It's as tasteless as it is pathetic and useless. Guys saying they won't watch/read/buy anything from the person again, also understandable. I'd even say that's a reasonable response. Sure, it's usually wrapped in the sort of puerile drivel I've mentioned above, but people expressing themselves with their wallets is legitimate. But guys saying they're victims of misandry? Really? How is this even a thing? Let's look at the big picture, here. Until the 19th century, in most parts of the world that were affluent enough to do so, it was perfectly acceptable for people to own other people. Most if not all of the time, the owners were white males. Democracies began to emerge around the same time, and guess who got to do all of the voting? White males. Before then, we had a lot of dictatorships and monarchies, and most of them were controlled by men. And then there's the institution of religion, especially in the form of the Catholic church. Looking at that, men have had it pretty sweet for centuries. White men, especially. As our global population and culture continues to grow, and barriers of communication and distance break down, it's logical for more people of different races, genders, creeds and outlooks to become involved in every level of living life on this planet, from governing the populace to charming diversions. To try and hold onto a position that's been held through intimidation, abuse, defamation, character assassination, and the myth of "tradition" or the excuse of "that's how it's always been" is selfish, childish, and pretty damn unfair. I'm not saying that misandry doesn't exist. I'm sure there are people out there who hate men vehemently and violently. What I'm saying is that misandry as a tactic to be used against the 'traditional' gamer culture (and entertainment circles in general) does not exist. There is no great movement to rain hatred and destruction on men in entertainment. There's no feminist conspiracy to take your games away. Just like the 'gay agenda' that FOX News loves to bang on about in their little corner studio in the asylum, misandry in gaming and entertainment is a great way for guys to deflect the thrust of the main issue at hand, which is that as our culture changes and evolves, those participating in it as creators or audience need to change and evolve with it. And some men are either too lazy or too scared to do it. That's right. This talk of misandry, these threats of rape against rational voices pointing out the flaws in our culture, the pedantic and obstinate words that continue to get thrown around the gaming table; all of this is born out of fear and sloth. I know I'm going out on a limb here a bit, and I won't be correct in every case, but from everything I've seen and heard, for the most part, guys who continue to use these words, spew this hatred, make these threats and "jokes", are too lazy, too scared, or too dumb to change their ways. They're not as powerful as they'd like people to think they are. They're cowards, frightened to be placed on an even level with women and people of color and folks born with orientations other than "heterosexual", and every time they tell a female gamer to get back in the kitchen or talk about getting 'gypped' in a game or indulge in other racial slurs, they prove it. Misandry, as a general mode of behavior, is a myth, gentlemen. We don't hate you because you're men. We hate you because you're behaving like spiteful, scared little boys. This isn't the schoolyard anymore. It's time to put away childish things. It's time to grow the fuck up.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Game Review: Poker Night 2

