chromedisguise

Updatelol!

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 08:20:37 GMT

Last week's Shadowrun failed because of a 2am fire alarm on Saturday morning, and three people being previously announced absent. Sucks, but meh. And drat I only just realised that I'm away this weekend. Ah. And after that is easter holidays. Drat.

Anyway! Lots of art and stuff!

Concept art and preliminary pages. Artwork quality may vary :P It's definitely improving as I continue. Obviously pages one and two I just didn't put the effort in, as they contained no important characters and the point of this exercise is mostly to practice drawing said characters. Pages five and six finally got some decent perspective shots in there, which is awesome - I was worried I'd be limited to flat shots because I suck at drawing, but I seem to be coping okay.

Other Random Crap. Again, quality may vary. Also, I take no responsibility for some of the junk in there. There is some odd stuff that I've taken it into my head to draw. Take from it whatever small life-lessons you see fit.

Violin bow finally behaving! Woo!

(New VNV Nation studio album, 5th April! WOOHOOOOOOOOO!!)

(Got more Cruxshadows tickets! April twenty-something-th! WOHOOO!)

Species: Bloggus Sporadicus

Fri, 02 Mar 2007 14:31:13 GMT

Let's see.

I have an electric violin. I'm currently breaking in the bow. At the moment, the rosin doesn't stick so good, and all hell breaks loose after two bars.

I have discovered the wonderful world of art. I have purchased myself a graphics tablet, and am happily committing crimes against drawing. I am also half-arsedly writing the script to a graphic novel - it has some characters and some concept sketches, and a premise, but no actual plot.

I've started running Shadowrun on Saturdays. First session was awesome! The team discovered that they'd lost out on 30,000 nuyen because someone (Or someones?) on the team had sold them out. But despite initial tactics of 'blame the ork!', they rallied magnificently, and have decided to hunt down their former employer to collect their payment!

Which required me to rewrite tomorrow's session. But meh.

It's all good! Everything except Astrophysics Labs, which are always bad, and the Battlefield 2 Server Browser, which is and always will be the worst thing ever, at everything.

Warning, May Contain Vacuum

Fri, 08 Dec 2006 18:22:48 GMT

Well, I've messed about long enough, I guess. Here's my NaNo, all 50,000 words of it. It's in .wpd format, unfortunately, but it should open with MS Word or similar. Notepad and Wordpad don't like it, though.

WARNING:
-This is not finished. Try not to get too into the story, as the ending won't arrive until Christmas at the earliest. It also stops at the worst possible moment.
-This is mostly drivel. Random and occasionally sexual things happen for NO APPARENT REASON. I know why. I just haven't shared this wondrous knowledge. That will be added sometime AFTER Christmas.
-Even for drivel, a lot of it is fairly low-grade drivel. Pacing is a mess. The plot hinges on a couple of unbelievable - some might even say impossible - coincidences. Or involve the characters leaping to the most distant and strange conclusions that nonetheless turn out to a) be correct and b) move the plot beyond that damn bit I was stuck at.
-Sometimes, whole characters are there for no reason (Sorry, Tom: you didn't really happen, in the end).

Apart from all that...

-Oh! How could I forget the chapters? It starts in chapters, in an arbitrary kind of way, then gives up. Parts II & III, and possibly most of part I, have no chapter divisions.

Enjoy!

http://geekhouse.f2s.com/php/files/Airships.wps

http://www.geekhouse.f2s.com/php/files/AirshipsB.doc

I pwned Sri Lanka And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt

Sun, 26 Nov 2006 23:29:45 GMT

Mmm. Haven't updated my LJ in a while. Almost a month, one might say. My last post hinted that I was maybe on the verge of doing something very silly, like trying to write a quite large number of words in a relatively short space of time. Well, it's only the 26th, but...

Mm. Owned.

Big thanks to:
-Alex, who told me that spending the 25th and 26th writing 5,000 words a day was a good idea, and whose fault this all was in the first place!
-Anna, who got me to play writing games that kept me going when I 'didn't feel like it', and dutifully yay'd for me every thousand-or-so words!
-Mum, who was mildly bemused by the concept of spending a month writing a novel, even though you knew it wasn't going to be a good novel!
-My sister, who fixed my plothole by making me realise that cliches are bad, but that when it comes to NaNo, screw it. Who cares?

