Heartbreaker: Speculation

Wait, how is Singer supposed to contact this shadowy figure if she can't e-mail him back? Maybe she's just that crafty....

-

I must have told someone, she thought to herself. At one of the office parties. For a cover story. Something.

Singer zipped up her thick leather flight jacket and stepped onto the patio. She looked down at the park, where the risers were already up and ready. She sighed and pulled on her helmet.

It had taken her a couple extra weeks to find an apartment on the right floor, but it was worth it. From her balcony, she could get into traffic easily. She tapped in the password for the gate and stepped through, off the edge. Mind buzzing though it was with the mystery at hand, she still have more than enough focus to fly. Singer slipped easily from a walk to a drift, floating out from her apartment until she heard the gate click.

Maybe it was Farmer.

She lowered her head and streaked forward, cutting through the faintly flickering yellow field into the stream of fliers. Other telekinetics made up the bulk of the traffic flow, but there was the occasional winged dragon-breed flapping along, clearing his or herself a wide berth with their high profile. One person, she saw, was standing on the safety net, the force screen coalescing around their feet and glowing bright. They straightened their helmet, strapped it tight, and took off again, regaining the fifteen foot gap back into traffic.

It had to be Farmer, now that she thought of it. He'd cornered her at the last holiday party, the previous winter. She knew he'd had a crush on her for as long as they'd worked together, and she thought he knew she wasn't interested. Something, apparently, was unclear. Farmer was an all right guy, but too eager. He'd poured out to her more awkward detail about his life than was fair, and she must have told him the story out of some misguided sense of justice.

Singer floated to a stop, the field ahead lit red. As the cross-traffic unspooled from its cluster and began to flow again, she remembered that Farmer had just gotten back to the office yesterday, from his assignment in Red Bridge. She'd actually heard him griping about the long trip back north in the hall.

The red field dissipated, and Singer rounded the corner, coming into view of her office. The Psionic Solutions, Inc. tower was an elegant steel-fiber and polyglass affair, mostly black, with the impression of a highly polished onyx shard. Human forms darted in and out at skylane level as couriers delivered packages and consultants made their way to and from their assignments.

In essence, the Corporation was a psychic guild, providing consulting services to individuals and organizations, or so Public Relations said. At some point, everyone had a use for a telepath or a telekinetic. Collective bargaining had just quieted down for the season, and they now had to rely on other contracts for their income. This was usually Singer's favorite time of year. Last year she had worked one private investigation – the executive was cheating and embezzling, it turned out – and two big projects, both of which she had loved.

She alighted on the entrance nearest her office, unstrapping her helmet and turning her focus to the small box embedded in the wall. With a thought, the door opened. Singer shook her head, thinking of what price that little box would fetch on the open market. Just a little vial of psychoreactive fluid in a vial, hooked up to a computer with some very proprietary security software. The first step towards a psionic computer interface. As yet, all they could get the system to do was recognize people and open doors.

As usual, the office inside was nearly silent. The occasional drift of music or talk show hovered around someone's console, but no conversation filled the air. Singer stepped through the sliding glass door, which slid shut with a hiss.

-Morning, Singer, came the telepathic voice of Derek Baker, one of the trainees she supervised. He was nowhere in sight. Must have been waiting for her.

-Hey, Derek. Lemme guess. Fletcher's waiting.

-Good guess.

Singer walked straight past the kitchen and its inviting coffee-and-spiced-tea smell, on toward her boss's office.

-Morning, Elaine. How's your morning going?

That was Terrence Farmer. Singer stopped in front of his cubicle. He had turned around, hoping to get a glance at her, and now he was smiling as she actually stopped. His skin was a few shades darker than hers, more the average human brown than her pale pink. His eyes were a light brown, almost tan, and betrayed his eagerness to please people. Not un-handsome, and not a bad guy. Just tended toward desperate more often than not.

She narrowed her focus, quieting her telepathy to avoid eavesdroppers.

-Terry, hey. Got a question for you. She was annoyed, and trying not to let it show. Maybe he hadn't just let it slip. Maybe.

[By the way, Farmer is based loosely on me. More to come.]

Who-mon?

That is one confused-looking tutoring logo.

Heartbreaker: Enticement

Technically, due to the order in which I've posted the exerpts, today's story chunk is a flashback. I think this one is a little rougher than the others, but hey, it's a first draft. If you were wondering about the message Telfeyan sent so elaborately, read on.

-

Singer entered the 14-digit password from memory on the second attempt. Case-sensitive. She then stared at the kitchen table, frowning as the document failed to appear. She glanced back at the kitchen to see the text window on the kitchen wall, where Suq's call had come in. Singer sighed. "Over here." The window immediately blinked to the kitchen table. That's what she got for using a little-known, ill-supported notebook program, even if it was better than the mainstream software.

Singer glanced over what she had so far. Not much left to be said, really. The meeting had gone worse than she had expected - at least, worse for the Schwartzsten Group. Great for the Corporation's client, who was trying to find a way out of the negotiations. Which reminded her.

“Attach a note for Fletcher. Audio only. Set password as 'hedgehog milkshake.'” She snickered at the inside joke. “Record.” The waveform graph popped into being, fluctuating with her voice. “Hey, Fletch. Possible mode of approach for the meeting. Don't directly advise Gorok to back out, just keep suggesting that Schwartzsten is less than honest. Their rep has a crazy temper just below the surface. Keep pecking at him, and he'll blow, guaranteed, and Gorok will have all the excuse he needs to pull out. You can thank me later. Get pictures.” She had looked up the dwarf's name after the meeting, and was hardly surprised to find out that Roter meant “red.” Red he had been.

Singer was about to begin her work on the report itself when the new message chime sounded, and the floating envelope icon popped to the left. She'd forgotten to silence it before getting to work, which usually ended up costing her an extra half our. That icon was awfully hard to resist. She reached over and tapped it, rolling her eyes at her own predictability.

A text-only window scrolled open, revealing two short paragraphs. The sender was identified only as Secondshadow. No one she knew.

I hope this note finds you well. It was certainly an effort to find you in the first place, and, I pray, a worthwhile effort. An opportunity of untold magnitude awaits you. If such a grandiose but dreadfully general statement does not entice you, perhaps this statement will: my kingdom for a knight who hears me.

Her eyes stuck in place. A singular rush of cold recognition froze her. Those were her grandmother's words to her when she was nine years old. They were at the end of a fable she never forgot. They were how she knew she would marry Suqarin. She hadn't told that story to anyone except him.

If you are at all curious, contact me.

“Reply,” she ordered. A blank message appeared, with Secondshadow as the recipient. “Who are you? Send. Yes.” She barked the commands, anticipating the inevitable confirmation prompt. What she didn't anticipate was the error message.

