An Unexpected Blow to the Head, Chapter 2

Hey y'all!  Sorry about the wait!  I'm exhausted, so sorry about the (probably hefty) number of typos, and on to Chapter 2.

Chapter 2.

10:45 AM.

The cafe door gave a cheery ring as it closed behind her.  She sighed contentedly, and, after placing the small takeout bag on the sidewalk at her feet, checked her pockets again.  Luck was certainly on her side this morning.   Only four brushes and she had found enough to fund not only today's necessities, but a bountiful breakfast as well.  Eggs Benedict, hash browns (the cubed kind, not the shredded), bacon, biscuits and gravy, toast with marmalade, and a short-stack with extra syrup and butter to wash it all down.  A repast fit for a king.
Shame I wont be able to come back here any time soon though, she thought as she maneuvered the toothpick between her teeth from one side of her mouth to the other and back again.  Putting away that much food turned heads, especially given her petite stature.  The old waitress had said as much, and lost a few percentages off her tip for her tactlessness.  But that had been the only hitch in an otherwise perfect breaking-of-fast, and she refused to let it ruin her mood.  After all, she could count the number of times she had eaten so well in the last year on one hand.
Well, at least on my right hand, she thought, fingering the scar where her pinky had once resided.
She checked around herself before carefully removing the toothpick from her mouth and wrapping it in a small bag she produced from a dedicated inner pocket in her jacket.  Replacing it, she reached into the pocket on the opposite side.  Empty.  A look of bewilderment crossed her face as both hands begun digging in pockets, followed by irritation and then exasperation as more and more pockets (obvious and otherwise) were picked through and finally pulled out.  Though their occupants--yo-yo, dumpster filth, button collection, small rock collection, more dumpster filth, threaded needle, pocket knife, a paper clip twisted into an interesting shape, and more than a few bits that defied definition--became irretrievably intermixed with the remnants of her recent breakfast in the bag at her feet, she didn't care.  Finally giving up, she sat down on the edge of the curb and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head with a frustrated growl.  A small piece of paper carefully hidden there earlier that morning managed to poke her in the eye before falling between her crossed legs and into the season's last remaining gutter puddle.   She rubbed her injured eye briefly before turning to stare at the offending note.
(Perhaps it should be noted that, at this exact moment, a professional fortune teller operating out the second floor of the aforementioned cafe was suddenly knocked backwards out of her chair as the biggest release of pure psychic  rage the city had ever experienced erupted not thirty feet away from her early morning, appointment-only seance.  She was ferried to the hospital by her awestruck clients, wherein upon waking up several days later she decided to permanently retire from her work in the astral planes, convinced that she had been privy to, quote, "That which should never have been, nor ever should be, experienced again.")
Now reasonably calm again, she reached down to pick up the soaked page from ground, and carelessly wiped it dry on her coat.  She spread the note over her leg and, using an old-fashioned fountain pen she dug from the takeout bag, began reading and checking off lines of untidy scrawl one by one.

Weekly Itinerary:
Thursday:
Acquire funds: check.
Meld successfully  into morning crowds: check.
Ride three random buses in three random directions: check.
Cut through nearby crowded mall and / or supermarket for practice, and observe for possible tails: check.
Acquire breakfast: double-check.
Acquire new shoes:

She blinked at the sheet again and leaned back, the thoroughly masticated end of the pen comfortably between her teeth as she considered her possibilities.  Malls were out of the question, as were outlet stores and superstores, at least when she actually needed something.  Too many cameras, and they tended to have those poor old octogenarians at the doors that depressed her to no end.  Thrift shops never seemed to have her size, and she always left too much of an impression at those little mom-and-pop stores.  That meant either charity, which she would prefer to avoid, a gym, which was a gamble for the same reason the thrift store was, or taking them off of someones feet.  And she hadn't done that in years.
She sighed.  Charity it was, then.
She turned to look at the bag beside her and removed the threaded needle and pocket knife before throwing the rest into a nearby storm drain.  One last quick check of the front of her jacket for breakfast crumbs, and she was on her feet, headed for the nearest crosswalk.
The heavily graffitied street sign told her that, though she didn't remember it,  this wasn't the first time she'd been here.  Her good luck had been brief, it seemed.  As small as the chance might be, she might be remembered if she went into any of the nearby shops, and that could not be tolerated.  A few quick calculations in her head told her that she needed five miles, eight to be sure.  And after such a huge breakfast, running that far could only end in tragedy.
Well, nothing for it but to get moving anyway.  At this rate, she'd be at it all day just thinking about it, and that was definitely not her style.  She cracked her knuckles against the metal sign pole for good luck, and, after a few false starts and alleyway double-backs to shake off pursuers, began her long journey westward.

_______________________

11:20 AM.