And last but by no means least, who could forget:
-Sri Lanka, a country which wrote even less words than Alex, and made me laugh when I'd all but given up hope during yesterday's grim last 1,000 words!
-Illinoise (Grant Park), because not even Sri Lanka can lose to everybody!

I'm going to write a disclaimer and then post the original 50k up here, I think. Watch this space, and also look out for the edited version that should appear sometime in the new year. Which will hopefully make more sense than this version.

Oh, and at some point, I'll actually finish the storyline, too :D

NaNoWriMo

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 16:49:16 GMT

Mmm. Yeah. Apart from the bits that consist of gaping holes, I have a NaNo plot. I have a small selection of poorly-planned characters. I know more-or-less what happens, and in what order. I have a vague idea of why.

Of course, the problem with gaping plot holes is that all other progress is frankly irrelevant until they're fixed. Which is an idea they seem quite opposed to.

So it goes on. Got about a week and a half to fix it, because I really don't want to try and start writing in the full knowledge that at some point I will hit a brick wall.

VNV Nation rocked!

The Appearance of Progress

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 14:31:37 GMT

I thought I'd post this. It makes it look like I'm doing something, even though I'm actually sitting in a little hole crying over my lack of progress.

It's the longest short I've managed to finish, and it's been fairly heavily proof-read, both by myself and my amazing Lord of the Rings fan-fic writing mother. Hopefully there's no silly mistakes in it, but - although it saddens me greatly to admit it - I am only human, plus my spell-checker gets confused if the text is too long...

Might still be the occasional sentence beginning with "and", but that's life. For that, I blame William Gibson, who does it all the time. But I don't blame him very hard, because he rocks.

Anyway, hopefully any complaints people have will be limited to accusing me of being unable to tell a story, which is an opinion, and *glares* we don't...allow...those here... :D

A Fool's Garden

The gods. All-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful; but only as a whole, for as each one taken alone and single, they are flawed, imperfect. Limited. In this pantheon, there are many hundreds of gods, but for now we need only concern ourselves with a few; those who first bore heirs. Time has forgotten the names of the partners whom they loved., but the four themselves were Amos, whose domain was Life, Lilith, queen of Fate, Dior, goddess of Vengeance, and Sisca, who oversaw Death in the mortal world.

This story came to pass early in the lifetime of the world, when all creation was made, but had not matured, had not reached its fullest potential, and the gods were satisfied in their creation, and satisfied that all it now required was time, guidance, and council to reach fruition. They turned their attentions elsewhere, to each other and to their respective worshippers, and the result was two-fold, depending on the particular gods you observed: enmity and offspring. While the power-struggles and rivalries of the gods were intricate and engrossing to a scholar of such things, this story comes not from the gods, but from their children.

First to bear child was Dior, then Sisca, and then Lilith, and each of the new deities was a beautiful baby girl, and each was destined to inherit her mother’s domain. That is the way amongst gods, that a girl-child would be as her mother, and a boy-child like unto his father, for some day even the gods would die, and then their children would take on their mantles.

All was well and good for a time, until, less than a brace of years later, Amos announced the birth of his twin sons. This was unheard of, for though there had been but three divine births in the history of the world, none had ever produced more than a single fruit, and stranger still, none could name who the mother had been. Amos had simply appeared one day and declared the birth, and from then on nigh everyone in the heavens was whispering and chatting, trying to guess who had been the carrier of these children, and why Amos had kept such knowledge secret; but no one ever discovered, and no one ever had the strength or wit to force or trick the answer from him, and in time it was forgotten.

Now, if each child takes after a parent, perhaps you can already see the problem. We now have two queens of Fate, two goddesses of Vengeance, two overseers of Death, and as many as three gods who’s dominion is Life. As such, the four agreed to create another place, apart from the world and the heavens, in which the five children might grow up, and await such a time as they were needed: the Garden.

It was a beautiful land, an endless stretch of wondrous forest, dappled sunlight filtering through shady leaves to sustain and nourish the many smaller plants that sprung up between gnarled and mossy trunks, throwing forth blooms and fruits of a thousand colours. And the life in that place! Such creatures ran through those woods as you would not believe, and each one was a work of art in itself, an animal of grace and beauty, outperforming even the many flowers for range of colour and design. Into all of this were placed the five children, to grow up amongst these perfect woods, and they did so in happiness and peace for many years.