Game Review: Poker Night 2 — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've been playing poker for most of my adult life. It's not a regular thing for me - mostly at family gatherings or parties thrown by friends - but I know the game well enough to not completely embarrass myself, usually. Practice makes perfect, though, and a couple years ago Telltale Games provided a means to practice my game with Poker Night at the Inventory, allowing me the opportunity to throw down cards and chips with some familiar Internet characters. Did it need a sequel? No. Did it get one anyway? Yes. The doors of the underground gaming establishment open once again to allow for a no-limit high-stakes poker tournament involving some faces you might recognize. Instead of just gaming culture, however, the scope of the invites has expanded somewhat. From the animated series Venture Brothers comes none other than Brock Samson, a quiet but intimidating presence at the table. Balancing the taciturn bodyguard is Borderlands 2's Claptrap, who's vocabulizer seems to be stuck on 'snark' mode. Ash from Army of Darkness gives the little robot a run for his money, though, in addition to having any number of catch phrases at the ready. And last but never least is Sam of Sam & Max fame, who replaces his homicidal rabbit buddy at the table. And your dealer, in the interest of computerized fairness, is GLaDOS, from Portal. If that line-up isn't enough to get you to drop $6 US on this game immediately, here's more incentive. Texas Hold 'Em, while iconic in terms of poker tournament play, is no longer your only option. The game of Omaha is also available. In case you don't know, Omaha plays very similar to Hold 'Em except each player is dealt 4 hole cards instead of two. A player can only use two of those hole cards to make the best hand possible. I feel like this game option is a bit more forgiving to beginners, as you have more options and opportunities to create a good hand, yet at the same time it can be confusing if you're dealt an attractive-looking set of hole cards but can't make the right hand work with only two of them. It's one of the things that keeps the game fresh. Your fellow players have their particular tells, some obvious and some subtle. This isn't new, but the ability to make their tells more obvious and their playing more predictable or exploitable is. How, you ask? Buy them drinks. The lovely Mad Moxxi of Borderlands 2 is tending bar, and if you spend some tokens, won from playing or winning tournaments, she'll bring some booze over to your opponents to loosen them up a bit. It adds a layer of strategy to your gameplay: at what point do you buy Ash that drink so he bets bigger and stops waiting to win on the river? In addition to the libations, tokens also unlock felts, cards, and chip designs that are part of each franchise represented by the game. Unlock a whole set and you'll change the entire look of the Inventory. The apex of success is the bounty challenges. A random set of them are laid out for you at the start of a tournament. If you complete them all, you get the chance to win an item from one of your fellow players. Winning the item unlocks prizes in the games Team Fortress 2 and Borderlands 2. All from playing poker with some iconic characters who engage in witty banter. What's not to love? Functionally, Poker Night 2 is pretty flawless. The AI of its various moving parts seems pretty well implemented. I've only seen the occasional clipping issue. As much as I'll get frustrated when a winning hand turns to a losing one thanks to a lucky draw on the river, that's down to the nature of poker itself rather than anything the programmers did. Some of the conversations tend to repeat themselves, but this can be minimized by only playing a few tournaments at a time. Like most diversions of this nature, Poker Night 2 is best experienced in moderation. Still, for its bargain basement price, great execution, and hilarious writing, I'd definitely recommend Poker Night 2. If you're a fan of any of the characters mentioned, enjoy a good game of hold 'em, or just want the maximum bang for your entertainment buck, this is a fantastic deal.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Wordy Deluge

Wordy Deluge — Blue Ink Alchemy

One of my least favorite things to do is deal with traffic. I like to drive, under most circumstances; I'm still enamored with the open road, music turned up, a bit of a breeze in my hair. Call me a romantic. But stuck in stop-and-go traffic, bumper to bumper, with people generally being unpleasant as we struggle to move a few feet closer to our destination; it's not my cuppa, so to speak. I tend to get a bit agitated, in turn, by the rudeness of other drivers or the interminability of the waiting or some other circumstance that creeps into my mind; my own frustrations coupled with those of the drivers around me creates a very unfortunate negative feedback loop. I've been trying to break it lately, because sometimes, you just have to keep your hands on the wheel and move forward as much as you can whenever you can. This is especially true in inclement weather. It makes an already difficult task - commuting by car - even more taxing, not to mention dangerous. Some might even avoid it entirely. Yet it's something that must be done, more often than not, and it requires patience, time, and perseverance. You may not feel up to it, you may even put it off or try to avoid it, but if you want to succeed, it must be done. See where I'm going with this? Writing is work. More often than not, it's hard work. It devours time, saps energy, drains creativity, and shuts out other people and activities. It's an extremely solitary thing, and it can take a toll. You may feel like putting it off, but the fact of the matter is it must be done if you have a story to tell. Nobody else can tell it for you. So get behind that writerly wheel, grab some water for the road, navigate into the traffic of your ongoing narrative, and make your way through the wordy deluge. Much like needing to make a space to get your car into the road, you have to make the time to write. Do you have plenty of gas (food)? Are you the kind of person who needs to crank the tunes, or do you prefer it quiet in your car (headspace)? Whatever you need to do to make the words happen, go and do that. I'll be taking my own advice tonight, and if I see you on the road, I'll be sure to wave.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: King's Landing's Hero

Flash Fiction: King's Landing's Hero — Blue Ink Alchemy

I rolled for the Terribleminds ABC meets XYZ challenge, and got "Game of Thrones" meets "Batman". I'm not sure I stopped there.