Suffice to say, while it may have been possible that she had many exciting encounters on her way to a less-recognizable area of the city, I can personally assure you that this is not the case.  No, whether by her own extraordinary caution in maintaining her anonymity, or just through the usual carelessness of the greater urban public, this extraordinary young woman in the dingy coat would not have anything particularly exciting happen to her at this time of the day.  Given all that she has done--or to put it more bluntly, all that she has stolen--this was actually quite an achievement.  For, as you may have guessed by now, this young lady (who from this point on I shall now refer to as 'Ivy' for simplicity sake, though this is not her name) is a thief.  A talented one at that, but I suppose that is more a matter of opinion, and you should not take my word for it.  I am, I have been told, what is called a compulsive liar, so perhaps it would be better if you didn't.
Ahh, but how she got this way is a story long and convoluted, full of shady contacts, extraordinary capers, and more than a few close calls, some of which (judging by the damage to her hands) cost her more than she was willing to give.
But in any case, trust me when I say that Ivy had a certain talent for procuring whatever she needed regardless of her past or current financial facilities.  And not all of her paranoia is overkill.  More than a few people out there, some less scrupulous than others, had gone to a great deal of trouble to find her.  And I?  I...

_______________________

11:55 AM.

Breathing lightly now, she finished her brief surveying lap of the block and came to a stop with a approving nod.  The store looked perfect.  Small enough to be unimportant, but not to be closed in.  Friendly enough to earn her that crucial benefit of the doubt, but impersonal enough to let her drift away should things turn sour.  There was even a smattering of shoppers moving through the aisles, the perfect amount to give unimpeded cover.  But she knew better by now to let it get her confident.  It was almost too  good, and it went without saying that something would happen to spice things up.  It always did.  For all she knew, the cashier could be an ex-marine with a chip on their shoulder.  Or an over-enthusiastic gun aficionado with a penchant for 'storing' extra security measures under the counter.  Hell, for all she knew this whole store's staff and clientele were made up of retired professional wrestlers and martial artists.  She had run into worse in her long and industrious career.
Well, except for that last one.  She'd never hit something like that.  But there was a first time for everything, right?  As dangerous as it was moving into an unknown area, it had always given her a thrill to rely solely on her reflexes and cunning in situations like this.  And this was only a small job, anyway.  She hadn't even needed to use her kit.  She gave one last, almost sentimental look at the old pair of running sneakers that had served her so well, and, lightly whistling, headed for the entrance.
The bell over the swinging glass door foretold her arrival, earning her a brief, judgmental glance from the old man reading the Times behind the counter.  He doesn't look like an ex-marine, but…She smiled disarmingly at him, earning an almost comically over dramatic frown and a stage-whisper grumble that the whole store must have heard.  Something about 'those damned vagrants', though by then she had already moved on.  He wouldn't be a threat.  A few minutes and she had every camera (two, one near the counter and another, likely fake, on the back wall) and exit (front, side, back employee, front window) discretely and permanently planted in her mind, and was ready to make her move.  The only thing that had stuck out in her mind was the lack of employees, but that wasn't particularly odd in a place like this, and while she needed one for the plan she had in mind, she wasn't in a hurry.  As luck would have it, it wasn't twenty minutes before she spotted movement coming from the direction of the break room.
She saw your long, lanky frame; your fresh-from-the-bathroom untucked shirt; your slumped posture that spoke clearly of mixed boredom, exasperation, and stress.
Perfect, she thought.
She moved up behind you, and, standing just a little too close, tapped you lightly on the shoulder.

__________________

6:15 PM.

You slam the weights down with a good deal more force than necessary, earning a more than a few nasty looks from the elderly aerobics class taking up the middle of the gym workout space.  Normally you would have been the soul of remorseful respect in this situation, but today you don't give them a second look.
They didn't get fired on their fifth day.  They didn't get chewed out by the whole management staff for knocking over a display.  They didn't get threatened with criminal prosecution for stealing, and assured that they wouldn't work in retail in this city again.
No, today they can go screw themselves.  You've got an angry workout to finish, the only redeeming feature of which is the pre-planned 'angry' set list you've been meaning to try out on your mp3 player but haven't felt angry enough for yet.  Normally that distinctive death-metal growl grates on your nerves, but today you feel like you could sing along word for word, and with feeling too.  But getting thrown out of two institutions in one day isn't something you really want to experience, and you'll have to settle for over enthusiastic weight lifting grunting.
You just can't stop running through it in your mind.  The way she looked.  The way she stood so close to you, almost whispered in your ear that she would like some help finding a certain pair of running shoes.  The way she took your hand as you motioned her towards the women's shoe section…  Heck, that alone was enough to overcome the smell of bacon on her breath.  Now that you look back on it, she really had your number.  From that point, you're not exactly sure what happened.  You remember her looking at several pairs in her size, and then asking for somewhere to sit.  The usual seat had been missing for some reason, and you had almost begged her to let you get another for her.  Then, carrying a stool you had liberated from the break room, something had hit you in the back of the leg.  Just hard enough to send you toppling, stool included, into the hefty athletics shoe display you had spent two and a half hours setting up just that morning.
It was the nail in the coffin that the girl--the girl who had led you along like a dog on a leash, that you were sure had taken them--had not been remembered by the cashier, nor shown up on any of the security cameras.   And behind it all, you can't shake the feeling that you're forgetting something, but you put it off in your mind as just another one of those things you should've seen coming.  Your death sentence as it turns out, as management, apparently not trusting you enough to keep your balance any more, would spend the next several hours setting up the display again only to find a pair missing.  Never mind that they were women's shoes, nowhere near your size, and nowhere to be found on the premises--clearly, as the one who set it up and knocked it down, you were the one who stole them from the display.
  You don't even want to get into the logic behind that one; you've had enough headaches for one day, and you've still got a dinner with Rick tonight.
Speaking of which, it is getting late, and you haven't exactly been focused on the workout at hand.  Perhaps it's best to just call it a night and hit the showers.  As much as he deserves it (and as little as he would care), you can't bring yourself to be a guest in someone else's home without putting your best foot forward, much less fresh from working out.  You owe your parents for that, at least.

