Snails

A friend has posted a couple crazy pictures of snails on Facebook, asking her friends to concoct stories for these absurd creatures. Here are my contributions and the images that inspired them:

 The Magician's Motivator (May 7, 2012)

After what seemed like half a decade, the novice was overjoyed. Freshman year was finally over. Packing up a dorm room had never seemed so sweet.

In one of the last couple boxes, he finally had to find a spot for his snail. Sure, some of the other apprentices had ravens or phantasmal rats or other cool pets, but did any of them have the same sentimental value as the snail? Were any of them the constant motivation to do better that his snail was?

He still remembered the day he had made this pet, standing in front of his transmogrification class (still not sure it was an actual word), "They said it couldn't be done, nay, that it shouldn't be done. Yet, here I stand before you, having done it." With a flourish, he yanked the white sheet off the tiny fishbowl, "Coral and Snail, combined as easily as Jerry made himself a Centaur."

The stamping of hooves accompanied the brief applause before their teacher cut it off with a glare. "Mr. Robinson, you've just set a record. Do you have any idea how long it's been since a student needed to repeat Beginning Transmogrification thrice?"

Yet now, two first-years later, he was finally moving on. "We did it, buddy, you were right!" he said, running a finger along the sign on his snail's bowl proudly reminding him, "Don't let your mistakes own you."


The Pixies' Secret Weapon (May 27, 2012)

"Queen Buttercup, Grand Vizier Daffodil, admirals of the First Lillypad Fleet, General Hyacinth of the Second Squirrel Cavalry division, as you all know, reports have been coming in from all theaters, and they're worse than we'd feared.

"Not only do the Big People no longer fear Pixies, not only do they step on our homes and people with impunity, but my spies (highly decorated members of the Seventh Barn Owl Recon Division, every one of them) have given me truly frightening knowledge: The Big People no longer believe in Magic."

Dr. Misty Milkweed Mudpie of the Division of Advanced Sorcery, Glamours, and Tricks pauses to allow his audience to gasp in horror before continuing.

"I don't need to tell you that this is devastating news, but it's no reason to give up hope. A secret division of our agency has been working on this problem for years. Obviously, lips had to remain sealed, lest fear spread among the fae. And on the eve of such terrifying news, I am proud to reveal the first prototype of the new Magic that will keep us in the fight, keep us from having to retreat like the Elves did. Your Highness, generals and admirals, behold the first successful Pixie attempt at using the Magic that the Big People call 'Technology'!"

The doctor snaps his fingers, and a hummingbird swoops down to hover above the branch next to him, carrying a package wrapped in leaves. He pulls out a sharpened twig and slices the leaves apart, keeping one eye facing his patrons the whole time. He is pleased to see that they all lean close with great interest.

And then the Vizier speaks up, "It's just a normal snail. That's less magical than magic." He laughs at the poor invertebrate, lying on its shell.

With a heave, the doctor flips the snail back onto its pseudopod. "Just a snail?" He pulls on a pair of goggles and reaches behind the snail, flipping a switch on the rear of its shell, almost as long as the whole snail. "Prepare to eat those words, Vizier..."

Montage Moments

"Y'ever have one of those moments that feels like you're in a montage?" Danny asked, "Y'know, background music just lines up perfectly with your actions. You look in just the right direction right as the music hits a certain flourish, and you just know, 'This moment must've been directed.' You so rarely have a montage of bad stuff too. Like, the bad stuff's what the director wants to draw out. The bad stuff's conflict; it's story. The montage is good stuff, wrapping up your 'happily afters' or getting ready to beat the bad guys, so you just know, when you feel like a montage, those're the moments where things change for the better."

I have these moments all the time. I was never really sure how or in what manner to preserve the feeling, but monologue of a hypothetical fictional character seemed like a fairly decent storage device. Perhaps I can yank it out some time, or just leave it as a sketch...

Waterbug (First Draft)

Written for the Comic Character Story Design Challenge over at Gamasutra, inspired by a comment I made on this io9 post.

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INT: Waterbug Passenger's Cabin

The passenger's cabin of the Waterbug is pitch-black, except for the stars visible through the tiny window. From the rear of the ship, a loud crash is heard as the ship lurches violently. Councilman Robins unstraps himself and floated out of bed just before the alarms start.

