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.

---

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".

---

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!

---

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!

---

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!

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

"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."

---

Blue Ink Alchemy