[Error: Secondshadow is not a valid recipient.]

Singer glared at the box and stood up. The account obviously existed ten seconds ago. “Search network for Secondshadow, one word. Include Corporation.” No one knew that story. She hated mysteries.

[No results found. Did you mean second shadow?]

“Display properties for message.” A separate box appeared with statistics on the message itself. At the bottom was a series of network addresses the tiny digital parcel had been routed through. Singer slid her finger diagonally across the bottom of the box, drawing a selection rectangle around the information. She simultaneously tapped the right and bottom edges and dragged away a copy of the selection. “Call Dana Baker.”

Dana in IT answered a moment later, her small, dark face appearing on the kitchen table. “Hey, Singer. Mail problems?”

“Kinda,” Singer grumbled. “How'd you guess?”

“I don't wanna talk about it. Just found out this morning someone actually hacked through to our mail list last week.”

Oh, really. That was no small task. The Corporation had written their own proprietary operating system based almost entirely on the principle of data security. Their entire network was under layer upon layer of encryption, and was all but shut off to outside access.

“Funny you should mention. I just got an odd message and was hoping you could trace it back.”

“Yes. Forward it on.” Dana's game face was firmly in place. She was after the guy.

No sense in muddying the waters. “How about just the relay information?” She dragged and dropped the image onto the video feed, and watched as Dana reached offscreen to tap at the control surface.

“Mmm-hmm. That's all I need.” Her eyes had drifted away from the camera, and were flicking between several open windows. “Thought so. This address looks like it came from the Midlands.”

“Seriously? I thought their net access was junk out there.”

“Oh, it's enough. I'll let you know what I find out. So, what did the note say?”

“Nothing anyone in the Midlands needs to be saying to me.”

“Ksh. All right. I'll get back to you.” Dana flicked shut the window.

Singer glowered at the note. Contact me. The game was on.

Singer also hated games. Mostly because she couldn't resist them.

She thought of something else, and flicked the video window back open. “Hey, Dana?”

Dana looked up. “Aye?”

“I tried replying, but it said the account doesn't exist. And the search didn't turn up anything.”

“It said 'not valid,' right?”

Singer glanced over at the still-open dialog box. “Yeah.”

“Put that together with the Midlands network address, and you've got a flicker. Someone made a new account, sent you the message, and cut the network connection. The message would have gone through if they were still on the net.”

Singer knew how hard it was to get off the net here in the north. It had to be easier in the Midlands, where the tech was decades behind.

“Thanks, Dana.” Singer flicked the window closed and leaned on the table, scowling at the wall. She dragged her finger back and forth, waving the mystery message. Trying to shake the secrets loose.

[more to come.]

Heartbreaker Excerpt: Telfeyan's Entrance

Who is Telfeyan Crowflock? Today's snippet has blatant exposition!

If you're reading this, drop me a quick "ooh!" or "meh" in the comments section. Lemme know you're out there!

-


“My Queen, if I may be so bold-”

“I fear, Lord Eoderyn, that you would be bold with or without my leave.” Queen Leikalani fixed her cold, dark eyes on the elven noble, her gaze threatening to freeze him in place. His hand had paused in mid gesture, and his face betrayed only a hint of fear. Eoderyn's poise broke; his words ran out. The Queen allowed him a moment to sweat. “Come to your request.”

Despite his opulent attire, and immaculate courtly manner, Eoderyn managed to look genuinely timid. It somewhat diminished the effect of his wardrobe, complete with ages-old platinum earcuffs, a sharp-edged gray vest and robe of the latest fashion, and the cravat, bursting with reds and yellows. He was almost too old to pull off the look properly, but his face remained smooth enough to trim a few years from his appearance. His head bowed, and his tightly-braided blond ponytail rolled to one side. Eoderyn cleared his throat, and spoke, although in a smaller voice than before. “In order to complete the task at hand in the time you request, more resources will be required. In particular-”

The Queen threw up her hand, cutting him off again. “Tell me nothing of the particulars.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You have at your disposal all that you need. You have only to use it. You may ask my headservant for access to any particulars. Return tomorrow with your demands.”

Eoderyn bowed low, with great flourish. “It is with honor that I serve, my Queen. Your generosity is magnificent.” He lifted his head. “Let it be known that am ready and willing to offer you any...” He stopped at the sound of flapping wings and the rustling of the great, thick drapes covering the fifteen-foot window to his left. Eoderyn suppressed a snarl.

The Queen, on the other hand, allowed herself a smirk and looked to the window. “Is that you, Crowflock?”

Telfeyan shoved aside the thick red curtain and stepped into view. Telfeyan Crowflock, the Queen's spy and trusted agent. Who was once a man, and now was not. His rough canvas hands rustled against the curtain fabric. A tuft of straw poked out from his left wrist, which he surreptitiously, and automatically, tucked back in. Telfeyan smiled, the jagged white patch of material shifting in size and shape, bright against the black-dyed canvas of his face. He removed his black felt hat and bowed.

“My Queen.”

He straightened, and bowed shallowly to Lord Eoderyn. Not shallow enough to slight, but only just. “M'lord.” Telfeyan replaced the hat on his head and leaned against the ancient polished stone wall.

Eoderyn, as was his custom, gave Telfeyan a hard look. “Whenever you present yourself, Crowflock, I wonder to myself what I have said in the presence of crows.”

“You flatter me, M'lord. Certainly I cannot be everywhere at once.” He winked one triangular white eye at the noble.

One of Eoderyn's sharply pointed ears twitched. He inclined his head once again to the Queen. “By your leave, Your Majesty, I will continue the work at hand.”

“Go with my blessing, Lord Eoderyn,” the Queen said, without the usual ice in her voice.

The noble smiled at the Queen, turned and exited the tower room. Queen Leikalani watched Eoderyn go, then turned to her spy. “You do make him uncomfortable.”

Telfeyan stood casually and meandered into the center of the room. “Perhaps I remind him of someone he doesn't like. And isn't it curious, Your Majesty,” he continued abruptly, “that he would insist on meeting you in the least convenient of your meeting rooms, at the hour normally reserved for your afternoon rites in the gardens?”

The Queen stood from the sculpted iron throne on which she sat, and walked past Telfeyan to the door. Her form-fitting red dress, a darker maroon than the curtains, rustled slightly. Though his face had no nose to speak of, Telfeyan caught her scent – it brought to mind an image of blue water running over snow. “It bothers you when I refuse to include you in my plans.” She brushed a thin, pale finger over the softly glowing runes on the door, deactivating the magical silence placed on the room.