The ship's automated alarm system begins blaring a warning.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen remaining: One hour, twenty-four minutes.

The councilman quickly pulls on a simple jumpsuit -the microgravity equivalent of a bathrobe- and fumbles to a wall-mounted intercom.

Councilman: Uhh... captain...

The voice from the intercom is that of a young girl, Erika Stellane.

Erika: Everything's fine, counselor. Back to sleep.

Councilman: Flashing lights and blaring alarms keep me awake.

Erika: (muttered) Amazing you can sleep at all on Titan...

Councilman: What? Nevermind. Can I help? Engine room?

Using a series of rungs along the wall, Councilman Robins pulls himself out of his quarters.

Erika: Situation's really under control counselor...

Ship: Please locate the nearest alternative air supply. Warning...

INT: Waterbug Hallway

Councilman Robins pulls himself along the series of rungs, cables, and pipes that enable the passengers and one-child crew of the Waterbug to traverse the ship. A large transparent tube full of slimy green water also runs down the hallway.

Councilman: (muttered) Thank you. I regret that I have one, very minor first act to take care of. I humbly beg your forgiveness.

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated oxygen: One hour, eighteen minutes.

Councilman: It won't take long, and then I'll get right on all my campaign promises, but first: Impound the damn Waterbug. I'm sure we'll all agree that it should never fly again...

Ship: Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman Robins arrives at the door to the engine room. Signs around the door: “Ship's Playground: Swing at your own Peril. Management not responsible for grease stains, or plasma burns,” and, “You break it, I kick you for it in the afterlife... forever.”

INT: Waterbug Engine Room

Erika is floating off to the side of the engine room, near one of the smaller machines. Erika is a skinny, thirteen-year-old girl whose lankiness has only been exacerbated by spending the better part of the past four years in microgravity. She's dressed in a dirty, too-small jumpsuit and a pair of tinted goggles. Her hair is mostly short, brown, and tied up in a bun except for a few long bangs striped with pink dye. A pair of taut tethers attached to her belt hold her in place.

Clutching the wall not far away from her is Rangoon, her Europan first mate, a seven-limbed amphibious creature, like a giant crab.

Erika turns to face her first mate and holds both hands in front of her mouth, seven fingers hanging down like the seven tendrils that make up his mouth. She quickly gestures with her fingers, and the arthropod tosses her a tool.

Councilman: Are you sure I can't help?

Erika: Do you know anything about rerouting antimatter flux containment streams?

Robins stares at her for a moment. A smile cracks on Erika's face.

Councilman: That's meaningless technobabble, isn't it?

Erika: Guilty. Seriously, though, under control. Minor issue with the air scrubbers.

Councilman: So, no problem whatsoever?

Erika: No. No no no.. Eighteen percent chance.

Councilman: Eighteen percent chance... that the air scrubber'll blow?

Erika: That it won't. Don't look at me like that. Do you have any idea just how much traffic happens without functioning life support?

Councilman: Yeah. Unmanned vessels.

Erika: That's not all. There's also derelicts. Just last week, Rangoon and me...

Councilman: 'Rangoon'?

Erika: Crabby learned what 'crabby' meant... and ironically enough got very crabby about it. I should be able to call him Rangoon for a while though. He doesn't like Chinese take-out nearly as much as I do... Anyhoo, when this thing blows, I call dibs on the artificial gill. Those tubes have algae enough to keep Rangoon and me breathing comfortably for days.

Councilman: What about...

Erika: Last I checked, the EV-suits should have O2 enough for about 48 hours, if you ration. Hold your breath for one more day after that, and we'll be on Ganymede before you can make the interplanetary sign for choking!

Councilman: I can't believe this. I paid you to get me to Ganymede safely...

Erika: No. You said, “Quickly and discretely.” No mention of safety. You'd think safety would've been a priority, but I guess not. By Titanic law, I wouldn't be in breach of contract if you arrived belly-up, would I?

Councilman Robins has become visibly angry.

Erika: I know that look! Haven't seen you this angry since you lost my emancipation suit for my folks. Titanic law! Would any other court have emancipated a nine-year-old girl?

Councilman: That was a technicality you little...

A mischievous grin appears on Erika's face as Robins raises his hands, ready to strangle her.