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Night falls on King's Landing. I find another dog with its guts spilling into the street. This dog was a person, once. Someone's son. Maybe someone's husband. Once a human being, now a chilling corpse. Like this city. It once held wonder and potential. Now it is only death and misery. So be it, I say. If this is how the city wants to rot under the Lannisters and their little product of juvenile lust, so be it. But innocents suffer too much. They watched loved ones rot and wither under the gilded heel of the lions. They cry out for justice, without saying a word, for fear of the blade of Ilyn Payne. I've decided to answer them. The rooftops of the city are where I roam. There was a time when the Lannister soldiers on constant patrol were a source of fear for everyone there who was not in Tywin's keeping. For me, it had become a challenge to avoid detection every night when I slipped out through the hidden corridors built by the Targaryens. The libraries and hidden alcoves throughout the keep had given me the knowledge I used; late nights with needle and thread helped me craft the cloak and cowl that hid my identity. It's after two bells past the sunset that I find tonight's prey. As much as the Kingsguard are supposedly on duty every hour of every day, they're also supposedly celibate. Yet there was Ser Meryn Trant, making his way towards the house owned and nomially run by Petyr Baelish, the man they called Littlefinger. Trant knew better than to walk the streets in his pure white cloak and golden armor, but his swagger was unmistakable. Arrogance and smug superiority propelled his every step. I cannot tell you how badly I want to kill him. I wait until he was inside. I move and jump from one rooftop to the next, my steps sure and silent. The claws on my knees and palms carry me down the wall outside the house, and I peer into one room after the next. I finally find him, with two of Littlefinger's girls. He sits near the bed, sharpening a dagger as he watches them undress each other. I can't discern what he could be planning, but I decide immediately he won't finish whatever depraved thought that fills his head. As soon as he stands, licking his lips like a wild animal catching the scent of fresh meat, I kick open the window and enter the room. Trant turns towards me with a snarl. Before he can say anything, I am on him, one hand clamping his jaw shut, the other delivering a quick blow to his throat. The Kingsguard staggers back, still clutching his dagger. He's moving towards his sword, even as he struggles to breathe. He is, however, off-balance, and I sweep his feet out from under him. As soon as he's on the floor, my feet are on his chest and his own dagger rests at his throat, clutched in my gloved hand. "Whoever you are," he manages to snarl, "you're dead." "When morning comes," I whisper, "you'll wish you were." He laughs at me before I bludgeon him with the dagger's hilt. Something tells me that will be his last laugh for a while. When they find him, hours later, he was strung up over a street in Flea Bottom. Stripped and left to cook in the morning sun, his fingers were all broken, along with his wrists and elbows and knees. He had been cut many times, the most vicious cut being the one that left him without his manhood. He is, however, alive. Death, after all, is a mercy, to hear the Lannisters tell it. I'm merely playing by their rules. From the Hand of the King to the lowest urchin in Flea Bottom, everybody wants to know who had done this. Of course, when they find the message on Trant's body, they come asking me. But I am a mere, lowly prisoner here. I have been since Ser Ilyn Payne took my father's head. I've spent so much time learning to avert my gaze and agree that my family are a pack of traitors that nobody's noticed the time I've spent preparing for that night, and all the nights to come. I keep my eyes downcast. I pretend to fear the queen. I mask my disgust for Joffrey. I can still convince them that a prisoner is all I am, and that I am no threat to their plans, their gold, their precious throne. But I'm not without that streak of rebellion. I carefully hide any evidence I leave, seek out stray red hairs, keep my face concealed; yet part of me enjoys the game, the chase, almost daring them to confront me, so I can tell them what I really link of their house and what they've done to me and mine. That is why, into Meryn Trant's chest, I carved the words "BAD WOLF".