“I have no desire to be personally involved in all your plans, my Queen,” Telfeyan replied. “If I had any complaint, it would be simply that I do not know about all your plans. Perhaps you can sympathize with a spy's plight.”

“Do you have anything to report, spy?” The Queen was using her business voice, but was shamelessly smiling to herself.

You do enjoy toying with me, don't you? “Nothing, my Queen, to report. Except that your kingdom is unusually quiet and peaceful.”

“Then I might have to cause a stir, mightn't I?”

[oh, that sneaky Queen. more to come.]

Another excerpt

Here's another piece of Heartbreaker, from a little further into the story. Anyone recognize our second main character?

-

The text scrolled into place on the device's tiny screen, and Telfeyan smiled crookedly. “Paragraph. If you are... at all curious, contact me.” He stared at the glowing letters for a long moment. That was adequate. He set the handheld device next to him on the great rock on which he sat, and took up his stylus. With a brush of his rough finger, the sharped tip of the ancient wood lit with a green haze, bright white at its source. Leaning over in his cross-legged position, he set the point to the rock, drawing the final rune with a slow, steady, practiced hand. The stone furrowed, tiny pebbles rolling away from the point as Telfeyan drew it effortlessly through, leaving a shallow but definite score mark with every stroke.

He completed the formation and carefully reviewed each component before laying aside his stylus and pressing his hand to the cluster of runes. He had taken the extra time to add two redundant esphera runes for power and route them through three innite each. All that for the sake of quickness. Once again, it was time to test his runecraft.

The magic was already seeping into the formation through his palm. A good sign. Out of habit, he went through the motion of taking a deep breath and slowly opened the gate, allowing the magic to leak steadily through himself and prime the diagram. The green aura spread, filling out the subtle contours in the rock. Telfeyan watched its progress with unblinking eyes. And the moment the central rune began to show white, he dropped the gate and flooded the formation.

A blast of hot air whipped over Telfeyan's face as the portal opened. He looked out over the city of Edge, over a thousand miles north. Hundreds of feet below the magical aperture, mid-morning traffic was comprised of rapidly aging northern vehicles and, much more impressive, custom transports made from northern scraps. In the distance, a lone road stretched away to the north through the amber dunes. A minor sandstorm was gathering to the northeast, a dark swath in an otherwise blue sky.

He took only a second to enjoy the view, then grabbed the PDA and examined the indicator in the upper left of the screen. The antenna icon was, as he had been told to expect, blinking. His thumb scraped the Send button, and the device chirped a pleasant-sounding chime of denial. Telfeyan chuckled. This northern technology was polite even when it wasn't working.

Then, the antenna solidified, and was immediately replaced by five green bars. Telfeyan tapped the Send button again, and the message disappeared. Sent.

He immediately slammed shut the gate, and with it, the portal. The warm wind and blue desert sky disappeared with a hissing snap. As Telfeyan watched, the antenna icon reappeared on the PDA's screen, blinking three times before displaying instead a small red circle.

“Sorry,” he said to the device. “We are somewhat out of range, aren't we?” Laid the handheld computer in the center of the portal runes, then grabbed and re-energized his stylus. With broad strokes, he connected the main focus points, channeling them into the center. He cut off each of the outlets, and added three more oversized esphera. His left hand clenched into a fist, and he gathered a pool of energy there, a stopped gate. With his stylus, he traced a single connector a few feet long, ending in a simple spiral. A magical fuse. Over this he placed his left hand, and released. The spiral ignited bright white, and the green haze began to spread along the groove in the rock.

Telfeyan stood and brushed himself off. Walking a few paces away to the edge of the rock, he only looked back at the device once. If he had any way of using a PDA in the far south, he would be even more tempted to purchase one. That would raise some eyebrows at the royal court. Telfeyan snickered to himself and stepped off the edge of the mountain.

Cold mountain air rushed past his unblinking eyes. In the distance, he could see a large farm. They might hear the noise, but the flash would be lost in the late morning gloom.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the detonation sounded from the cliff above, as the magic essence reached the clogged, overpowered tangle of runes and exploded, tearing away the entire surface of rock on which it was etched and blowing the northern device to shreds.

Satisfied, Telfeyan took another deep breath. His form unwound, changing texture and warping, splitting. As he had a hundred times before, he burst apart, a hundred wings catching the rushing wind in a dive, then flapping into formation.

In the far distance, a farmer looked up at a rumbling echo, and saw only a flock of crows flying south toward Castle Stonewynd.

[more to come.]

Gasp! Novel excerpt!

In November, I participated in National Novel Writing Month, further damaging my claims to sanity. The idea behind NaNo is to start on November 1 with a blank page, and finish the month with 50,000 words of a novel. I made a weak start, gained some momentum mid-month, and, well...



I'm quite pleased with what I did accomplish, though. I don't know if I've ever written this much for a given story. Ever. I plan on finishing the story, too, once I've planned it out a little better. I haven't been writing new material for it for the past few days, but I will be.

In celebration, I'm posting excerpts from what I managed to crank out during NaNo. These represent the roughest of rough drafts, but that's a lot of what gets posted here anyway. Heh. As yet, the story has no title, and will henceforth be referred to by its codename, Heartbreaker. A few of you will recognize a character, a name, or a setting, here and there.

Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.

-

A gentle swelling of light, and a gradual crescendo of harp music, and Elaine Singer awoke. The soft white light of the wall panels spread over the room, soaking the coffee-and-milk tan covers, the small lampstand, the many-colored ensembles just visible through the slightly ajar closet door. It took her a solid ten seconds to realize she was awake, ten seconds of staring at the red behind her eyelids. Subtle, embedded speakers in the wall above her futon grew slowly louder, insistently spreading the mystic sound of plucked strings. A vague memory of dream drifted away from her on a mental breeze, replaced quickly by another image.

In her mind, she was choking a harpist. Singer half-growled, half-groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her quickly-waking eyes in the pillow. A strand of her short red hair flipped into her ear. Itchy.

Have to minimize movement. We're not waking up. Not right now. Just gotta... oh, hell. She reached up at swatted at her own rebellious hair, knowing the battle was lost. Singer rolled over with a huff, tugging the covers off half the bed. Her voice was groggy when she spoke. “House. What time is it?”

The harp music quieted for the house computer's response, in a factual, but pleasant male voice. “It is 8:45 am.”