Erika: Now now. Attacking me with Rangoon around will only hasten your asphyxiation...

Ship: Warning! Air recycler malfunction. Estimated breathable air remaining: Fifty-seven minutes. Please locate nearest alternative air supply.

Councilman: Oh God, it just hit me. I'm seriously about to suffocate, aren't I?

Erika nods, in mock reassurance.

Councilman: On a ship that's going to fall apart before I reach Ganymede.

Erika: Most likely...

Councilman: All because those damn mobsters wanted to meet in person to negotiate such a “high-level” hit.

Erika: (in mock surprise)Your opponent? No...

Councilman: I had to do something. Every damn poll...

Erika pulls herself into the machine she was working on. Something clicks, and the alarms die out.

Ship: Air recycler functioning normally.

Erika: Thought so. (She pushes herself back out of the machine, holding a small recording device) Now, if it's any consolation, all the hush money I'm sure you're going to be paying me will make your next trip on Waterbug a much more luxurious affair, complete with gravity, air, food that wasn't vaccuum-packed before I was born...

Pseudo-Spring Snowfall. Mind Wandering.

 Nyeh! (I put way too much thought into that onomatopoeia). We just got hit, right in the middle of what I call "pseudo-spring", with a couple inches of good, packing snow. I decided I needed to take a walk in it and be the first pair of shoeprints to defile the snow in the woods near my house. While I was out there, words and phrases started to get pieced together. After a dark, wet attempt at drawing that left my hands so cold that they kinda burned, I decided I'd record the words on the blog when I got back to an environment where going ungloved was saner. Here are the words. maybe something will happen with them. There's parts that feel kinda like one of the neat horror stories we read in class last year, so maybe they'll evolve into that sort of thing. Who knows?
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I've been accused of skating by on good luck. To hear my friends tell it, I've never had a coin come up tails, but luck is a gross oversimplification. I prefer to think of it as a nigh-clairvoyant gut. It's not like I've never had a bad roll of the dice, but I can always tell at the last second how much to invest.

That's why I knew I had to go deeper into the woods. It wasn't a dark night the city's bright lights had conspired with a pale blanket of clouds to paint the whole sky a faint purple. In the dim light, the snow freshly stuck to every trunk and branch -as well as the thick layer on the ground- almost perfectly matched the sky. Bits and pieces of trees remained uncovered. I could see them as thick black outlines, occasionally subdividing the uniform gray of the sky and ground.

Once inside, the trees seemed alive in a way I've never felt before. I'd been in there during the spring and summer, when the whole forest was alive, sounds of movement all around, hard to place, among the thick foliage. Tonight, only the trees felt alive. I stared up and saw a million white fingers flailing in the wind. With every step, trunks changed shapes, became distant figures, then trees again. A step backward, and he's there, a step forward, just a tree.

It became almost oppressive. I was never far from the edge, but something kept me in the forest, surrounded by a conspiracy of forest spirits. They tempted me with yet another flip of the great cosmic coin. There was something special here, but something elusive, and dangerous. Some fleeting inspiration that would reveal itself with every step, fading with the next.

The tree struck me as an ancient, incomprehensible knowledge. One moment, it was a mere tree, though taller and thicker than the rest. The woods maintained a reverent distance from it. A moment later, it was almost figural, like an idol carved by a long-dead craftsman. In those moments when it seemed alive, two hefty limbs reached out from near its canopy, like the antlers on some demon, or operatic Viking helmet. Beneath those limbs, the shadows became pitch black, somehow darker than the rest of the tree, shadows, within shadows. I felt vaguely, when I looked into those pools of shadow, like I was looking into the eyes of some entity. Below the pools of shadow, completing the look of the wizened idol, snow had clustered in the shape of a beard. Two limbs ran down each side, like outstretched arms. As I gazed, the limb that seemed more like an arm seemed to shift, dependent on the tree's attitude.