"I'm sorry, but I just can't stop thinking about it.  I mean, the cameras aren't great, but they cover the store pretty well.  And Bob's not the most observant cashier in the world, but he knows the neighborhood, and I think he would've noticed a new face."
Especially one as pretty as hers, your add mentally before you can stop yourself.
As per usual, Rick makes no sign that he has heard you, and continues digging into your casserole with both hands.
Another dinner at Rick's.  Which is to say, another night of you cooking something big and left-over friendly, driving it across the city, and lugging it all up six flights of stairs into the tiny, dingy apartment that the only friend you have in this city likely squats in under the absentee landlord's nose.
"And then Angie starts getting her claws in me, telling them about how much extra time I take on my breaks and how I keep taking her food from the fridge.  As if she doesn't spend her entire day sitting in the break room or chain-smoking outside the delivery door.  Hell, she's got more food in that fridge than the rest of us combined.  She probably lost track of what she ate, and thought it'd be easier to blame it on someone else than face her own eating problems.  If there's one thing I wont mind about being fired--and that's a complete lie, the only thing that made that job worthwhile was the pay--is not having to look into her wrinkled, suspicious face every day."
Rick takes a long drink from the beer bottle in front of him, shaking it over his open mouth before tossing it somewhere behind him and uncapping another.

Meeting Rick was perhaps the single most interesting thing that had ever happened to you since moving to the city.  Back in the good old college days, those golden days when you had a clear direction in mind and were still in good standing with your parents, you remember coming home to your student-rent apartment late one frigid winter night to find what looked like a corpse in a filthy overcoat dumped carelessly across the stoop in front of the lobby door.  Were it not for the fact that you had to move him to get in out of the 15 degree weather, you probably would have stepped right over him and just informed the night-attendant on your way upstairs.  But as it was, you were rapidly losing the feeling in your hands, and the few extra beers you'd had out with the guys had likely bolstered your courage above your common sense.  So, one hand balled into a defensive fist, you had kneeled down to roll him over.
You remember being surprised by how odd he looked.  He was one of those indecipherably-aged older men, somewhere between 40 and 80, with what looked to have once been a meticulously well-kept full mustache and beard.  His clothes, while filthy and worn, had obviously been expensive.  He was freezing cold, that much was clear; even inebriated as you were, the signs of worsening hypothermia were obvious to your scout-trained senses.
You knew he would be dead before dawn if you didn't help him, and something about the way he looked intrigued you enough to shake the last of your misgivings.  Between yourself and the attendant, you managed to muscle him into your apartment, where he spent the night semi-coherent on an air-mattress on your floor, never once saying a single word.  You, whether through fear or excitement, never fell asleep that night.
The next day (a Saturday thankfully), you stayed with him the whole day, going about your daily chores and recovering from a rather terrible hangover around him without much trouble.  He didn't wake until that evening, when, scaring the living bejeesus out of you, he sat bolt upright and, looking at you with feral eyes, jumped to his feet with his fists up.  You, still recovering, were in no condition to fight, and he put down his fists and took a quick look around the room.  Then, the first and last time you ever heard him speak, he turned to you and asked,
"When's dinner?"
It all runs together after that.  You remember making a meal for you both, and him heading out soon after without another word.  Then, exactly six days later, finding him sitting on the stoop waiting for you to get back from classes, following you up to your room, eating dinner with you, and leaving.  He was never hostile, but made it quite clear that he would not accept being left out of dinner on the nights he came.    All without a single word from his mouth.  After three weeks of asking about him with no luck, you finally let it drop, and fell into a semi-comfortable routine of you talking about your day while he ate your food.  One night a week was no problem for you, and he did look better for it; and you were left with the pleasant feeling that you had likely saved someone's life.
All that had changed since then was when, once night after dinner, he dug a hand into his pocket and dropped a stained 3x5 card onto your table with an address (his) written on one side.  Whether trusting you more or just being lazy, you didn't care.  Since then, unless he's shown up at your place, you brought dinner to him.  Even when you moved back home, you always drove back into the city to bring him dinner on Friday nights, and now that you're back in the city, it's been easy.
You're not entirely sure why you keep doing so, or why he keeps coming over.  Something about him just fascinates you still even so many years later, and having someone to dump all of the week's stress on without complaint has been extraordinarily therapeutic.
Every once in a while, at random as far as you can tell, he looks you straight in the eye and makes his opinion known through his expression.  It's remarkable how much you can get across with a slowly raised eyebrow, a pursed mouth, or a squint, especially when it's the only form of communication you ever use.