“Why would I get up at 8:45 am?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember. Right. She had to finish her report on Schwartzsten for Fletcher before the meeting today. Because she had put it off until this morning so she and Suq wouldn't miss The Judicator last night. And it hadn't been that great an episode. She had no idea what they were doing with Starlight this season. He was supposed to become the next Judicator, they said that in the last season finale, but they kept-

She had almost fallen asleep again when she caught herself. “Mmn.” She had to get up. With one last sigh, she gathered her thoughts. Her mental focus slid into place, though a little slower than usual, since it was morning. Singer turned one hand palm-up under the covers. With a little ripple out from her hand, the covers lifted, nearly flat, until they were nearly grazing the ceiling. Singer sat up, popped her neck, and stood, slumping toward the bathroom. She let go her focus, and the blankets drifted down to the futon with a flop.

If she had a more consistent morning routine, maybe her mind wouldn't take so long to warm up. One of her mentors had insisted that was critical: being able to wake from a deep sleep and be at her telekinetic threshold a second later. Thus far, that ability hadn't exactly been mission-critical. Thus far, Elaine Singer had thoroughly enjoyed taking mid-afternoon and late-night assignments and letting the mornings drift away like fog.

The harp music was still going, and had followed her into the bathroom. The waterproof speakers were a little tinnier. If she had to be awake, she was going to actually wake up. “House. Playlist “punching the walls,” on random. Play.”

Per her settings, the volume ratcheted up three levels, and thundering drums and distorted electric cellos hammered the walls. That intro she knew. “Rending the Gates” by Praxis Maleficus. Good stuff.

One lingering shower later, Singer padded into the kitchen in her loose, broken-in jeans and a tank top that had once been black, and was now faded gray. Outside, only minimal traffic sounds, since the commuters had been at their desks for a little over an hour. The woosh-pop of flash welders echoed from the construction yard down the block into her apartment. The charged glass door leading to the minuscule patio was halfway opaque, tinting the bright city light down to a manageable shade. She peered out into the world and saw, ten stories down and eight blocks away, they were setting up for some sort of big event in Koral'ia Park.

Oh, right. Carpenter's rally. Knowing Carpenter's following, she'd probably be able to hear them across the distance. The man new how to draw a rabble. Which wasn't why she was voting against him, but it certainly didn't help his case with her.

A familiar, soft guitar line filled the kitchen, and the wallscreen by the cutting board lit up with an alert. Singer smiled. “House, answer it.”

A video window sprung open. On the other end of the call was a scaled blue face, with a line of tiny horns running up the nose ridge and over the hairless head. The eyes were a yellow-orange, with vertical pupils. It had the beginnings of a snout, which smiled with pointed carnivore teeth. It was wearing, she noticed, the t-shirt she had bought him last week.

“Morning, love,” said Suq. Suqarin Myssir. Her fiancé.

[more to come. thanks for reading.]

Shut up...

...just shut up.

Portrait!

http://mach23.deviantart.com/art/Razorclown-103068694

The Week Begins

Part of my usual walk from my blocks-distant parking spot to Chocolate Fish before work. At the coffee shop, I read the Bible and journal. During the walk in, I pray. Took a bit of my own advice today and was more deliberate in my prayers; more careful to worship along with my requests and troubles.

This morning, at least, it made the difference between overexaggerating my few problems and starting the day with peace and, of all things, optimism.

Multimedia message

I'm gonna attempt an actual blog post from my phone. Here goes.

Here I sit at Chocolate Fish Coffee once again. My plan to skip coffee a couple days a week is a go so far, but as you can see, I've lost the added benefit of saving money by picking up an iced white tea instead. On one hand, the tea is really tasty, and I'd rather not just mooch my favorite coffee shop's patio without buying something. On the other, I still need to grow my financial discipline. And every other kind, really.

It's doing me a lot of good to get outside. I'm expecting a scholarly paper on the horrible effects of fluorescent lights on the human soul to come out within the next few years. It's nice to emerge from the right-angled world of HR - gray with a few scant decorations. Whether I'm talking about the office or the profession, I'll leave to you.

Lately, I've been wishing I could write poetry. Whenever I try... hmm. It seems I'm out of room for text. Well, now I know. More soon, methinks.

Test Run

A tattoo idea i had a while back. Airbrushed on at Apple Hill.

Egad.

This is how brussels sprouts grow. That's lethal.

Graffiti Near 4th and S

The rat was there earlier, but now he has a friend.

This Sign Exists

I see what they were trying for. Sigh.

Dusk at Town and Country

I'm contemplating going to Jakarta, Indonesia over Christmas on a mission trip. Just met with some people at the Starbucks here to discuss details, possibilities. My mind is churning. It's nice to turn the corner and see something so beautiful.
I'm contemplating a couple things right now that seem like sheer stupidity on the surface. Unless they're not.

UPDATE: The current plan is to save the money I would have spent on Jakarta to pay down my debts so that I'm ready to transition from day job to ministry when the opportunity arises. One down.

Urban Jungle

Power cables at CalPERS building.

Killer Pool

My aunt Debbie's backyard in Manteca. Wow.

Fixed

Twenty minutes and $160 later, bam. No problem. This is me endorsing Allied Glass, and their technician Sam in particular. Good show.

Smashed

My luck with cars continues as usual. Wonder what happened.

Rat stencil

Graffiti near 5th and S.

Spaceboy

Birthday card given to me by a coworker. I think she gets me.

My New Girl

Still thinking of a name for her. But she's mine.

Signs

Near Arden and Fair Oaks.

Acts

Scripture on the wall in Raley's. Good pick.

More cubicle art.

Surrealist? Absurdist? I dunno.

Good question.

Yeah, church. How about it?

The new puppy

Aww. Houdini the girl.

Amen...

...to that.

In Liam's Backyard

That's the happiest drunken gnome i ever did see.

Iron Man donut

Sometimes marketing goes too far.

Art?

Bus stop at Watt and I-80, back of a phone booth. Share. Huh.

My drink tastes odd, now.

An ad on a java jacket, of all places. I hate the world we live in.

By the State Controller's Office

nice. But there's a reason why the Golden Gate Bridge is red. NOT GOLD.

HR slice of life

Sometimes my status board has some zen to it.

Crunch

Two spaces away from my car, a tree fell on a truck. Minimal damage, but it wasn't going anywhere. I, however, was able to make it to my dinner with Jamie on time.

Paper clip sculpture. This does not necessarily suggest in much time i have on my hands.

NIN-JA!

Black History Month means jambalaya at the calpers cafeteria. Amen to that.

Beautiful.

Power issues. Early day. Huzzah.

Da.

There have been a few comings and goings in HR lately. To say the least.

Halloween in HR

For some odd reason, there's been this running bee motif in human resources, where I work. I guess it's all been building up to this.

The cute little red riding hood in the picture is a coworker's daughter. Aww.