“Amo? Amo!” Ano darted, laughing, between the trees, his feet shifting nimbly as they danced him around and through little patches of flowers, never once breaking a stem or bruising a leaf, such was the dexterity of the sons of Amos. The pair were out hunting boar, far from the area they had taken as their own, when Ano had spied a bloom that grew nowhere near their home. When the younger man - although only the younger by a matter of hours - had looked up, to invite his brother to see the new flower, he simply caught a glimpse of two shapes, running between the trees: Amo and a boar, locked in the chase. “Let it go, Amo! It is far too large for our needs,” he called after his brother, all the while laughing and laughing, caught up in the dizziness of the chase.

“Perhaps, little brother, but a boar this size will feed the others as well!” Amo grinned, glancing over his shoulder for a moment as he ran, “And then will they still be able question our skills? I think not, young Ano!” He laughed back, and put on an extra burst of speed, hurling himself forward to land on the beast’s back, knocking it off balance and dropping it to the ground. He stayed on top of it, and while it struggled, he pressed a hand to its bristly head and closed his eyes. Ano stopped running as soon as he saw the creature fall, and jogged to his brother’s side. He reached the pair in time to glimpse the little flicker beneath his brother’s hand, and then the boar lay still. The elder stood and turned, opening his palm and blowing on the little orb of light held there, to send the essence of the boar’s life scattering on the wind.

The sunlight was fading into evening, and a flickering fire was lit in the clearing by the time they returned, the boar strung from a sturdy branch carried between their shoulders. Amo and Ano were alike in appearance, save that Amo was a little taller, perhaps a little more manly in his face. They both shared Amos’s piercing blue eyes and mid-length hair, so blond as to be approaching white. Amo favoured darker colours, Ano lighter, such that the two could be told apart simply by comparing the shade of their clothes.

The other three were waiting for them, around the blaze; Dior, Sisca and Lilith (for, without the complication of twins, each had simply taken on the name of her own mother), each one a work of art to put even the flowers and the wondrous creatures to shame, shapely and full. But then, unnatural beauty was the friend of all gods, and indeed, they would not have stood out from amongst the pantheon save for their youth.

Lilith, youngest of the three, hair a red-brown colour so pale as to be almost rose, and worn long to the small of her back, had the milky-blue eyes of Fate, that saw through time and the actions of mortals. Sisca, the middle-child, raven-locks pulled up into a bun at the back of her head, carried the black eyes of Death, which saw the time the and nature of the demise of each and every mortal life. And Dior, oldest god-daughter, short hair a fiery red, like her eyes: the crimson orbs of Vengeance.

“Amo, Ano! There you are!” This was the voice of Lilith, bright and merry, seeming fit to break into fey laughter at any moment.

“We were beginning to worry. You were gone so long…” Sisca, gentle and soothing. One could almost drift to sleep in its warm embrace…

Only Dior was silent, unsmiling, just watching Amo and Ano as they made their way closer to the fire, throwing out greetings and idle chit-chat. She had spent the day thinking, while Sisca and Lilith laughed and drank and spoke of small nothings, pondering on something her mother had once told her. The older woman had never understood what it meant, and neither had her daughter, when she was younger.

“It was the day Amo and Ano were born. I suppose that’s why I remember… such a worthless detail to retain in thought. I was watching the world, from high above, when I saw a star leap from the earth up towards the heavens…” Perhaps, in passing on this memory, the elder Dior laid it to rest in her mind, and it slipped away from recollection. The young Dior, though - she remembered, as if the image demanded her attention, and though it meant nothing to her, it had a weight to it, an importance. Now she suspected that she had guessed why. She sighed, and inclined her head, those crimson eyes boring into Ano.

“Amo. Ano. Who was your mother?” The pair were silent a while, and so were Sisca and Lilith, listening intently, as they were quick to do whenever it seemed an interesting word might be spoken. Amo frowned, irritated, and Ano’s face went blank; although his blue eyes roamed from his brother to the woman and back again, looking to follow whatever lead his sibling set.

“…We do not know. Our father never spoke of her.”

“Do you wish to know?” At this, Amo blinked, as though surprised, and Dior was convinced she saw a flicker of affirmation pass across Ano’s face. It was gone just as quickly, reigned in, and Amo shrugged, replying:

“If Amos feels we do not need to know, then who are we to question?”