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Writer Report: The Wall

Writer Report: The Wall — Blue Ink Alchemy

Courtesy Floating Robes It's been said before, and I'll go ahead and say it again: You have to fight for your time to write. You have to carve it out of your day with a butcher's cleaver and a variety of other sharp objects. You need to covet those bloody chunks and make the most of every messy, succulent bite. If you can't do that, you won't make it as a writer. It's been hit and miss for me the last week or two. I'm hopefully going to see the tail end of a situation or two in the very near future, and I'm hoping that will ratchet down some of my stress. I have a lot on my plate, and I'm trying to manage things the best way I know how. Last week I felt a bit like I'd hit 'the wall' that cyclists and runners talk about. I just ran headlong into a feeling of inadequacy and self-doubt after a couple days of near giddiness. There was a time that such a downturn would have crippled me for a long time. But I stopped and considered it. I wrote about it. I kept up with exercise, made some plans, looked ahead to the future, and got back to work on Cold Streets. I can't say things are 100% improved, but they are better, and I'm making progress. It's my hope that Cold Streets will be done by the end of the summer, and I can get in touch with my lovely and talented cover art folks to put something together so it hits virtual shelves by the end of the year. I'm still not sure exactly how to organize everything, from my time to my project priorities, but I know it's something I really need to do. Basically, the way I handled that wall was smashing through it. OH YEAH!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Greatheart Returns

The Greatheart Returns — Blue Ink Alchemy

Way back when I said I'd be benching [mtg_card]Zedruu the Greathearted[/mtg_card] as a commander. My concern was that the relatively low speed of her deck would be a hinderance in the face of more competative, combo-heavy decks that accelerate towards turn 5 or 6 before creating some kind of infinite mana situation. However, a little investigation through Gatherer and other sources revealed something very interesting about Zedruu and how her abilities work. Usually, when she gives control of a permanent I own to another player, that permanent leaves my field and goes to that player's. For the most part, this means that a deck with Zedruu is looking to make other players miserable by bestowing hindering or useless cards. Not wanting to be "that guy" at the table, I wanted to find another way to use Zedruu, as her colors align with the chronomancy I've been wanting to use in EDH forever. That was when I discovered the wonderful truth about Auras. Auras are enchantment spells that target other permanents. Each Aura has "Enchant ________" as part of its description. This is pretty basic Magic knowledge, but here's the interesting part: changing the controller of the Aura does not change what it is enchanting. So if you have a creature with an enchantment like [mtg_card]Rancor[/mtg_card] on it, and you give control of the enchantment to someone else, the enchantment stays on your creature. This isn't to say that my new deck for Zedruu is nothing but auras. Knowing that I'm likely to encounter all sorts of decks, I put everything from counterspells to board wipes into the deck. While some staples of Zedruu are present, like [mtg_card]Steel Golem[/mtg_card] and, my personal favorite donation card, [mtg_card]Celestial Dawn[/mtg_card], my goal in rebuilding this deck was to strike a balance between all the elements I wanted: "Tron" scenarios pairing Auras with Zedruu or other powerful creatures, Chronomancy, and a bit of control through donations, counters, and other little spells that would, hopefully, not make me a threat to other players before it's too late. So far, this strategy has paid off very well. In most of the games I've played with this deck, one of my donation cards has come up in the early game, locking down an opponent at least temporarily, and allowing me to catch up on any acceleration I've missed. The nature of the deck also allows me to assume a pretty powerful political position. Without infinite combos or a frightening-by-nature general, and armed with counters and removal, I can negotiate with others at the table to determine who the largest threat is and help combat it while building my own position. This, to me, makes the game even more fun to play. You can check out the deck in detail here, and leave your thoughts or suggestions in the comments!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Greatheart Returns