"...but I didn't really need that job anyway.  I'm well off enough to last a few months of job-searching, even with student loans to pay off.  It just irks me that it took so little to lose the job.  You know I always give people the benefit of the doubt, but there's no way she didn't steal those shoes."
Rick continues to chew, at times licking his stained fingers.
"It was just weird.  I get the feeling she played me, you know?  Read me like a book, took me along, and put me just where she needed me to be to get away.  It's not a good feeling, especially with how she was leading along at the beginning.  It's just not fair for a girl to act that way, you know?"
The beginning.  You've calmed down a lot since the afternoon (Rick tends to have that effect on you) , but man, she really did get your hopes up, and you've been so lonely since breaking up with your old girlfriend last year.  Her sleeping with your old room mate was not something you wanted to walk in on, and in your own bed no less.  Suffice to say, that was the end of it, and she's had the good sense not to contact you since.  The look in her eyes when you walked in on them...she was afraid.  Like she didn't know what she was doing, or wanted you not to believe it.  It disgusted you.
The look in her eyes...then it comes to you.
"But there was something kind of weird about it too, you know?  I think I was too pissed off to remember it before now, but when she first came up to me, when I turned around to see her... I don't know.  It was something in her, I think.  For just a second, it looked like she was scared.  Like, not just startled or whatever, but really terrified to see me.  But hell, at this point I might just be making up the details.  Between what she did afterwards and all of this afternoon, I wouldn't be surprised."
Rick pauses in his eating, and you cut off.  At first, you only glance his direction in anticipation of some response or gesture of understanding.  Then the seconds start ticking by.  Twenty.  Thirty.
By now, you're actually starting to get excited.  This has never happened before.
Finally, after nearly a minute, what sounds like a rock slide in reverse starts building somewhere around table level.  For a split second he matches eyes you, and slowly opens his mouth.  You hardly notice that it is still full of half-chewed ground beef.  The wait is killing you.
He belches, an almost symphonic blast of sound that literally brings streams of dust running from the cracks in the ceiling, and uncorks his fourth beer of the night.
You can only stare at him.

With nothing else to follow that, the night is pretty well over, and you excuse yourself after scraping the leftovers onto a paper plate and putting it into his tiny, empty fridge.  One unreciprocated goodbye later and you're into the rickety old metal elevator and out into the overgrown parking lot.
As little as he actually says during these dinners, you get the feeling that they mean a lot to him.  He doesn't have any decorations in his one-room apartment, no pictures of family or photo albums.  Just a fridge and an old mattress.  You've offered to bring him supplies, and ever gone so far as to bring him clothes and sheets.  Inevitably, you've come back the next week to find them folded neatly outside of his closed door.  After the first few times you got the distinct feeling that it was somehow insulting, and since then it's been the same every week.
An anchor of stability and routine in an unplanned, uprooted life.  Though, who's the anchor and who's the uprooted is entirely up for debate.
The dinner cut off a bit earlier than expected, so it's not too late when you pull up to your apartment complex.  A small sandwich-board on the sidewalk informs you that the parking lot is full.  A perfect end to a terrific day, you grumble.  More likely the old attendant just decided to play hooky for the night.  But at least the neighborhood's not too bad, and your car's not exactly a hot item.  You shouldn't have any problems leaving it out for the night.
You park it near the corner entrance and step out.  The chilly night wind that usually just blows through has actually done some good tonight, clearing away the perpetual smog and leaving a surprising amount of stars visible.  Even with the lights of the city, the spread of the velvet blue sky spread overhead is enough to make you take a moment to enjoy it.  Leaning against your car here, hands full of dishes you from dinner with a friend under a full night sky...maybe the day hasn't been quite so bad.
Live for the good and the bad, the tiny Buddha in your head tells you.  For once, you find yourself in complete agreement.
Riding on the natural high, you maneuver the dishes onto one arm, and begin digging around in your pocket for your keys.  You're just about to press in your code to enter the building when you hear a strange sound coming from somewhere around the corner, beyond your sight.  From the tapping and gasping, it almost sounds like someone sprin--
With your arms full, you can only turn to look as a very familiar dirty black jacket comes pelting around the corner, hood up.  An arm comes up to prop against the corner not six feet away, and you hear her voice rasping as she desperately tries to draw breath.  Something is wrong, something dripping from the left sleeve and the shape of it not quite right.
You recognize her, and, more unconsciously than on purpose, you hear yourself shout.
"Hey--"
Her head whips up and you can see here eyes shining underneath them.  Feral, like something cornered.  Recognition dawns in them, and she shrieks in what can only be described as absolute terror.  She spins, and out of the corner of your eye you glimpse what looks to be a familiar expensive black running shoe flying towar--
An impact, and all the stars are suddenly in your head as you hit the ground.

____________________________________________

3:00 AM.