“Indeed.” A blank response, meant as a form of tactical retreat, neither settling the question nor pushing the issue. To give up on this was not something she was prepared to do, but to continue would be to question the wisdom of Amos, for which she was no more willing. So she let it go, but she did not forget, and she did not stop thinking, about the link between the earth-star and the boys’ uncertain parentage.

Well into the night, they drank and ate roast flesh and told The Story - for there was but one, back in those distant days, the story of how the world came to be made - until finally each was asleep, save one, who did not rest. Dior sat up the rest of the night, and as the dawn sun began to creep between the leaves, and the bird calls echoed between the trunks, she padded silently from the clearing, into the dewy morning woods. She wandered a little way, until she came across a stream, cool water running between green banks shaded by leafy canopy, and there she drank and washed to lift the tiredness from her eyes. So refreshed, she set about gathering fruits and nuts on which they would break their fast, and returned to their clearing just as the others were yawning and stretching and brushing sleep from waking eyes.

They ate together, the five of them, and when they were satisfied, Dior rose, and turned to the brothers and smiled, saying, “Today is a beautiful day. Why don’t you two trek to the great river, and hunt fish for the evening meal?” Less than an hour later, Amo and Ano departed the clearing, this time bearing their fishing spears, carrying with them a little of the food left over from the morning, and the three women were alone once more. Lilith and Sisca were quite prepared to sit and chat all through another day, but when the men had been gone a little while, Dior put on her most serious face, and called them both to her.

“It has been a long while since last we had plump fish to eat,” she began, “But though it saddens me greatly, that is not the reason that I sent Amo and Ano away.” Lilith and Sisca glanced at each other, silently wondering what Dior had to say that made her look so determined, but it was Sisca who first put words to the thought.

“Why then, Dior? If that is not it, what then is the reason?”

“Some day, Amos will fall. We each know this, though we regret it deeply, and saddening though it may be, we must look to the future. Who will take his place, when he is gone?”

“Is that all this is about?” Lilith laughed. “Then worry no more, fair Dior! Amo and Ano will take his place, when he is gone.”

“Quite right, my sister. Amo and Ano will take his place.” Dior spoke quietly, looking sadder and more determined still, and averting her gaze to the mossy ground. Lilith laughed once more, and said:

“Sister? Amo and Ano may be brother and brother, but that does not make you and I any more sisters!”

“Perhaps. But there you have placed your finger upon the problem. I tell you now (Though you must swear never to reveal to another what I have told you!) as sure as you and I are not sisters, Amo and Ano are not gods!” They looked to each other again, this time stunned, at the very idea that Dior could say such a thing. As if anticipating their objections, even before they had time to voice them, she was speaking once more, her voice rising to a righteous declaration.

“Lilith! You who see the path of every mortal! Look, and find the strand that intertwines with Amos! And you, Sisca! You who see the demise of every mortal! Look, and find the deaths of his sons! My mother saw a star fly from the world to the heavens on the day of the twin’s birth, and I believe that what she truly saw was Amos, returning from collecting his new-born sons from his mortal mistress!” And both women did as they were asked, and indeed, there was the strand of fate, and there were the deaths. The path of a mortal woman, curving through space and time, for a brief moment glows as it is touched by the divine. And two paths, branching away from that point, later cut short as though shorn by blade. Except…

“But what is this, Dior?” Sisca spoke, her eyes closed as she gazed at the severed strands. “It is true that I can see the time of their demise, but the nature of it is hidden from me. They are not truly mortal, either.”

“What does it matter? Mortal or half-mortal, it makes no odds; these two cannot lead us!”

“But what then is to be done? What is our word against Amos’? None will listen,” Sisca murmured.

“No. Our word will not hold. It is actions we require. Actions need not be listened to, for by their very nature they change reality, whilst words must rely on changing the actions of others.”

“What actions?” Sisca again; Dior glanced at Lilith, who had remained silent since she had seen the union between mortal and god, just staring blankly at nothing. Lilith was weak; Dior was certain she could easily be brought into line once Sisca was on her side.

“They must be removed. And secretly, for Amos must believe that his perversion has gone unnoticed, lest he simply replace his abominations with another.” That was when Lilith finally spoke, quietly, her eyes still lacking a focus. Her voice was strange, resigned, lacking its joyous edge.

“And who will stand in their stead? Tell me that, Dior, you who speak of hidden dealings.”