The Greatheart Returns — Blue Ink Alchemy

Way back when I said I'd be benching [mtg_card]Zedruu the Greathearted[/mtg_card] as a commander. My concern was that the relatively low speed of her deck would be a hinderance in the face of more competative, combo-heavy decks that accelerate towards turn 5 or 6 before creating some kind of infinite mana situation. However, a little investigation through Gatherer and other sources revealed something very interesting about Zedruu and how her abilities work. Usually, when she gives control of a permanent I own to another player, that permanent leaves my field and goes to that player's. For the most part, this means that a deck with Zedruu is looking to make other players miserable by bestowing hindering or useless cards. Not wanting to be "that guy" at the table, I wanted to find another way to use Zedruu, as her colors align with the chronomancy I've been wanting to use in EDH forever. That was when I discovered the wonderful truth about Auras. Auras are enchantment spells that target other permanents. Each spell has "Enchant ________" as part of its description. This is pretty basic Magic knowledge, but here's the interesting part: changing the controller of the Aura does not change what it is enchanting. So if you have a creature with an enchantment like [mtg_card]Rancor[/mtg_card] on it, and you give control of the enchantment to someone else, the enchantment stays on your creature. This isn't to say that my new deck for Zedruu is nothing but auras. Knowing that I'm likely to encounter all sorts of decks, I put everything from counterspells to board wipes into the deck. While some staples of Zedruu are present, like [mtg_card]Steel Golem[/mtg_card] and, my personal favorite donation card, [mtg_card]Celestial Dawn[/mtg_card], my goal in rebuilding this deck was to strike a balance between all the elements I wanted: "Tron" scenarios pairing Auras with Zedruu or other powerful creatures, Chronomancy, and a bit of control through donations, counters, and other little spells that would, hopefully, not make me a threat to other players before it's too late. So far, this strategy has paid off very well. In most of the games I've played with this deck, one of my donation cards has come up in the early game, locking down an opponent at least temporarily, and allowing me to catch up on any acceleration I've missed. The nature of the deck also allows me to assume a pretty powerful political position. Without infinite combos or a frightening-by-nature general, and armed with counters and removal, I can negotiate with others at the table to determine who the largest threat is and help combat it while building my own position. This, to me, makes the game even more fun to play. You can check out the deck in detail here, and leave your thoughts or suggestions in the comments!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Gratuitous Failure, 80s Style

Gratuitous Failure, 80s Style — Blue Ink Alchemy

I've been writing a lot about failure lately. This is partially because I believe that we do learn more from our failures from our successes, and also because I know there are folks out there who like to know they're not alone in the struggles they're encountering. I am, admittedly, one of them. I continue to maintain that the important part is not the failures, but rather our reaction to them; does failure prevent us from moving forward, or inspire us to redouble our efforts? I often find a microcosm of this frustration and determination in video games, especially uncompromising ones like Hotline Miami. For those of you unaware of the game, here's a quick overview. It's the 80s, an era infused with bright neon colors and oversaturated sound, and you are cast as a nameless individual taking job offers from your answering machine. They sound innocuous enough: babysitting, taking out the trash, and so on. But it's all code for killing. You're a contract killer and you walk into house after house, punching and bludgeoning and shooting your way to victory. You do so while wearing a rubber animal mask, just one of many indications that whoever you are, you aren't right in the head. What sets Hotline Miami apart from other games is the overall feel and timbre of the gameplay. You enter the homes of your targets from a top-down perspective, something not often seen in modern games, and everything is pixelated and vibrant in color, rather than rendered in 3D and drenched in modern, realistic palettes. This is probably a good thing given the level of brutality on display. People, human beings, are punched hard, have their bones broken, get their skulls smashed repeatedly against hard floors, and are shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, and sliced to death. They even get savaged by dogs. And more often than not, this will be happening to you, since you're not going to get it right the first time. You're going to fail. Much like Super Meat Boy, the appeal of this game comes from the challenges it presents the player. Without hints, without cheats, without even a clear indication of how the player should proceed, the game sets up the pieces and lets the player have at it. I think this is part of the reason that the graphics look the way they do: the violence is not the point. Oh, it's visceral to be certain, but reduced to this fidelity it verges more on goofy than disturbing. The true meat of the game is in its challenges, not in blood and bone and bullets. It doesn't teach players to shoot people with different skin; it teaches them to keep trying even after you fail over and over and over again. The message of Hotline Miami is not one regarding violence or madness or the 80s being even more fucked up than we remember. Those are just the trappings, the rails on which the story hums along. Within that story, through its mechanics, the game's message becomes more clear: You're going to fail. Keep trying anyway. Bludgeon the challenge the way you bludgeon that mook with a shotgun. Sooner or later, you'll get it right, and it will feel awesome when you do. I'm not sure what this says about me, but I'm okay with turning a few pixelated faces to paste to get that awesome feeling. And I know I'll get it in other areas, too.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Plight of Icarus