She had been in this alley, and not long ago.  Slept in it, most likely, and tried to hide it.  Almost did it too, but for the leavings of a certain pair of dilapidated running shoes.
It wouldn't be long now.  Finally, I was starting to get closer.




Hopefully not as long between chapters this time!  Good night!

Slow updates are slow...

..but not without reason!
Sorry about not having a new chapter out, y'all.  I think I'm working through that portion of writing where it's the opposite of writer's block; I have loads of ideas, all of which seem good, but none of which turn out looking very good on paper.  Rewrite number...four? I think.  Ehh, it's all still quite enjoyable, if a bit frustrating.  I guess it's just the setting up of everything that's making it tricky; I'm sure once that's all set up and the plot really gets moving, it'll all just flow out from my keyboard like break fluid from a punctured cable.  Right?

Right.

Still, I've been doing a lot of interesting writing in addition to the story too.  While it's almost certainly slowed down the bigger picture a bit, I think it's been worth it.  See, I've opened up commissions on DeviantArt, and, remarkably given the track record of more-or-less unknown artists on that site, I've actually gotten a couple of bites.  They're all for "points" so it's not exactly working for money, but it's a little gratifying to see that people are actually willing to pay for my work.  Err, depending on the finished product that is.  That's the tricky thing about commissions.  It's like being an artist and wanting to write about--say--the fleeting romance between a man and his rapidly decaying muscle car, and then getting paid to write teenage paranormal romance.  A category of writing which, according to Barnes and Noble, now deserves it's own full shelf.

Hot (chaste) vampire on werewolf action, in any flavor you could possibly want!  Written by yours truly!

Ehh, anyway, it's all practice.  Sorry again for no chapter updates, but rest assured they're in the works.  Also, if you DO want anything written up(and happen to have either a PayPal or DevArt account), my prices are quite cheap, and I'm always looking for new (non-vampire related) practice material.

Okay, off we go then.  Non-blog stuff to write, you see.  Perhaps a dapper Michael Pal--er,  John Cleese responding to random YouTube comments will make waiting easier?




WE SHALL SEE.

Chapter 1 (minor editing)

Thanks again for your responses from the last post, and enjoy!





Working story title:  A Sudden, Unexpected Blow to the Head.




                    ---now as you turn around and see her, you recognize her.  A wink, and she says,“But remember this: wisdom can only be learned, never taught.”  Then the knife is in her hand and----


Chapter 1.

6:32 AM.

Not the way you wanted to wake up today, rolling on the ground and clutching your head, but it’s taken you time to adjust to the new room.  More  specifically the slanted ceiling and the eastern facing window directly across.  At your all-to-recently abdicated room at your parent’s house, the window faced north, allowing the sun (and you) a slow,  peaceful morning wake up.  Bright sunlight to the face means late, and these days, late means fired.  Not as slow to wake up as your brain, your body brought your unfortunate forehead into contact with the slanting roof above your bed with what felt like a speed in excess of 200 mph.   More wake-up power than Folgers or Starbucks could ever hope for.

A second pounding, discordant to the death metal beat thrashing through your poor impacted cranium, adds its staccato rhythm to your emerging consciousness.  If the cannonball impact of your head didn’t wake them up, the sailor-worthy stream of profanity still gushing from your mouth surely did.  You manage to force your mouth shut around the pain, and roll to a stop facing the ceiling, your hands still grasping the oh-so-generous fountain of pain from your skull.

Only a week in this crappy little room, and you’ve already managed to injure yourself, and bug the neighbors to boot.    Why, oh why, did you have to push it so far at home?

Live in the moment, the tiny Buddha in your head tells you.  The bit of your brain still functioning is amazed he wasn’t forcibly ejected due to your recent concussive altercation.  Still, his voice is enough to bring your mind more or less up to par with your body, and the blood you feel on your hands kicks your old Boy Scout training into gear.

Come on now.  Apply pressure until flow has ceased and you can check the wound.  No loss of consciousness; concussion unlikely but still possible.  Do not move the subject unless necessary.  Clean out wound, first with water, then with antibacterial.  Apply poultice.  Check throughout day, and clean / replace as necessary.  Easy.

The lamp and alarm clock on your nightstand fight to the last staving off the invasion of your groping hand into their territory.  Though their foe be injured, their effort is all for nought as they fall, defeated, to the floor (your lamp with a crash that brings another irritated thump from below), and your hand closes on your now defenseless spectacles.  The world clears a bit, and the bed (more sympathetic to your cause, it would seem) aids in helping your upright.

The impact must still be reverberating through the house, judging on how hard it is to keep your balance.  At least the metal band seems to have finally taken a breather.  You remember to duck before entering your tiny bathroom closet, and it only takes a few seconds for the rusty fluid issuing from the tap to transform into something resembling water.  Though the site of your reddened hands causes a momentary spike in your heart rate, it’s clear that the bleeding has stopped already.  It probably wasn’t so bad a wound; it just bled a lot, as head injuries tend to do.   Your conclusion is proven after a quick wipe of the grungy mirror brings your bespectacled mug into view.