Album Review: Nightwish's Dark Passion Play

Nightwish has changed since Once. But it's not as shocking a transition as you might think. The sudden departure of Tarja Turunen in 2005 was nothing short of traumatic for the fans – as well as the band, from the sound of the first two tracks of Dark Passion Play.

One signature element of a Nightwish album is an epic ballad, usually right near the end. Not this time. “The Poet and the Pendulum” opens the album with nearly fourteen minutes of exceptional, ruthless metal. Imagine "Planet Hell," but more. In the lyrics, we see the dark in Dark Passion Play. There are some disturbing moments in this song. It's noteworthy that Tuomas Holopanien, songwriter and keyboardist for the band, hauntingly describes his own death in “the year of our Lord 2005.” This is a song about uncertainty and suffering. Some of the imagery the lyricist invokes leaves me feeling uneasy. Undoubtedly, that was the aim. The song drives and pounds, swells, and releases with a slow, melodic outro.

Perhaps appropriately, new singer Anette Olzon is not the first voice we hear on the track, but she is the last. Let's get the inevitable comparisons out of the way. Right away, we notice Anette has more grit in her voice than Tarja ever did. She's definitely not an opera singer, nor does she attempt to be. She's different. But she's fantastic. She's versatile. Her voice is a crystal laser. She will destroy you if she must. She's not Tarja, and I'm okay with that. One track in, and I like where this is going.

But the last word on Tarja has not been spoken until track two, “Bye Bye Beautiful.” If the metal movements of the first track were driving, the beat of this track is just brutal. Pounding guitars give way to Anette's melodic verse, invoking Nightwish's old trick: lure 'em in with a siren song, then blast 'em with the chorus. By the time the drums hit, it's too late. Marco Hietala's in your face, killing you. It took a live concert and a Megadeth cover for me to learn to appreciate the bassist's vocals, but now, he's in rare form. His angry viking voice is only appropriate for the lyrics it hurls: "did you ever read what I wrote you / did you ever hear what I told you..." and so on. Don't worry. The song is actually more hopeful than it initally sounds. But at its end, the matter, for the moment is closed. Catharsis done. On to business, with "Amaranth."

We saw shades of Nighwish using pop elements in "Romanticide" and "Wish I Had an Angel." "Amaranth" is the logical conclusion. The orchestra is still in the background, but it's in a major key. The vocals still soar, but Anette actually vamps a little in there. Really, some of the little vocal touches she throws in make the song for me. Listen for that moment of gravel in the bridge, and the hint of a scream at the end. Mmm. The first two tracks speak to the past, and this one runs headlong into the new.

And then they throw "Cadence of Her Last Breath" in there, just to show us what Evanescence should have been. Honestly. It's like they sat Amy Lee down in the studio and said, "No no no, honey. Like this." Again, the orchestra is there, and hints of the choir. This is fully Nightwish. But in all reality, it's a really hard alternative song. I honestly think this song is on the CD just to prove they could do it.

Speaking of proving something, the next track is "Master Passion Greed." Question: has Marco ever had a song to himself and the choir? Hmm. If he did before this point, would it have worked as well? Turns out he's pretty versatile, too. Screaming, growling, generally menacing the audience, all the while thumping away on the bass. The tempo changes and expert, sparing use of the orchestra get me fired up. The song is rough overall, though, and the use of synth at the beginning is borderline awkward. Get past it, however, and you'll find an angry metal anthem worth listening to.

Eva: slow song. Pretty.

Sahara. Oh, my goodness. If at this point, you're wondering, "what happened to the Nightwish I knew and loved?" ...here they are. I don't care if the Arabian Nights took place nowhere near the Sahara. This may be my new favorite Nightwish song.

The album has more surprises in store, not least of which are a Celtic-style ballad and a gospel choir. No, that wasn't a typo. For the moment, I'll leave you to wonder, or listen for yourself.

Dude.

Between what and what?

Regime Change

There's been a slow revolution in my thinking. Not in the sense of a slow turning that ends up right where you started; I mean the Che Guevara sense. Revoluçion.

For years, I've been wrapped up in worry, convinced on some level that I have an important purpose for my life that I'll never be able to accomplish. I've looked into a calling I felt to enter the ministry, and the worry continued, perhaps with more focus. I looked at my own character and shook my head. No way.

In recent days, however, I've seen God at work - in me, no less. And now I have hope.

Furthermore, my readings in the Bible and other books, sermons at church, everything is pointing to a line of thought that blows my worries away. It goes like this: if God calls me to a course of action, my personal inadequacies will not prevent our victory. Lack of faith or open rebellion will. The question becomes not can I do it? but rather, what is God calling me to?

I don't need to know what I'll be doing in ten years. I don't need to plan out the rest of my life. Indeed, I can't. What I need to do is learn to recognize God's leading, and train myself to follow it the moment I hear. If I learn to do that, I can't lose. More and more, I believe it's actually possible. And slowly, I'm getting there.

Trusting God, and following Him moment by moment: this is the foundation of life.

Viva.

Sometimes we have snacks. Yeah.

Magnetic Poetry: Come

Hood cat

I back out my car, and Shadow doesn't seem to mind. He runs, though, as soon as i start moving forward.

Sighted at Jamba Juice, 7/28/07

Dichotomy.

(edit: the image has been reposted.)

Lookalikes?

Whether you think they look anything like me or not, this has gotta be one of the most bizarre groupings of people I've ever seen.



So, it turns out I'm visually a cross between Neo and the Unabomber.

Guh?

I'm imagining a frantic, and very funny call for help: "where are you, sir?" / "THE CRAPPER!"

Station 523 is active.

Life update: I've gone from living on my own in apartment 30, to rooming with Cody in apartment 50. Contact me for the rest of the address, if you like.

Blammo.

Sweet chin music.
(compare to the real thing, as it were)

Cheering section

A little personal insight: I have very low expectations of myself.

God doesn't.

Two obvious facts that still seem like a revelation when you set them right out in the open. Which means I'm supposed to do something about them. I have some basic ideas to learn about my own responsibilities, to whom I am actually responsible, and how important my life really is. Not just to me.

Funny thing is, I have pretty high expectations of other people. I'm more optimistic, more hopeful. I expect them to thrive. My Christian friends, especially. An uphill battle though it may be, I expect them to fight well, and stay on the narrow path. My outlook for myself is more bleak. I expect to be stuck in the same nonsense for years to come.

Most often, that's not what I'd say out loud, or even think consciously. It's just that, perhaps, I've come to accept certain failings within myself, and started to think of them as part of the landscape. I don't think of habitual sins as temporary. I fail to recognize that they can be overcome.