The Plight of Icarus — Blue Ink Alchemy

Icarus, by Alexis Lane Shepard Last week I spoke about failure. It's going to be inevitable. And as much as I or others may tell you that tomorrow will be better, you shouldn't give up, the obstacles can still be overcome - failure hurts. We stumble and we fall, and the hardest of these scrapes can come when we're striving more than we have before. There are times when we do more than just what we can. Envelopes must be pushed for progress to be made. Eggs have to break to make breakfast. All of these things require sacrifice... and all of them can and will be costly. There's a classic story in Greek mythology of Icarus, son of a brilliant inventor, who tried to fly higher and faster than anyone or anything had before. For his hubris, his wings were melted and destroyed, and he fell miles and miles to his violent death. To this day, people use "so-and-so flew too close to the sun" as shorthand for someone who pushed a boundary just a bit too far. Writers fly too close to the sun all the time. New concepts are shoved bodily towards store shelves. Beloved characters are violently murdered. Plots take unexpected turns that cause people to stop reading altogether. Some of this can be the result of poor planning or bad writing, but when the writing is executed well and remains true to the essence of the work, and people produce that strong of an emotional response, the effort involved and the risk taken can be considered worthwhile. There are some who many not take the risk in the first place. It's a form of overexposure. It's a step too far, into uncharted or even dangerous territory. And it doesn't always pay off. It can backfire. It can turn loyal readers into vocal critics, and vindicate the opinions of naysayers. It can close lines of communication that were once opened, drastically alter the opinions of others, maybe even damage friendships. Such action may not always be worth it outside of creative endeavors. But I argue that it is always worth taking a risk when creating something new. Notice that I said that these things can happen. That does not necessarily mean that they will happen. Nothing is inevitable. The old adage "You never know until you try" comes to mind. And consider the fact that some of our most beloved stories come from people who weren't afraid to take this sort of risk. J.K. Rowling set a coming of age story in the arcane world of boarding schools and cloaked it in the fantastical trappings of magic. George RR Martin takes the pageantry and treachery of medieval Europe and lets it simmer in a slow-cooker right next to heavily implied magic and pretty gratuitous sex and violence. Jim Butcher wrote an entire novel in which his main character, beloved by millions, was dead. Salinger refused to have Catcher in the Rye adapted for film and took shots at our image-saturated culture every chance he got. Over and over again, authors are told "You can't do that!" and, over and over again, they do it anyway. You may get burnt. You may lose a part of yourself. You may even fall farther than you'd like. Or you can play it safe, and never make anything amazing happen. Your call.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Cruelest Sting

Flash Fiction: The Cruelest Sting — Blue Ink Alchemy

This week's Flash Fiction challenge from Terribleminds was for random words. The die of destiny chose mint, scorpion, republic.