If one were to describe you in one word, that word would be ‘skinny.’  Not ‘thin’.  Not ‘fit’.  ‘Svelte’ would be doing you a favor.  No, you’re far too skinny for that.  Despite your best efforts at the gym, despite all you eat and your less-than-healthy lifestyle, you haven’t gained a pound since senior year in high school.  You know (hell, you’ve been told on a near daily basis where you work) that some people would kill for a body like this, but, as per usual with this kind of thing, to you it’s been nothing but irritating.  Hundreds of hours of sports and workouts, and strangers can still count every bone in your body at a glance.  Oh, and they try.  Hoo boy, do some of them try.  If you hadn’t had to live with the looks before now, you’d be even less secure than you are already.  Mr.  Universe you ain’t, but at least it’s made you decently athletic.  The searching grey eyes staring at you from the mirror carry accusations of a lifetime of vanity, and, sheepishly, you return your attention to your wound.

Steps one through four completed, you finish and step back into your room just in time for your alarm clock to kick off your inner-cranial thrashers’ second setlist.  Clearly unsatisfied with the rapid fire wake up screech, your downstairs neighbors add their own polyrhythmics to the mix.  Between the two of them, you can tell the mosh pit’s here to stay.  At that moment, the weight of the world is quite nearly enough to tip you back over onto your bed in the customary ‘fuck the world, I’m going back to sleep’ position you practiced to perfection in college; it's only the sight of your freshly emptied wallet on the ground near yesterday’s jeans that keeps you, however unsteadily, on your feet.  You rub your eyes, and the headache lessens a hair.

See?  The day's looking up already.A few deep breaths later, and you’re back.

Come on.  New job.  Got to focus.  Get breakfast.  Get dressed.  Acquire car keys.  Acquire coat.  Leave, lock door.  Head for steps.  Return.  Unlock door.  Go inside.  Acquire shoes.  Leave, lock door.  Head for stairs.  Quick nod to the nice girl who mans (womans?) the lobby desk, and you’re out to the parking lot and on your way.

You poor bastard.   You were so close to avoiding it all.  Blame your father for giving you his punctuality.  Blame your mother for bequeathing unto you her perseverance.  Hell, blame anyone you can.  But now the course is set, and there’s no way out of it.

Good luck.  You're going to need it.

____________________


She woke up exactly where she remembered going to sleep.  That’s a relief.  The opposite case was rare, but one could never be sure.  She slid up the wall behind her and stretched before contorting her body in a practiced set of movements. Luxuriously, she began cracking the knuckles of each her fingers, followed by her toes, her knees, and the base of her spine.  (A cat bearing the scars of local fire-cracker wielding children screeches in post traumatic terror and takes off into the early morning gloom.)  Then she reached up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  Left.  Left again. Right.  One more right.  She stretched the muscles in her legs and arms in rapid succession.  A quick combination (two straight lefts, duck to one more low left, right hook, quick side kick to low sweep and rise to axe kick) and she’s satisfied.  Breathing lightly, she leaned back against the wall again with her arms folded across her chest.

The sun hadn’t yet risen enough to reach this part of the alley, and though it is still quite cold, she didn’t seem to feel it.  Traffic is light, and besides the occasional far-off siren, the city was remarkably serene.  She took a sip from a bottle of water she found in the pocket of her thin black coat, and ran a hand through her  hair, before throwing the empty bottle into the closest trashcan with a sigh.  Briefly, she wondered how bad she smelled, and scratched the side of her nose in quiet contemplation.

It’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything, she thought with a shrug.

She bent at the waist, stretching her legs one last time, and tapped the toes of her sneakers against the pavement.  Each of her toes could clearly be seen under the threadbare surface, and the soles left a bit more of themselves on the ground with each tap.

A quick nod.  First things first.

She carefully rearranged the refuse she had moved the night before, and scuffed out the prints her morning routine had left in the grime.   With one last quick glance over her temporary settlement to reassure herself that she wouldn’t be followed, she moved silently to the mouth of the alley.  She checked left.  She checked right.  She checked left again.

Old habits die hard,  she thought, and began to run.

"We open on a lone soldier walking through the desert. The year 1861, the place... Mars."

"Write what you know."  It's always been good advice, and everybody likes talking about their own interests.  But what do I know that anybody else would want to know about?  Video games?  Too small an audience, and too likely to just end up as bad fanfiction.  Work?  Well, maybe some short stories about the eccentricities of thrift store clients and employees, but I want something I can make into a full story, or even a series.  Philosophy and ethics?  Plenty to write on, but tricky to mesh with a story that anybody would actually want to read.  Sure, I may love talking about the moral debates revolving around globalization, but I suspect very few people who were not already philosophy majors would want to read a book about it.  Or a thin, vehicular plot for my own views on the subject, for that matter.  Living and growing up in Northern California?  Not something about which I would like to write an entire story, but perhaps a good setting. 