Just because humanity is imperfect doesn't mean we can't make progress. It's possible. In fact, living in close proximity to God, there's hardly a choice.

I am always His student. But what I often miss is the fact that I am first and foremost His student. I should always be learning. Growing in mastery. For our sensei, our sifu, always has another trick up His sleeve. As good as we can get, He is always better. And He expects us to keep up with Him.

Thus, we live by grace, and we study the master. We imitate, emulate. We let His heart work in ours. And we never stop studying, or improving.

High expectations. Higher every day.

All this is said assuming God's love. He's crazy about us. When we stumble, He loves us. When we want to quit, He loves us. And when we push forward and train until we bleed, He still loves us.

Something (not just) to think about.

Barberism

My dear friend Brett Mynsted recently lost his father to cancer. In his honor, Brett is shaving his head for St. Baldrick's Foundation, which raises money to fight childhood cancer.

His site can be found here. Drop by, and consider donating to the shiny, bald cause.

Das Klown!

Beth was kind enough to draw this rendition of Zippy, this time in a more modern mode. I like it.

http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/50176612/

God > everything

This morning, I was hit by Daniel 6:5.  A little background: at this point in his life, Daniel has seen at least two Babylonian kings on the throne, having himself been exiled from his homeland and sent to the royal palace to be trained as an advisor.  He's now been at this for a while, and his name is well-known in the court.  In fact, Daniel is the third highest official in Babylon, and Darius the Mede, the current king, is so impressed with him that he's thinking of promoting him even higher.

The other officials are less than pleased, and they start a conspiracy to bring Daniel down.  Problem is, Daniel has such integrity that they can't dig up any dirt on him.  So, in verse 5, they realize this:

"We will never find any basis for charges against this man Daniel unless is has something to do with the law of his God."

After years  of being surrounded by decadence, in a position of power, Daniel's only political weak spot is that he worships God above the king.  And the people around him know it.

That inspires me.  I want to live the kind of life that says, what that guy cares about, above all else, is what God wants.  To be that kind of example... man.

In case you're wondering, the conspiracy works.  In a way.  Read the rest of Daniel 6 for one of the coolest stories in the Old Testament.

and Omega.

His words will be full of ancient wisdom and boundless mercy.
But first,
he must learn to speak.

He shall strain against His cross, carrying up to Golgotha all our burdens.
But first,
he much learn to walk.

He shall live a perfect life, and die a perfect sacrifice.
Bur first,
he must be born.

One day, He shall cry out
"It is finished!"
and it shall be true.

But on this day,
this Christmas Day,
it begins.


Merry Christmas, one and all.

I have also reposted a certain Christmas story I wrote a few years ago on Nightsawake. Please enjoy.

And may God's immeasurable grace be always before you.

God sighting, 12.19.2006

At the Jplus Architects Christmas party, I  got $150 cash in a gift exchange.  A fifty dollar bill, and a hundred dollar bill.  I assumed God was giving me some extra money to cover expenses.

Since my car had recently been stolen, it wasn't as easy to get down to the back to make a deposit.  So I didn't.  The money sat in an envelope on my desk for several days.  One evening, I finally put it in my wallet, intending to deposit it when I next stepped out to run errands.  Never quite made it to the bank, and in my wallet it stayed.

I made a small purchace at a local store, and asked if they could break a hundred.  Nope.  Oh, well.  Just checking.  Various other little expenses came up, and the fifty slowly disintegrated.  Easier to break.

Upon realizing one morning that I didn't have enough change to ride the bus, I stopped by the Schools Credit Union ATM on the ARC campus, to see if it would take my Wells Fargo card.  It did.  Got a twenty out, and wondered if I should go ahead and make the deposit from that ATM.  Uncertain of how that would work, I didn't.  The $100 bill sat in my wallet.

That day, a friend called me up.  Had an expense to cover, and the friend who had promised to loan him the money had fallen through.

He asked to borrow $100.

I smiled.

God, to the wretch

I thought this deserved a seperate post.  This verse came up in a conversation with my friend Jeremy, and I realized it fits in perfectly with my earlier post on self-loathing:

Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death. See what this godly sorrow has produced in you: what earnestness, what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what alarm, what longing, what concern, what readiness to see justice done. At every point you have proved yourselves to be innocent in this matter.   -2 Corinthians 7:10-11 (emphasis mine)

If your conscience is bothering you, it's God speaking.  Take that guilt, and turn it toward repentance, and, having served its purpose, the guilt should by all means go away.

If you hate yourself, it's not God speaking.  Seek Him out, and He'll tell you.

The Juggler

"Do you know the difference between a jester and a clown?"

A trickle of blood dripped into Zippy's eye. He winced at the stinging pain, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "Um... the clown's tied to a chair, and the jester's pacing back and forth, holding a knife?"

Arvhad halted in his tracks and threw Zippy a hard look. His left hand tossed and caught one of Zippy's throwing knives, casually. A heavy truck rumbled past the warehouse, awkward in the silence.

"I was referring to a more general sense," Arvhad said at last.

Zippy shook his head, leaning his head down. The blood dribbled, slowly and steadily, from the gash on his forehead to the concrete floor. The red, ink-like streak stood out starkly against Zippy's paper white skin.

"A jester," Arvhad began, resuming his pacing, "is a trusted advisor in disguise. He can say things to a king that no one else can. He can hide truth in jest, and say it straight into the king's ear. He has influence, but he wears a foolish mask."

"Or hat," Zippy smirked.

The bells on Arvhad's jester's cap rattled as he turned to his captive. "Precisely." Then, he took two swift steps forward and kicked Zippy in the chest. Zippy's breath left him in a whoosh as he tilted backwards, teetering past the point of balance and crashing to the floor. He flexed just in time to land on his elbows rather than his wrists. Bone-deep pain shot into his shoulders, and he clenched his teeth, straining against the zip-ties on his wrists and ankles.

"Now stop interrupting."

"Sorry. Please go on," Zippy wheezed.

The ratty black scarf hiding Arvhad's mouth shifted as he grinned, his eyes narrowing. "Thank you. So, a jester has influence on kings. A clown, however, has influence only on the handful of peasants that buy a ticket to the circus."

“See, I don't sell tickets, though,” Zippy said from the floor. He shifted his weight to avoid aggravating his bruises. “So I can reach a wider audience.”

“Very true,” said Arvhad, turning his pacing around the back of the chair. He stood over Zippy, looking upside down at his captive, still tossing and catching the dagger. Then, he stopped. Slowly, Arvhad shifted the dagger in his gloved hand, pinching the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He stretched out his arm, dangling the knife above his head, over the bridge of Zippy's nose. Zippy's eyes locked on the point of the blade.

