NaNoWriMo 2010

6 November 2010 at 11:15 pm (Writing)
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A very rough outline of this year’s project. Basically winging it.
road_trip-0054.jpg

The setting: Colonial America. Somewhere on the coast, towards the north (winter will feature prominently). Unspecified time, probably in the second quarter of the 17th century. Alt-history, with a framework of the Lost Colony of Roanoke and the Salem witch trials, brought closer together than in actuality.

Male lead: Puritan inquisitor, newly arrived from England because the colony is concerned about foul sorcery (read: disappearing people and disturbing presences in the woods). A mix of Matthew Hopkins and Solomon Kane, dour but honest.

Female lead: Youngish woman who has lived in the colony for a few years, married and widowed there. Attractive but aloof, with rumours of blots in her family history.

First impressions: There’s a local coven of witches that call down unspeakable things in their rites. Inquisitor is smarter than that, but the townpeople are not.

But 1: The two leads know each other – they had an affair, years earlier in England, which was cut off by the girl’s family, and his resentment was channelled into religious zeal.

But 2: The witches are real, but they are the ones who are trying to keep the unspeakable things at bay.

The baddies: One of the Great Old Ones (Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos; not clear yet which one), plus minions. Action mostly by the minions so far; the boss will appear when the thwarting intensifies. Baddie responsible for the obliteration of the nearby island colony.

Conflict 1: How to stop the GOO from coming through (with some help from local Indians).

Conflict 2: The two leads still have feelings for each other, but acting on them could be as disastrous as not. (They will succumb, at least once.)

Crisis resolution possibilities: Have the human agents manage to repel the GOO by themselves or pitch it against another GOO and seal the gate in the commotion?

Tragedy quotient: Either way, the woman will die in the attempt. Male lead reconciled with the world or even more resentful?

The end: The inquisitor returns to England, the colony is safe… for now. Foreshadowing of future trouble, but no sequel.

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The People at the Other End

19 October 2010 at 5:47 pm (Animals, Britain, Family, People, Plinky Prompts, Self, Writing)
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A brief, insignificant incident allows for a good lot of observation.

Stone clad end of terrace. E5

We met, by chance, with the neighbours from the far end of the terrace today. I was just taking Zack out for his second walk of the day, and he was tugging frantically on the leash while I struggled to close the door properly. Sometimes I wonder if it was a smart idea to get a puppy at our age.

Anyway, at the same time, the lady from number 36 was coming out with her little boy. Funny how kids are like puppies; that one, a toddler of about two, was wearing a harness with walking reins, and was pulling on them, eager to get going, never minding his mother, who was trying to unfold the buggy; just in case he got tired along the way, I suppose.

I’m not sure if Zack or the little lad spotted the other first, but there was no mistaking the attraction, by the way they strained to get closer. They got to us first, and we took a moment to watch the two, amused, as they tried to pet each other, one barking and the other squealing in equal delight.

I’d seen the lady before, from a distance, although I’ve crossed paths with her husband; our parking spaces are side by side, after all. She struck me as quite girlish, going around in yoga pants and trainers, her dark hair pulled back with a headband and whatever they call those elastic ties that hold ponytails. Up close, she’s not that young, after all. She must be in her mid-thirties, with lines forming around her tired eyes and her neck beginning to sag. She could stand to lose a few pounds and wear some makeup, but I suppose life at home with a toddler can’t be all grooming, and money must be tight.

The grin on her face and the sparkle in her eyes, though, at the sight of her child and my dog getting chummy, trumped all the rest. She was really enjoying the incident. Was it the unexpected break, the distraction of the kid from whatever she had to be wary of, or real love for the beast? Her guiding of the young one on how to pet, as well as Zack’s obvious liking, make me think the latter.

I don’t remember what we said; some kind of featureless pleasantries, no doubt. She didn’t introduce herself, that’s for sure, and so I didn’t either. I thought that was a bit odd, but she didn’t strike me as unfriendly. Is she used to effacing herself behind her kid, I wonder? Whatever – it only lasted a couple of minutes, and then we moved away. I took Zack along the back crescent, where there are still little thickets and things for him to sniff at, and she led her little one – Duncan, now I remember, that’s what she called him – towards the main road, off to the shops.