Anyway, this is all just filler.  Ideas to throw around mostly for reactions.  More importantly,  with the help you have all given me in the last posts, I think I've got it something.  A plot, that is.  And a singular character to make it tick.  Both are still in the rough draft stage of course, but for the moment they're the top of the list.  It took a while, and one heck of a lot of deleted and altered .doc files, but I think I might have scratched up a winner.  It'll include just about everything I've written about in the first paragraph, and a fair bit more. 

Now, the questions to ask everybody.  And please, PLEASE give me an answer to these if you can.  I suspect these will be the most important I ask for some time, at least until I can start posting bits of the actual story.


This story will likely deal with at least one major moral issue that is of great importance to the world right now.  With this in mind, do you think it would be too distracting or constrictive to write from the first person?  Or do you think the thought process and mental exercising that the first person allows will help set up the problem and the relevant points-of-view enough to overcome it?

Do you think it is justified to use graphic descriptions of violence to reinforce a plot point?  Do these scenes tend to draw you in to the action more, or just turn you away from it entirely?  If such scenes would not be necessary, but arguably improved or broadened the impact of actions the characters take or the situations they find themselves in, would it be better to leave the violence in, or find a 'cleaner' way to work around it?

What about (less graphic, but still clear) depictions of sex?

Lastly, this will probably be a realistic work set in the modern day, with entirely fictional characters.  Would it better to:
Take a location that already exists and modify it only very slightly?
Create a new location based on a place that already exists, such that people who live there could probably figure it out?
Or, create a new location entirely?

I'll likely have a few more questions next time, and, Lord willing, an introduction draft to give you.  Wish me perseverance, y'all!

But I need your help!

Hey y'all.  Inspiration has struck, and struck hard.  I've been writing a lot, reading a lot, and generally going nuts.

BUT!  There's a lot that needs to be done to get any of it together into something unified, much less decent.  I don't want to say much yet, but, Lord willing, I'll have something to post in the next few weeks.

In the mean time, I've got fun questions for people!  I know that's not really the point of a blog, but I think it'll be fun, and it will certainly help me with the process.

First off, characters.  As I've written before, I love making them.  It's my favorite part of the whole process.  Thinking about how they got to the point of the story, how they'll interact with each other, what personality traits and mentalities each will have and how they developed them through their lifetimes...it fills me with writing chutzpah like nothing else.  And, like anyone, I've got my preferences, both in the characters I read about and in the characters I create.  At the moment, this is what I am focusing on the most.

So, what I'd like to ask you all is, what characters (literary or otherwise) have left the greatest impression on you?

Seriously, I'm looking for anything here.  Have a general character types and attributes you like or hate?  Any specific characters that you remember that just captured your attention from the moment you were introduced to them?  Any that you grew to love over time?  Any that you despised immediately, but grew to like (or hate even more?)  Heroes?  Villains?  Sidekicks?  Rebels?  Monsters?  Even one-word names will help with the wonders of the internet on my side. 

If you've only got a minute, a tiny little description is all I need.  Enjoy reading from the perspective of cynical martyrs with speech impediments?  Cool!  Imperious overly philosophical villain-turned-antiheroes?  Sweet!  Cute animals with funny hats?  D'awww!  

Anything you've got.  It all helps. 

Thanks a lot, and back to it!

Irritation and frustration

Underrepresented in literature.  It's kind of funny, but it makes sense.  There's a place for literally just about every other emotion somewhere in the vast echelon of literature.  Most pieces out there can make you happy, or sad, or confident, or angry, or lustful, or confused, or even fill you with hatred.  The point is, these pieces usually do so with purpose.  That piece of propaganda was meant to make you angry at the injustices of the world; that bright little romance was supposed to make you feel happy, and perhaps a bit wistful.  But there are a few emotions that, generally, are avoided like plague.  Specifically, I'm thinking of frustration and irritation.  Most often if a reader feels these emotions while reading a piece, it's either because the author introduces a character meant to be a foil or a counterpart to the other characters, or (much worse) the author has unintentionally written something that genuinely irritates or frustrates the reader.

Now, I'm not talking about the kind of frustration that comes from short-term denial, like if two characters that are clearly meant to be together continuously find themselves in situations that push them apart.  It's just anticipation and denial, a common tool in the writer's handbook.  There's even something to it if the characters don't actually end up together for one reason or another.  This can be just as frustrating, but it's not quite what I mean.  The reader, despite their frustration, kept with the story long enough to see how it turned out.  Even if they don't like the ending, they were hooked, and looked forward to seeing how it would turn out. 

Similarly, neither am I talking about irritation created from poor or confusing composition.  If the reader has trouble with the story because of mistakes in the way the story is written, or because the reader has a difficult time keeping track of what's happening, it's only natural for the reader to become irritated.  But such stories, unless written improperly on purpose to prove a point (Flowers for Algernon, for example) are incomplete, and, I would argue, should not be judged against a complete, perfectly edited story.  The plot is lost in the mistakes and confusion, and the emotion is was meant to impart is poorly communicated if at all.  The potential, however, still remains, and a bit more work may reveal something new. 