“Perhaps,” said Arvhad, “you're more of a daredevil with clown makeup.”

Zippy's eyes never left the dagger. “Uh... maybe.”

“There are two things I associate with a daredevil, Zippy. The need to impress people...” Arvhad's hand drifted back and forth, the knife swiveling in his loose grip. “...and a death wish.” And as he said the words, he looked up from his captive, spread his fingers wide, and let go.

Zippy darted his head to the right, scooting the chair inches to the side. The dagger landed point-first, digging a chip from the concrete and clattering onto the floor. Arvhad looked down, unsurprised, as the dagger landed. Twisting his neck, Zippy could see the knife laying a few inches from his eye. He found himself breathing hard.

“And yet,” Arvhad was saying, “your survival instincts preserve you.”

Zippy craned his neck up, and could only barely see the jester. “I get a lot of practice.” His voice was unsteady when he spoke.

“Exactly. Exactly my point.” Arvhad folded his hands neatly in front of him and stared back at the clown. “Your life is in near-constant danger, because of choices you yourself make.”

“I...” Zippy realized he was breathing even harder, through gritted teeth. Angry, and getting angrier at the sound of the jester's voice. Shut up, he thought.

Arvhad turned as though he was about to start pacing again, then paused. He looked back toward his captive, clearly grinning behind his scarf. “It makes me wonder....”

Zippy's pulse raced. He looked over at the knife, and a thought occurred to him. He flexed his arms.

“My question is this,” said Arvhad, leaning forward subtly. “Why, O Razorclown, do you want to die so badly?”

The surge in adrenaline served him well. With a hard shove of his hands and a kick of his bound legs, Zippy rolled himself backwards, thrusting with his neck and shoulders to propel him over. He landed hard on his knees, gritting his teeth with the pain. Arvhad only had time to take a single running step before Zippy popped his hips. He rolled, chair and all, over his left shoulder, in perfect position for one hand up snatch up knife as he bowled into Arvhad's shins.

The jester toppled over the chair and landed hard on the blood-slick floor. Zippy rolled to a stop on his side, but only long enough to spin the knife in his fingers and saw twice at his bonds, cutting free his hands. Arvhad regained his feet and looked up just as Zippy, snarling with animal rage, with his ankles still bound to the chair, crouched on the toes of his boots and leapt forward, arms outstretched. The Razorclown's tackle drove Arvhad to the cold slab, stealing his wind. A loud jangle hit the air as the jester's head smashed against the concrete.

It was the last sound Arvhad heard before the blackness.

* * *

“Sir!” Kenzo was kneeling next to him.

Arvhad sat up sharply, and immediately saw spots. He clutched his head, blood-encrusted and sore at the back. “Nnn. Where is he?”

“The Razorclown, sir? Escaped. Jumped across the roofs.”

Arvhad stood, scooping up his hat and replacing it carefully on his head, covering his short blond hair. “Right. Who tied him up?”

“Sir, he-”

“Initially.”

“Oh, yes.” Kenzo thought for a moment, frowning. “Rocco.”

“Teach him how to restrain someone properly. Then have him train the rest of the men.” He looked over at the group of thugs just returning from their failed chase. Arvhad took a single, deep breath, then reached down and grabbed the chair, setting it upright. Calmly, he said to the men, “Get to your secondary assignments for the night. Training session later this week. Go.” And they went.

Kenzo sighed. “You want some guys after him?”

Gingerly, Arvhad touched the back of his head, wincing very slightly at the pain. “No. No, not tonight. May as well give him some time to stew.” The hidden smile came to his face again. “I touched a nerve.” He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and removed a small digital recorder. He pushed the button.

“Profile update. Zippy the Razorclown. Physically stronger and more capable even than expected. Aggressive response when probed about death wish. Given his background, likely candidate for childhood abuse... or... a-ha.

“Survivor's guilt.”
 

Wretch.

Sometimes, I seriously hate myself.

I say this because, for one, it's the truth. It doesn't take much for me to get down on myself. One mistake, whether it's a minor verbal slip or a major lapse in judgment, and I'm growling at myself inwardly. When I give my best effort, and it isn't enough - or worse, my best effort only makes the situation worse - I want to punish myself for being such a screw-up.

The main reason I say this is because I've seen several of my friends post similar comments on their blogs, and I want them to know they're not alone. Not by far.

I have a lot to learn about how to love myself, particularly being able to forgive myself for mistakes. God is teaching me, and I'm slowly learning. It's not easy. As it turns out, there's a reason we sing Amazing Grace. The title of the song isn't "Well-Earned Grace." No such thing. It's amazing that God dispenses his grace to us, even though we mess up so very often.

Here's my problem: I focus so much on the "amazing" part, I miss the essence. Grace.

"Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." -Paul, Romans 5:7-8

I do God a grave disservice by beating up on myself. The only place for guilt and shame in my life is as an indicator that it's time to repent. That's it. Learn, turn, and move on.

God's love is greater than my failings. In him, I have hope to learn from my errors and grow beyond my own miniscule power.

I'll be praying. That our attitudes toward ourselves won't hold us back. That our anger toward ourselves will be momentary and constructive. And that God himself will show us a love greater than our mistakes.

How sweet the sound.

Upcoming Releases (updated)

I'm excited. Today, I recorded my addition to the Pipeline Devotions podcast: a reading of the devotional I wrote for the Pipeline MySpace page. If you're interested, follow the link above and look for the episode entitled "The Purpose of Religion." Don't miss the other good stuff there, too.

Update: My devotioal is up on the Pipeline Devotions podcast! Follow the link above to subscribe, or just download individual episodes. All of this is free.

If you're listening to the podcasts, please also take the time to leave comments in the iTunes Music Store. Just navigate to the podcast's site in the store, and scroll down until you see "Customer Reviews." Click the little arrow to add your own feedback.

The Razorclown Returns

Brainstorm:

[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.

game on.]


Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.

He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.

And that thing.

The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"

"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.

Naw, it's not worth the risk, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.

The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.

Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.

Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.

"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.

"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.

Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.

To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.

~

The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.

Silence.

"...what?" he asked.

"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"

"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.

The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"

Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"

Silence.

"...which was full of fish..."

A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"

Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"

The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.

The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.

"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.

"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"

The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."

"Yup." Zippy smirked back.

~

The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.

Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.

Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.

He sneezed at the dust.

Behold!

What? A post? How is that possible?

Big news. The college group at my church has begun a podcast. I'm excited.

Check it out in the iTunes Music Store. Search for "Pipeline Ministries," and you'll find one with a black logo with little red stars. That's us. It's free, and full of good content: daily devotionals, mini-messages, and the lesson from that week's Sunday's Cool (don't blame me. i didn't name it).