We had just made our rounds and come inside when they turned into the mews too, the kid sitting in his buggy now, an orange canvas bag of groceries in the basket beneath. Zack wagged his tail, but they didn’t notice him through the frosted glass of our front door. No matter. They’ll meet again.

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That Scar of Mine

18 October 2010 at 5:08 pm (Humour, Plinky Prompts, Wellbeing, Writing)
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Scars can be marks of glory, courage, heroism… or sheer clumsiness.
green soap

‘Are you going to shower or what? The heating will be off any minute now – do you want to come out of the steam room into the cold?’

She had a point, but my mum usually does. Not that I like it one bit, mind you, but it’s there, more’s the pity. So I said ‘brb’ to my co-chatters, both of them (one of the only two internet shorthand terms I can bring myself to use, the other being ‘afk’; all the ‘lolz’ and ‘tttl’ belong with the tweenies), turned my messenger status to ‘Away’, and headed for the bathroom.

Towel draped over the radiator, to soak up the remains of the heat, and water temperature regulated, I stripped quickly, tossed everything into the hamper, and stepped into the tub. My westerner friends are amazed that we still do the handheld showerhead and bath tap in one gig here, but that’s the way things work in Yunanistan. I’m not sure I’d have them another way, honestly. Shower cubicles feel claustrophobic, while tubs without showers make me wonder how to rinse and avoid soap burns.

Now, I reminded myself, no time to dawdle, the heat is running low. Lather up (whoever invented bath puffs is a genius), scrub down, almost ready. I just need a shave. And damn – I should have checked the razor beforehand and grabbed a new one. I never remember to do that when mum puts my razor together with hers in the nook, rather than leaving it on the windowsill, where I let it dry. Ah well. Gotta do it, and gotta do it with the frayed one, just add more soap and be careful.

I was careful, I swear. It was only when I felt that sharp sting of pain right over the outer right ankle bone that I realised I hadn’t been quite careful enough. That never happens with a new razor, only with old ones that snag instead of gliding.

I checked the nick, a tiny spot of red, figured it would take care of itself like so many times before, and moved on to the left leg. It took me a couple of minutes to finish that too (ironically, I never nick my left leg, whether I shave right-handed from an uncomfortable angle or all-around uncomfortably left-handed), and only then noticed the water around my ankles had turned decidedly red, and getting redder.

Half-panicking, I checked the nick again, to find a steady dribble of blood feeding into the tub in two or three separate ‘threads’. Okay, nothing I’d bleed to death from, but still an alarming quantity of blood, to turn about three inches or water visibly red. I rinsed quickly, all enjoyment fled, then blasted the cut with cold water, hoping to seal it as quickly as possible. It stung awfully; not to mention that the cold numbed my foot almost instantly, before starting to creep upwards. Not an enjoyable sensation at all.

Several soaked sheets of toilet paper later, I had managed to dry myself without smearing blood all over my towel (no small feat) and slap a plaster on. Only then did I consider the case closed. Of course, the offending razor was at the bottom of the bathroom bin already. I opted for a dark pair of socks, slightly paranoid lest the blood seep through the bandage, and went on with my evening, a bit shaken but not much the worse for wear.

The scar didn’t appear immediately, nor the following evening, when I took out the plaster. I’m not even sure if it was the cut that caused it, or if I aggravated it by picking on the scab, as is my wont. It never bled as much again, but when the scabs were truly gone, there was a little silvery white crescent left behind, like a nail mark, to remind me. Bloody hell, not even a cool scar I could show off…

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The Night Parade: Damsel in Distress

29 September 2010 at 11:16 am (Plinky Prompts, Roleplaying, Sex, Writing)
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Another bit of challenging roleplaying: creating an antihero – a lead character who would better qualify as a villain. Lasciel (a nod to Jim Butcher) is a succubus. I’ve tried to make her attractive and desirable, but without downplaying the depravity of her demonic nature. No Georgina Kincaid here.

