Official Hiatus

Alright, I realize this site has been on unofficial hold for a very long time. It's now going on official hold. I'm acknowledging three things:

1 - Updating Dave's trailjournal takes lots of time.
2 - This site requires more commitment than I have previously been willing to admit.
3 - I'm not giving up on this site, because I like the concept - it's going on hiatus, not out of business.

So, no more entries for a while. When Dave is off the trail, I'll start this up again. For those of you who are interested in reading it (the few who even bother to check it anymore), I'll make sure to announce my "return" on my other site (and as far as THAT blog is concerned, it's not going on hiatus - it's just going slowly...).

See you in a little while.

How long have I been dead?

“How long have I been dead, Jack?” It was the same question she always asked.

“Four years.”

“Oh. It seems so much longer.” I shrug. The last time she told me it seemed so short and next time I was as likely to hear either. Most ghosts can no longer feel time. “You’re not still in love with me, are you?” Most ghosts can no longer feel a lot of things.

I answer with as much honesty as I can muster, “You know I’ll always love you, but no, we’re not ‘in love’ anymore.”

She nodded to herself. Well, to be honest, since she wasn’t paying much attention, it was just one mist-like part of her form wavering in a different direction than the other mist-like parts, but I knew it was a nod. I’ve been interacting with this ghost for four years, I knew her for six more when she was alive. I understand her body language, even without her body. Of course, the tattoo helps. When I’m honest and feel like depressing myself, I’ll admit the tattoo probably does all the work.

“Why are you here?” The bluntness does not hurt anymore, not much. She is still sharp, still smarter than I am, but she does not understand emotion any more than she can feel time. I suppose I’m lucky she’s that kind of ghost. The ghosts that go the other way are the only ones that make headlines anymore.

She asks the question again, “Why are you here, Jack?”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Oh.” Suddenly she is in focus. She’s still colorless of course, but now I can see arms, legs, even fingers. Her eyes are always there, in perfect detail, but the rest of her only shows when she’s paying attention to the mortal world. “Tell me. Have you found the book?”

“No.” She sighs and starts to fade back into mist. Then I tell her what I did find. When I am done speaking, I can distinguish individual strands of hair and even the fibers of the denim overalls she was wearing the day she died. This time when she nods it’s obvious even without the tattoo’s help.

Well,Dangitall

Itneverfails.I starta post(oneachofmysites)that'smultipart andsomethingonmy computerbreaks. Bynow youshouldhavefiguredoutwhatitis thatbroke.Itbrokea few days after myfirstpost (rightaboutthe timeIwasready todo mynextpost). Itriedfixingit,butthat didntwork(obviously)andamonaweirdenoughschedulenow that Ihavenot yet been able to get anewone.Ifiguredenoughtimehaspassed though thatyoudeserveanexplanationofwhy you'regoingto have to wait stilllonger.Sorry. In the meantime ifyou'rebored,check outmy latest addiction(which I blameon Meredith). It'scalled In Passing. ReadMeredith's review foran explanation so youdon'thavetosufferanymoreofthis

The British Lion, part I

There is some confusion regarding the lions of England. To most people today, the phrase “British lion” refers to a symbol: the royal crest or, in a more contemporary fashion, the caricature device most often used to represent Great Britain in political cartoons. The royal symbol is old as is the caricature, both have existed for long enough that Britain thinks of itself as a lion, much the way Russia thinks of itself as a bear and the United States of America considers itself an eagle.

But why? In each of the other two examples, the animals so chosen are native to the land they represent. As far as the world of today is aware, the lions of Britain are found only in her zoos and upon her shields. This is where the confusion begins. Did Henry I, the first English monarch known to use a lion, choose the lion because it was “the king of beasts?” If so, why choose a foreign king?

The answer, as would have been more obvious in that era, is that he did not choose a foreign king, he chose a native king.