“We shall. Together. As one we can be so much more than Amos or his twisted children. How long would it be, after they succeed him, before someone catches wind of their secret? Amos shields them with his lies, but I know what they are, and I know that they are not fit to take his throne. And still I have not told you my darkest fears…” She paused, leaving the sentence hanging, letting them wonder a moment longer, before she continued.

“When I first discovered what they were, the first thought that ran through my head was ‘why?’ Amos is no fool, and he is cunning. He does nothing without reason, no action or word is wasted in his great web. So why create these half-breeds, these, these…unnatural successors? I believe I have divined his ultimate goal, even if I cannot fathom the reason behind it. Amo, Ano. They’re a link. A conduit between mortal and divine. He seeks to make gods of mortals, or else condemn us all to imperfect flesh!” She had them. Dior could sense it, could spot the little flicker of fear that crossed Lilith’s face before the angry denial began; that was a lever, a way to make the woman dance like a puppet. And Sisca was barely even trying to hide the fact that she felt the same spark as Dior had, last night. It had appeared in Sisca’s face when she had heard that they would replace Amos, and in that moment, Dior had known that Sisca lusted after the same thing as she; power over the gods.

Much later, on the evening of that day, Ano found himself wandering, alone, between the trees in their forest. He had lost sight of Amo, wandering off the route, as they returned from their fishing trip, and had decided he would return to the clearing, and trust Amo to return there too. So it was that Ano came to hear the sound of sobbing, echoing through the still twilight air. He had never heard a sound like it, so hauntingly sad and beautiful it was, and he found his feet drawn to it as though without the knowledge or consent of his mind. When he drew closer, padding in on silent feet, he saw a strange sight; Lilith, pale and as alone as he, sat upon the grass and sobbing into her hands.

“Lilith? Why are-” He began, stepping a little closer, but at the sound of his voice, she turned, catching sight of him; he had a glimpse of a tear-streaked cheeks and reddened eyes before she turned away again, hiding her face from him.

“Ano! Where is Amo? Dior hasn’t…”

“Dior hasn’t what, Lilith?” He spoke gently, his voice torn between confusion and worry. She wiped her eyes, then turned to gape at him a moment before replying, and even when she did, the words were still choked with tears, and every moment she threatened to break into fresh floods of sorrow.

“No. No, it is nothing. Please, leave me. I am…fine, Ano.” But she was not fine, and he did not leave, just stepped a little closer, and sat beside her, so that he could put his arm about her shaking shoulders, and ask:

“What is troubling you, Lilith? I don’t want to see you cry, I want you to be happy…” At that, she did indeed begin crying anew, burying her face in his pale shirt, and Ano felt he could do nothing but hold her and whisper soothing words to calm her.

Finally, after what must have been an hour or more, her sobbing ceased. However, it was a strange thing when it did, for it did not die away as is normal, dropping from full flow to choking cries to heavy breaths, but simply seemed to stop. Lilith’s eyes were still red and puffy, but it was as if she had simply decided that she had cried enough, and had stopped at once. She pushed herself away from him a little, so that she could tip her head back to look at his face, staring back, and gazed at his features as though for the first time. Then, in one swift movement, she had pressed her lips to his, her arms snaking around his neck to hold him close. Ano tried to draw away for a moment, made flighty by the suddenness of her embrace, but then he returned the kiss, and Lilith was pushing them both back into the warm grass.

Later, as they lay together in their nakedness, Lilith sighed, and reached back to where her dress lay discarded. She drew something from within its folds, her eyes shut tight, and planted one final kiss on his cheek before moving her head so as to whisper:

“Ano…I’m so sorry.” Her hand whipped across, driving the knife into his gut.

She had stopped crying once more by the time she returned to the clearing, where Dior and Sisca were waiting. Dior was licking the blood from the back of her hand, tongue extended, catlike. The pair smiled when they caught sight of Lilith, and rose to greet her.

“Lilith! There you are!” Dior crowed.

“We were beginning to worry. You were gone so long…” Sisca added, and the pair giggled. Lilith couldn’t bring herself to look at them.

“Where is Amo?”

“When he returned, I crept up on him and grabbed him so that Dior could cut out his tongue. Then we beat him to within an inch of his life, and when he was all but ready to die, we slit his throat and threw him out into the woods for the animals,” Sisca replied, a dreamy expression on her features. “Where is Ano?”