I approached hesitantly, not wanting to ruin the illusion. I kept looking at the face, but as I approached, the pattern of snow and wood that my mind recognized as a face changed. A few steps in, I could no longer see a face above the limbs, but what had been an armpit was now the face of a middle-aged man. He disappeared when I came closer, replaced by a much younger man lower down the trunk. When I was only a step or two away, the tree's face was a mere boy at eye-level with me....
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Update May 27, 2012:

Now that late spring (y'know, the part that feels like summer but isn't technically summer yet) is upon us, on one of my many wanders through the woods, I decided to check out that tree with foliage around it. I found it kinda interesting that in the warmer months when all the trees have leaves, you can't even see the spot where I saw the old man's face. If I expand on this, it could be intriguing to work in that element of the mythology: The tree can only be a wise old man when the other trees around him are naked (or gone). During the warm part of the year, he can only be so old and so wise...

A Sketch

The bitter ale was a conscious choice of the artist, an elixir that would encourage strength through its own overwhelming power. An industrial lager might have let him back down; perhaps it would only have mustered a nudge.

There were a great many demons to be exorcised before he could really begin. Not least of those demons was the alcohol, but it was a demon with whom he'd made a pact. He would need its aid in dealing with the rest.

The night felt momentous; it was hard not to notice the apparent simultaneity of the events. The sound of breaking glass heralded the end of Pink Floyd's "Empty Spaces", as the last of the the pale ale hit his tongue, as he cut himself off from the social network that had filled his life with so much venomous feedback and miserable distraction. With a few clicks, the first of many burdens was lifted.

Worldbuilding 10/26/2011

Suddenly, and completely without warning, with a pile of things that I probably should be doing, like working on other projects or filling in more local job applications, I got an inexplicable urge to write, or at least worldbuild, so world-build I shall.

This tactic is loosely based on a talk given at my college several years ago by Jordan Weisman, creator of Shadowrun, Crimson Skies, and a bunch of other games in a variety of formats, adapted from a world-building technique used for our Game Design Club's World Jams.

Basically, it's a bunch of cards, divided by categories, such as fantasy roles, technology and politics of a world, and major events. These are intended to get yourself thinking within some constraints. I admit I haven't had nearly as much success as I'd like with these decks in the past. I'm not sure if I should be drawing more or less cards, if my cards are too specific or not specific enough, or if it's just some side effect of trying to world-build solo rather than part of a group of three or four sleep-deprived college-age nerds as it usually is at the club. Maybe I've just been getting frustrated and calling it quits too soon, but whatever the cause of my worldbuilding issues, I'm nonetheless going to document the process and try to do something with whatever I come up with.

First, the draws:
Spy (role)
Mad Scientist (role)
Medieval (technology)
Theocracy (politics)
Wonder Construction (Event)
Epic War (Event)

Next is a bit of unpacking. What are the appealing things about the fantasies? Were people smarter or stupider than we tend to give them credit for in that time period? What's life like under that sort of government? What can I find out about the real life events on which those generic event cards are based?

Thanks to influences like the James Bond movies, we generally associate spies as dashing figures, masters of disguise with access to all manner of gadgets. They're generally not afraid to kill and willing (or trained) to put their morals behind them for the sake of the mission. Stealth is of the utmost importance. If they're found out, results can be catastrophic, not just for them, but for their whole country. They've got a wide variety of skills they can pull from: speaking a variety of languages, countless ways to kill or incapacitate from any range, ability to get into a secure location with relative ease.

Mad Scientists don't fit in. Whether they're unsettling like your Frankensteins, or loveable weirdos like your Emmett Browns, they're pretty far removed from society. Maybe this is their decision, but it's more likely society's. They draw the line somewhere other than where 'normal' people do. You don't tend to get called a mad scientist without some really cool but offputting invention or experiment.

One thing that's been rolling about in my mind since I drew these cards is the dynamic of James Bond and Q, the one going on the missions, the other building his gadgets. The gadgets were always my favorite part of the Bond movies, something I was sad to see go when Daniel Craig took over (though they had certainly gotten pretty ridiculous by Die Another Day, so it was probably for the best). I could very easily see a dynamic between a medieval spy/assassin and his eccentric alchemist buddy building smoke bombs and warning him not to let the fire potion leak into his cloak. It's just as well, since I'd like to try and get a two-character dynamic going so I can force myself to work on dialogue, and I don't know how well a spy would do with the eccentricities of a mad scientist rolling around in his head.

Well, now that we've got the basic ideas for a couple characters, they need a world to live in and explore.