This is where my essay will lose the attention of narrow minds and conventional thinkers, here in the claim that there is such a thing as the British Lion. “Why,” they will say, “that is as ridiculous as claiming the Scottish unicorn.” To them I say, “Unicorns are one thing, lions are quite another.” While I would indeed lose the attention of even the most credible reader were I to pursue a course that insisted upon the existence of unicorns, I do not believe British lions to be so farfetched.

It is understandable, however, that there should be some reluctance to accept their existence. A creature such as the British lion that has journeyed so far beyond myth as to reach the borders of obscurity should expect some difficulties on its return voyage.

Late

The morning fog curled with anticipation, lingering longer than usual as if it, too, wanted to see what this particular day would bring. The long shadows of the orchard pointed west. The longest of them darted all the way to the gate by the mountain road, then retreated, like the fog, to wait beneath the trees. All morning the path lay empty, no familiar silhouette appeared at the trail’s edge. No dogs barked to greet a traveler emerging from the mountains, but they kept their ears up and even the cats continued to look west, waiting.

Everything You Ever Wanted in a Space Suit

Jairim’s VeraTek Lifeshell Deep Space Survival Suit, was state of the art, designed to keep its wearer alive for weeks in the void. The makers, in Jairim’s opinion, had thought of everything. Food and water were recycled as best they could be in such a limited environment, aided of course, by the latest advancements in protonutrients. His air was scrubbed clean and fed back to him, with only the faintest odor to suggest it had been used before. The emergency beacon broadcast its distress calls over all six emergency channels (and could be upgraded for two more that were technically illegal, although that was not something advertised, just discretely hinted at by the salesman when the man recognized how serious Jairim was about his purchase). The suit itself had three different sources of power: battery cells, solar cells, and the wearer’s own motion. If the VeraTek engineers did not manage to break the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, they certainly gave it a good scare.

Jairim, however, had not purchased the suit on its technical superiority alone, although it was certainly a consideration at the time of purchase (and later a comfort - when he allowed himself to think about it). There were plenty of other (cheaper) suits that would have kept themselves and their wearers functioning for as long as the Lifeshell could but it was Veratek’s commitment to his sanity that Jairim admired. Surviving in the void for two weeks was one thing, staring at it the whole time was quite another.

“The problem with the void,” as the Veratek salesman described it, “is that there’s nothing there.” The Veratek salesman outlined the solution with equal understatement, “We provide an in-flight movie.” What Veratek really did was provide a display system across the interior of the helmet, a small speaker at each ear, and a memory pod capable of storing over a year’s worth of movies, documentaries, vidshows, and games. The engineering would fail before the entertainment did. And the display completely blocked the view through the helmet (“although the opacity can be adjusted, of course”) to better enable the wearer to forget where he was.

That is why Jairim was still sane thirty-one days after the accident. It is also the reason he did not notice the derelict ship until he bounced off of it on the morning of the thirty-second.

To Survive in Ghosttown

To survive in Ghosttown, it helps to be immortal. If you are not immortal, if you have flesh and bones that can be rent and broken, then it is best not to enter Ghosttown at all. If you must, if you absolutely must enter Ghosttown, do so only with a trustworthy guide. Since there are no trustworthy guides, it remains best not to enter Ghosttown at all. There are guides, of course, but these are men courting death or, perhaps, men for whom death is an event already past. The motives of the dead are ever ineffable and to seek their aid is as lunatic a proposition as to seek their lair. As for the mortal guides, what terrible bargains must these men and women (and there are indeed some women who have chosen this profession) have made to enable them to survive the denizens of Ghosttown. It is not a gentle place and those who would lead you through it already bear many of its scars. No, there are no trustworthy guides.

Just Another Day At The Beach

The Kraken took Joe on a Thursday afternoon. Then it took the picnic basket including all of the chicken and the dinner rolls. It did not get the cookies because Joe had already eaten those. Then again, since it did get Joe after all, it could probably be said to have gotten the cookies, too. Sally was buying fries across the road at the time and so she was spared, as was the bean salad which had already been removed from the picnic basket and which sat a few feet away. It's possible the Kraken did not notice the bean salad, but being a creature mostly vegetable itself, it's more likely it simply did not want it.