Lujuria / Lust: Sabores

She hated daylight. No matter how long she got to walk the earth, that was one thing not likely to change. It wasn’t harmful, just… embarrassing. It made her feel like people could see through her. Or rather, her, herself.

Of course, that was not the case. Nobody had run away from her screaming. But she still felt kind of vulnerable. And that was why the Night Parade was the most suitable place for her to blend in… and hunt.

Lasciel, as usual, had done her daily practice in the open, under the main tent. There were no sequinned outfits or breathtaking props in sight – no snakes, blades or fire. But the Parade’s most exotic dancer was no less exotic for that. In black harem pants and crop top, arms, feet and midriff bare, a mass of fine ebony braids lashing around her face… No wonder she always had spectators gawking at her; the same ones who would return in the evening to see her perform, their souls reaching out to her through their eyes.

The one who’d chatted her up after practice had the look of a lager lout. What he really wanted was more than obvious, and he could hardly believe his luck, too impatient even to get to her trailer. Lasciel wondered briefly who would miss him. His soul was rather stunted, but it would have to do. She had more need for it than he ever would.

***

(Lasciel is solicited for sex by another of the Parade’s supernatural denizens, and complies, but with more sinister ends in mind.)

‘And here I thought I was the only one you were interested in getting into contact with,’ quipped Lasciel, gliding silently into the backstage area. Sacks, sawdust, and comforting shadows. No other was lurking there at the moment, although that might change later. Not that she minded, or that she needed the dark either.

She shed her clothes matter-of-factly, and stretched. The shadows were not really obscuring her; her kind were meant to be seen even in pitch blackness. And there, away from the mundane world, her true nature was readily visible behind her disguising glamour. Only her hair was the same, and her sleek, generous curves. But those were covered in smooth mahogany skin here, accessorised with tiny horns and a whiplike tail, leathery batlike wings and gleaming yellow eyes, sharp little teeth and a forked tongue. Completely alien, but still viscerally desirable, in a way that bypassed thought entirely.

‘Show me your best, big boy,’ she purred. ‘Close, personal and interesting.’

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There Is Always Someone

27 September 2010 at 10:50 am (Plinky Prompts, Reading, Roleplaying, Writing)
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These two excerpts are posts from a roleplay set on Darkover, the fictional planet created by Marion Zimmer Bradley. The character is a chieri, one of the native Darkovan races, close to many folk perceptions of elves: all but immortal, ethereally beautiful, androgynous and psychic. The story is set during Recontact times (Magda Lorne, Peter Haldane, and Camilla n’ha Kyria make cameo appearances), but deviates from canon by making the chieri, Daiera, a Tower Keeper.

darkover newsletter 13-14

A door towards the far end of the room opened and closed, making hardly any sound, and the newcomer leaned against it to observe the young man as he was absorbed by the view from the window.

It was hard to tell at first sight if the crimson-robed stranger was a man or a woman; as tall as Respin but willowy, with a narrow face, high forehead, prominent cheekbones and a pointy chin. A second glance would decide on the latter, perhaps aided by the silver-white hair that was coiled at the nape of her neck, held with a butterfly clasp. She could be called beautiful, in a blankly perfect way, but definitely not human – her cloudy grey eyes, without any whites at all, made that very clear.

After a few long moments of observing Respin, while he was oblivious of her presence, she cleared her throat softly to attract his attention.

***

She looked at him for a moment without as much as smiling, then motioned him to sit in a carved high-back armchair close to the window, herself sitting in another facing him. There was a little table inlaid with what looked quite similar to a chessboard between them.

She folded her slender six-fingered hands in her lap and studied his face in the brightening daylight before speaking. ‘What is your name, boy?’ The movement of her lips seemed out of synch with the words, as if she was in fact speaking her own language but he heard his own.

Whatever the words, anyway, and however delivered, it was instantly clear that hers was the melodious, almost polyphonic, voice he had heard conversing with Magda just before he had woken up.

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