The technology level that I drew was Medieval. That's not to say that it couldn't be fantasy with magic, or some sort of Clockpunk (like Steampunk, but Renaissance era based on Da Vinci's more crazy ideas). In fact, between Game of Thrones and finally reading Lord of the Rings (after seeing the movies countless times and failing to get into the books countless times), I'm really in the mood for something where the castles have impossibly high walls and towers. Perhaps something with elves or magic, but I'd be ashamed of myself if I didn't push for something a little different, especially since this is a world-building exercise first.


Since I drew Theocracy, I'm kinda forced to make some decisions about religion, and, going fantasy, religion will no doubt have a bearing on the rules of magic I come up with. So, one thing that I keep coming back to, in large part because it meshes with the Wonder-Building card I drew, is the idea of Places of Power, that is, tying the magic into the location. Certain spots where the magical properties are different. It's an idea that goes back to some of my high school ideas for fantasy worlds. I know there's still one sketchbook somewhere with a crappy painting based on this idea.

And that gets me running off on the tangent of "crazy ideas from high school." My ideas for fantasy worlds were even more crazy back then. My biggest inspirations at the time were Clive Barker and Neil Gaiman, while now I'm looking to the relatively sane Tolkein and Martin for inspiration. Back then I envisioned cities with their foundations sunk into the flesh of Titans and heretic prophets whose gods won't let them die as martyrs, no matter how many times the authorities execute them.

That still leaves the epic war in need of unpacking. When I wrote that on the card, I was referring specifically to something on the scope of the World Wars. Roughly equal factions clashing in a war that will scar the whole world for years to come. I have different cards for more mismatched conflicts. "Epic war" isn't scrappy rebels fighting for the independence of a few acres, or a massive invasion crushing the resistance of a much smaller country. The epic war is an inexorable battle between ideologies: Good versus Evil, freedom versus tyranny. Whatever the causes, the whole world is going to feel it.

So, we have two giant armies marching to a war in which everyone will lose no matter who wins. One side, or perhaps both is seeking to build some sort of spectacular monument that will awe the whole world. With rules of magic based upon controlling places of power, this monument could potentially change the very fabric of reality. And in the middle of it all, a spy and his alchemist/inventor/wizard companion trying to accomplish something. The details aren't there yet, but ideas about those details are starting to form. And having reached this point just as Pandora timed out, I think that's where I'll take a break to let these ideas gel a little bit more and hopefully become more concrete.

The Problem I Had Writing "Orpheus"

There was a fourth story written in my Writing Class in spring, but I never managed to figure out what my problem was with it, why I lost interest and why every revision was a chore. It was an interesting idea that I had a lot of fun brainstorming, but something never clicked, until now.

After reading this article about Dan Harmon's (Community) writing process and a bit of his life story, I realized the commonality between all my other characters, and where I diverged with the protagonist of "Orpheus Pharmaceuticals." Like Harmon, the characters I have the easiest time writing share my deeper personality traits, but the ones I struggle with are the ones where I haphazardly inserted shallower elements of my personality.

See, the characters I enjoyed enough to keep writing and revising (Ebony, the Preacher, the kid from "Meatbag", and the characters I'm brainstorming right now, heck, even the D&D characters that have been kicking around my head waiting for me to find a game to join...) are really extensions of my tendency to talk to myself. All the time. They're distanced from "normal" people, and they've all got an unusual companion to fill that void. They have someone they can talk to who won't judge them like the "normal" people they're outcast from.

The elements of myself that I invested in the protagonist of "Orpheus" were much more superficial than that. He was a bit of a cynic with low self-esteem, creative, but certain he'd blow the execution. All of this is stuff I can relate to, but there was never anything deeper to his character. He never really tried to relate to anyone, but also never had any alternative to other people. He had never turned a fraction of his psyche into a friend like I have, which is odd considering how surreal and subconscious-focused as that story and world were.

I've been missing writing, and I definitely plan to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year and Script Frenzy next spring. Of course, I'd like to get back into writing in a shorter term in the near future, so I hope to get into using this blog more soon. Perhaps some world-building will be in order. Between the board game, other less fleshed-out stuff, and the early notes for the fantasy novel, I've got a lot of ideas that could benefit from being committed to actual text. I may even take a stab at a revision of "Orpheus" now that I think I know why it wasn't working...