Sally, of course, knew immediately what had happened when she returned. She took her fries and her bean salad and considered herself lucky that she had an extra set of Joe's car keys in her purse. She cried for a few days, but ultimately came to agree with her coworkers that this was just the sort of risk one took when going to the beach.

She stopped crying just in time. One more night, and Joe might have heard her. Then he would have come back, and that would have been worse.

Waiting

The old man sagged when he was not moving, like a jacket on a bent hangar. When he was moving he looked more like a marionette whose strings are not quite the right length. He shuffled a little to and fro, although never straying beyond either end of the park bench. After six paces, back and forth, from one end of the bench to the other, he would slowly sink to a seat and look at his watch. Then he would get back up, move over a few feet, and sit back down again. There he would stay, with his hands clasped and his elbows on his knees for several minutes before starting the whole process over again. Occasionally he would take off his hat, run his hand through absent hair, and then put the hat back on. The whole time, pacing or sitting, he kept looking towards 3rd street, when he was not looking at his watch.

City

There is but one City and its name is Ur. There is but one city and its name is Polis. There is but one City and its name is Glee. And its name is Abydos. And its name is Pan. And its name is Berullis, Tirre, Belle Marra, Rome, London, Tokyo, Paris, and New York. Even Dis. There is but one City and its name is unknown. All others are but a reflection, a pale imitation of an imitation. The City is Truth and all others are reflections seen through water seen through fog. What happens to the City happens to all cities reflected, rippled, and obscured though it may be. There is but one City that is all cities, and tonight it is burning.

The summer sun drifted lazily through the clouds. Unseen katydids chittered loudly, making the only sound until a breeze began to rise. Soft at first, the susurration of grass against grass barely outdid the katydids. It grew until the tall stalks began to rustle like waves. Green mixed with green in cascading ripples. For a moment, there was relief from the afternoon heat and then the wind was past. It left behind a lingering scent of mountain springs and then that, too, vanished and heat settled gently onto the plains once more.

The Wizard's Desk

The wizard’s lab was a dark place, windowless, shut off from all distractions that might disrupt the work done there. Candles formed into strange shapes, and made out of stranger materials, provided the only light. There were no cobwebs, but looking around the room gave one the distinct, and slightly disturbing impression, that there should be. However, with the exception of the dust crawling into the corners as shadows crawled out, the lab itself was remarkably clean, if cluttered. It often took visitors, the few there ever were, some time to notice how clean the lab actually was.
The first impression of the lab was of darkness. The second impression of the lab was of clutter. Various tools of the wizards trade appeared to be strewn about the room haphazardly, spell components, ancient tomes, parchment, quills made from the feathers of birds most considered legend, ink made from materials that no legends had ever been told about. The middle of the room was empty, but around the edges bookshelves lined up facing inwards with an imposing gaze. Each shelf was a combination of books old enough that should have crumbled to dust long ago, flasks of many and varied colors, and various other artifacts that the mind can imagine, plus many that it probably cannot (nor should it). This impression of clutter however, soon gave itself up as false to the more clever observers.
Those with the eye to notice found that the room was actually in a chaotic order. What appeared disordered was in fact a fantastically complex order of the strictest sort. No beaker was out of place, no book haphazardly left without intent. The space was an arrangement of seemingly random associations that, inspected closely made little sense but which, much like the pattern of life upon which it was based, when taken as a whole became a completely new and beautiful thing.
There were few however to appreciate this. Few because there were few who desired to see the wizard’s lab and there were fewer still who he would allow to do so. Few also because most men have neither the patience nor the comprehension to understand such a concept, but throughout history there have been a small number of noteworthy men with the facilities to appreciate the importance of such patterns. The wizard, of course, was one of them, but we shall not meet him just yet. I have explained his lab to you that you may know it when we come upon it later in this story, as we shall, when time is more hurried and events transpiring that will not leave me breath to show you the room as you need to see it. The wizard himself we shall meet at a more appropriate time. There are others I would have you meet first.