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"Harry? Are you out here?" He didn't look up from his rows of mint. The plants were coming in nicely, and he was happy with their color. The tomatoes had yet to fully ripen; he was hoping that the weather would stay relatively cloudless so they had a chance to grow in a bit more. He heard the back door swing open, and knew that Bella was standing there, watching him. "What's wrong, Bella?" "The children. Where are they?" "I'm sorry, I had to send them off." Bella crossed her arms. "To where?" He wiped his brow and stood. The garden had a high, white fence around it, designed to keep out both rodents and prying eyes. He was glad for it; he knew this day was inevitable. "They'll be safe, looked after, and want for nothing. That's all you need to know." "Harold." "Let's go inside and discuss this." "Harold, tell me where our children are." He looked down at the trowel in his gloved hands, then up at his wife of six years. "It's not going to matter." Bella's eyes widened. "Harry, what is going on? You haven't been the same since you got that letter." "You mean this one?" He pulled the small, rigid card out of his pocket. It was decorated only with the embossed image of a scorpion. "Unfortunately, this changes everything." "What do you mean?" "This was a letter I prayed I would never get. I was told... the Republic told me that I would not be needed, not under this new administration. They promised me things would be better. They... well, I guess they made a lot of promises, didn't they?" Bella blinked in the sunlight. "What are you talking about? Harry, you're an accountant. And you still haven't told me where our children are." "I lied to you, Bella. I don't work for an independent accounting firm. Honestly, I'm not all that great with money. The only reason we're doing as well as we are is that my stipend from the Republic is quite generous. It's easy to balance the books when there's plenty of coin to go around." Before she could say anything, he stepped close to her, looking into her eyes. "The reason I got this card is because the Republic has need of one of its most dangerous servants. My code-name is Scorpion." "But... but, your parents..." "Paid actors." "Your photoglyphs from university..." "Faked." She stared at him. "Why are you doing this?" "Because if I am to return to that life, I need to do it knowing the people I love are safe. Our children are safe. Now you must do the same." He bent, digging his trowel into the dirt near the end of the row of mint. A few scoops revealed the tin box he'd placed there five years ago, after their anniversary. He stood slowly with the box in hand, brushed off some of the loose earth, and handed it to her. "I had a friend help with this. New identity, plenty of coin, some rations and a means to defend yourself. Take it and go." Tears welled in her eyes. "You want to send me away? Just like that?" "No, Bella, I don't want to. I am being summoned by the Republic. I swore an oath to answer that call. This is duty, not choice." "You chose to marry me. You chose to father my children. You chose to build this life. And now, you will just walk away, saunter back into the presence of those idiotic politicians to, what, kill for them? Steal? Lie?" "All that and more. It is an ugly life." Bella wiped her face with her free hand, then opened the box. After a moment, she reached inside and removed the pistol, taking aim at her husband. "Bring back our children." "Bella, listen to me..." "No. Enough of your lies. You're pathetic, Harry. I'll admit, I almost bought the ruse. But I know you're gentle. I know you're kind. I know you'd never kill." "Bella. Do not do this." "You will take me to my children, and then you will pack your things. If you want to go off and leave us, fine, but leave us as a family." "I can't do that. It's too dangerous." "I'm the one with the weapon, Harold - I am the danger you have to deal with." "Bella. Please." "I'll do it. I'll shoot you." "I believe you." He didn't give her time to think. He dropped the trowel and moved, hands reaching for the pistol. She'd never seen him move this fast, he wagered, and so disarming her would likely be easy. He'd done it dozens of times. She struggled. He tried to keep from hurting her, even as his training told him a dozen ways to end the confrontation - a stiff chop to the throat, stab her neck or between her ribs - but none of them would let her walk away. He pushed the pistol and tried to free it from her grip. The weapon discharged, and blood splattered on the mint. It was very quiet for a long time after that. "Harry?" "Yes, Bella." "I'm cold. Is it winter?" His hand was sticking to her body. "No, Bella. It's summer. It's sunny." She coughed. There was blood in it. "I couldn't live without my children." "I'm sorry, Bella. I'm so very sorry. I never meant for this." "Why did you marry me, then?" "Because I love you. I always will." She managed a smile. "I think you were trying to help us. Were you?" "Of course." "Then... I'm sorry." "I know. I forgive you. Can... can you forgive me?" "Oh, Harry." A bloody hand, shaking, touched his cheek. "We're such stupid, short-sighted people." "Yes." "Meant to be." "Obviously." Silence. "Harry?" "Yes, my love?" "Is that your real name?" "No." "Will you... will you tell me?" He bent and whispered it to her. She smiled and, trembling, kissed him. "It's... nice to meet you."

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Blue Ink Alchemy