Also, for more devotionals (some written by myself), audio and Pipeline news, check out our MySpace page. We're putting that blasted social networking site to good use!

Expect more soon on this particular site. Apparently, I'm supposed to be writing.

A song isn’t just a song when it’s attached to a story.

People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”

They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.

I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.

Second, they were playing the radio.

Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.

I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.

I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.

I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”

They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.

She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”

I really enjoy putting together playlists. Something about establishing a mood with music, then elaborating on it. There's an element of storytelling there for me - I get a lot of story ideas while listening to music, and I always visualize action to go with a song.

Here's a CD I put together recently. I looked through my collection for different shades of alternative rock and assembled them into something of a flow. Expect other playlists in the future. But for tonight, DJ Razorclown presents:

One Alternative or Another

1) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

2) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

3) Bush, "Jesus Online"
   from The Science of Things

4) Switchfoot, "This is Your Life"
   from The Beautiful Letdown

5) The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"
   from Bringing Down the Horse

6) Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe"
   from Songs About Jane

7) Green Day, Oasis, et. al., "Boulevard of Broken Songs"
   from www.partyben.com

8) Foo Fighters, "New Way Home"
   from The Colour and the Shape

9) Imani Coppola, "Legend of a Cowgirl"
   from Chupacabra

10) Incubus, "Stellar"
   from Make Yourself

11) Damien Jurado, "Ohio"
   from Rehearsals for Departure

12) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

13) Stone Temple Pilots, "Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart"
   from Thank You

14) Gorillaz, "5/4"
   from their self-titled CD

15) Fuel, "Walk the Sky"
   from Godzilla: The Album

16) The Refreshments, "Mekong"
   from Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

17) Sarah McLachlan, "Possession (Live)"
   from Mirrorball

18) Bush, "Letting the Cables Sleep"
   from The Science of Things

19) Cold, "Sad Happy"
   from Year of the Spider

20) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love (Studio Mix)"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Original Soundtrack

For once, I have an excuse for not posting recently. Ironically enough, that reason is also a good occasion for a blog post. And thus, once again, I'm left without a defense.

I started working full-time at JPlus Architects last Tuesday. It's quite an adjustment to go from relative idleness to getting up at 6 am and working over eight hours... and loving it. My time feels more precious now, which I greatly appreciate. I know I've done something in a given day, though I have much to learn about my craft.

God continues to bless. Life is good.

More to come soon!

“You keep laughing at me,” she said, because I did. She was chuckling herself.

She had stories to tell, and I was glad to listen. She’d managed to pay for our coffee, as my female friends tended to do somehow, and there we sat - indoors in Adirondack chairs, tall coffee cups just short of spilling over. We’d last happened upon each other in the True Love Coffeehouse, not long before it evaporated. Even before then, it had been a while.

Kelly (her pseudonym for this post) and I had been friends in high school, and behold, we still were. She had lived in interesting, unforeseen ways since I last knew her well, and I struggled not to compare. I imagine myself to be an extraordinarily boring guy, when it comes right down to it, so I was more than content to listen. And as she told her stories, I laughed.

It always annoyed me in English class when irony was broken down and defined as juxtaposition: when expectation and reality are far removed from each other. But with Kelly and me, this was exactly the case. Our lives are completely dissimilar. The fact that we’re friends at all kind of baffles me, but I love it.

So, I laughed. And thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. I hope she actually didn’t.

When she asked me what I’d been up to, I was fairly embarrassed to describe my life for the past couple of years. Whereas she has been working in politics, making contacts and advancing her career, I’ve been… well, certainly not doing that. Only recently have I found full time work, and that through a full-on conspiracy of the Holy Spirit. No kidding. The circumstances surrounding my employment are miraculous in their timing.

We talked about the times. About the various choices and circumstances that lead so many of our generation back to their parents’ houses (as I myself have done). About politics and economics. Briefly, about elephant tattoos. And we talked about old friends we had and hadn’t seen. More stories there, some wonderful, some downright depressing.

Eventually, we said goodbye for the evening. I waited for her to pull out of the narrow parking lot before I backed out of my space, still smiling. It had been a while since I had sat down and had a cup of coffee with an old friend, let alone Kelly. For all the nostalgia, the evening felt somehow new.

I worked an eight-hour day for the first time in a long time today. And I saw a dear friend I hadn’t caught up with in years.

There is a momentum shift at work in my life. I feel in plainly now. And I love it.

Praise God! who makes living worthwhile. Amen.

Here’s the difference.

Man-made gods tend not to make too many demands (not always true, mind you, but a strong tendency nonetheless). Quite the other way around. It’s man that goes to the idol with demands, and sacrifices to appease. A little blood to grease the wheels, to keep the days carefree and the crops coming in. If things get tough, throw more blood on the altar. And if things don’t improve, maybe it’s time to find a new idol.

“When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their teachers of the law.” –Matthew 7:28-29

Jesus, on the other hand, sets standards. Draws lines. He makes demands. He says he doesn’t want sacrifices, but obedience. As it turns out, he knows our hearts, our intentions… so we can’t appease him. We can’t get away with giving him lip service, because he knows when it’s just lip service.

Idols get any power they might have from belief. If no one worships them, they’re just another ugly little sculpture. This is not true of Jesus. He does not need anything. He is the author of the universe, and that will never change, no matter what we believe.

Yet, even though he does not need us, he loves us. To the point of death, and beyond, to life again. No graven image can claim that.

The difference is, Jesus is worthy of worship. Man-made gods are not.

Apparently, this is not as obvious as it should be.

I'm back.

Or, as Drake would say: "FINALLY! The Rock... eh, Brian... has come back to Sacramento!"

I'm currently staying at Mum's, in order to save up cash for a few months and then find a place to live.

For my new phone number, please contact me through e-mail (found on my Blogger profile), MySpace, or what have you.

Woot.

I've posted a short prose poem at Nights Awake 2.0.

On the WWE website is a little section called Foley is Blog. As it turns out, Mick Foley (see also his profile on WWE.com) is an excellent writer, and something of a humanitarian. I found the February 22nd entry to be particularly inspiring, and wanted to point it out. The entire entry is good, but check out the section under the heading Herma Grace.

I found this on Liesel's blog, and was intrigued. I've always been curious about what people really think of me. Not an uncommon thought, I'm sure. But this is an interesting device to discover just that.

Behold. The Interactive Johari Window and its counterpart, The Interactive Nohari Window.

If you decide to participate, perhaps the use of a nondescript, anonymous pseudonym would be in order. Something like "X1," so the next person can take "X2." That way, there will be no reservations about being totally honest. Just a thought.