No, I'm talking about a piece that is actually written with the sole intent of irritating the person who reads it.  Not accidentally, not subjectively, not improperly: just flat out meant to turn what the reader is currently feeling into unbridled irritation.  I wonder, what would such a piece be about?  Irritating people doing irritating things?   Nothing at all?  Is it even possible to get someone to read something irritating without the promise of something better to come?  And then, perhaps most difficult of all, have it be written effectively enough to rekindle these feelings each time it's read?  Could such a story even escape the comfort that comes from familiarity?

I mean, it's pretty clear why these pieces, if they exist, are rare.  Why would anybody want to read something like this?  Just about any emotion, any emotion out there, is preferable.  People don't want to feel irritated, so they lash out and get angry, or meditate to regain happiness, or avoid the source of irritation entirely.  It's not painful, or even really debilitating, but we just can't stand being irritated.  Frustration is a bit different since it necessarily carries expectations, but generally I think it works the same way. 

Well, enough rambling.  I've been trying to branch out in the kinds of emotions I try to evoke in readers, and it just struck me as interesting that, unlike just about every other emotion out there, there's little point towards evoking pure irritation in others through writing. 
Anyway, I'm still looking into it, so in the spirit of investigation, what about y'all?  Anything you've ever read that's just purely irritated or frustrated you?  Something that still irritates you even to think about?  

What's your writing problem?

This is idea number two, and one hour into writing this piece.

The first things I wanted to write about were creation and destruction, but as is often the case with this kind of thing, it got waaay too convoluted and stopped making sense.

It was crap, and I tossed it.

So, here we are.  I felt inspired and wanted to write a piece tonight, and once again ran out of fuel and enthusiasm. 

So, have a short story made up on the spot.

She woke up with a terrible headache.

...Wow.  You know, it's a bit disturbing how many of my stories start out with something like that.  I mean, in media-res, with a female character.  It's just what my mind defaults to, apparently.

Some of you know this, but for the rest of you who don't, I once created a character for a game my friends and I were going to play that had a background that was about ten pages long.  For a professional writer, I'm sure this is probably not particularly ridiculous; but considering that not only was this character only vaguely important to the plot, but also not likely to show up for more than two sessions at the most, this was the definition of overkill.  I started out writing a little chunk meant to introduce her (yep, her), and ended up writing well into the night.  Since I jumped back and forth between quick description and in-depth profile, and more than often dipped into narrative, it was pretty terrible.  Exhausted as I was, it was also completely unedited.

She's also almost, but not quite, the biggest Mary Sue character I've ever created.  (For an in depth description of what a lot of people on the Internet think a Mary Sue is, click here or here; for the moment, just rest assured that making one in a story is a very, very bad thing.)  It wasn't on purpose; it's just what ended up happening.  Thanks for putting up with that, Max.

Every single damn time I create a female character (which is a lot), she  pops into my head, and I go on a spree of furious rewrites and character examinations.  The result often turns out to be a character with too many flaws, who gets scrapped anyway.

Anybody else have this problem, or something like it?  Some problem that just cuts to the core of what you're writing, and makes you just instantly rethink the viability appeal of the entirety of everything you've just written?

I mean, I don't mind it.  It certainly means a lot less shitty work, or at least I'd like to think so, and I tend to be quite satisfied with the characters I create, gaming or otherwise.  There are common patterns and tendencies (tragedy and wandering, anybody?), but I still love them.  Without stopping for more than a minute, I could write a decent story involving literally any single or group of them right here, right now.

That's how much I like them.

In fact, "She woke up with a terrible headache" is a pretty decent descriptor of most of them.  Just switch 'she' for 'he' in some cases, and you get the whole travel-worn, tragic lot.  Repentance, you see, is a fascinating concept to me.

But yeah, anybody else have a common problem they find with what they write?  Even if it's more about grammar or spelling than plot?  I love talking about that kind of thing.

I won't leave you hanging either.  Have an actual chunk of a story I've been drafting lately.

"Black Out."  (Detective version)

I could tell it was coming, the moment her eyes went dark.  See, a lot can be told about a person from their eyes.  The lines and wrinkles around them; the shine and liveliness of them, and how healthy they are; the way they move when one lies, or cries, or smiles.  To a lesser extent, even the color and shape of a person's eyes can give you insight into what kind of person they are.  Learning to read a person's eyes correctly, particularly the most subtle nuances of motion, can take several years to master.  Some people, particularly those who know their own ticks and how to read them, can manipulate this eye-borne transference to their own ends. 

Sometimes, however, a person's eyes might as well be screaming at you.  I'm no coward, but the look in her eyes was something I had never seen before.  When her eyes darkened, mine went wide; for her eyes, once so kind and honest, now radiated malice unimaginable.  In this place, in the middle of nowhere, there was no chance of the authorities making it in time.  I do not know what he said to her, or what problems she had been dealing with to bring her to this place.  All I know is that, even as her hand moved to the knife on the table in front of her, I was had already begun running for the door.   This knowledge, gleaned from years of experience in criminal psychology, was the only thing that saved my life. 

The first chapter of this story is more or less already done, and I'd be happy to send it to you if what you read above has peaked your interest.  Or link it if you have a Deviant Art account.