“Lying a little way from here with a knife in his stomach.”

“Then the forest will consume them both. Life devours life, and so it goes. We have done a good night’s work here, my sisters.” And Dior smiled her crazy smile, and finished licking the blood from her hands.

And for the longest time, it seemed that she was right. The forest consumed the sons of Amos, and none ever came to see the children, in their perfect garden, and in time, each of the women’s mothers grew old and fell prey to some ill or other, and in time, each came to take on their rightful place as a goddess of the world, and none ever discovered what they had done that night, least of all Amos, who believed he still had two sons, ready to take up his mantle when he finally passed on. Dior and Sisca were patient, very patient, and though each held a thousand secret fantasies of Amos’ murder, both knew that even together, they were no match for the chief of the gods. But finally it happened; Amos had grown old, and in the end, age was what he succumbed to.

As soon as Dior heard the news, she called the others to her, and she told them what had happened, and that they would go to Amos’ fortress and claim what they had earned. Now, the castle of Life was a grand affair, a great spire of living vegetation that reached to unknowable heights above the heavens. Its walls were stout oak, its buttresses great constructs of vine and root, and at the core of it all sat Amos’ throne. The gates were already falling into decay as the three reached them, rotting before their very eyes, and the same rot was spreading up the walls and embracing the whole construct in its putrid arms.

“You see, my sisters? With no lord of Life to sustain it, Amos’ castle falls to ruin.” With that, Dior led the way through the gates and in, as all around them the walls tumbled outwards, dropping away and rotting where they fell until there was nothing left of them at all.

“We have done it, my sisters.” The very heart of the castle lay bare, the one part not built from vegetation. Cut from a cold white marble, three brief steps led the way up to a wide expanse of the same stone, a plateau protruding directly from the earth around it as though it, too, were grown. At the centre of that expanse was Amos’ ornately carved throne, vacant and beckoning.

“We have made the seat of Amos fall empty, my sisters! Is that not a marvel?”

“Indeed it is, darling Dior…” Sisca murmured, soothing voice a counterpoint to Dior’s mounting excitement. Lilith, however, was silent, face grim. She was the first to ascend the steps, first to take a pace towards the throne, but Sisca was then hard on her heels, and Dior but half a pace behind. Sisca was first to scream, a shriek of pain and fear as the knife dug deep into the small of her back, and when Lilith turned at the sound, the blade caught her face, leaving a long gash from left cheek to right temple. Dior hit her across the jaw with the hilt, sending her sprawling on the floor, and knelt beside her, pressing the tip of the knife to her throat. She grinned her crazy grin, and said, almost sadly;

“I don’t need you any more.”

So it was that Dior approached the prize, alone, spattered with the blood of those she had killed. So much she had risked, so much she had given up, to be here, now. She took another step forward, and another, and…

Someone was there. A figure lounged at the foot of the throne, leaning against the seat’s leg, looking off to one side. As the sound of Dior’s footsteps halted abruptly, the figure turned to face her.

“Dior! There you are!” Bright and merry, seeming fit to break into fey laughter at any moment. Lilith? Dior glanced over her shoulder. The bodies were still there, still unmoving.

“What game is this, Lilith? You are dead. I killed you, by my own hand I slit your throat!”

“You believed me stupid, didn’t you, Dior? You believed you could spin your little lies, and make me dance to your tune, yes? Stupid little Lilith, weak little Lilith. But I knew, for a long time, what you planned for Sisca and I on this day. How could three rule the gods? No, your mind has room for only one.” Lilith was smiling, staring straight at Dior.

“No! No, no, no! I will not allow this!” Dior was almost screeching now. “Lilith is dead! You are not her! Reveal your trickery, whoever you are!”

“Very well.” Lilith sighed, and that was when Dior noticed the second figure. This one was sitting in the throne, smiling kindly at her. She frowned, looking him over.

“Amo? Is that…No, Ano, it is Ano, isn’t it? No, no, no! That will not do, either! You are dead too, Ano!”

The figure stood, rising from the throne, and glanced straight at Dior. Dior found her gaze captivated by it, entranced, unable to look away. And as she stood there, pinned in the hypnotic stare, a chilly knowledge seemed to slip into her mind, as though simply dropped there. Ano? No. I am Amos.

“But…how? You are dead, just as your sons are dead!” Dior fell to her knees, her legs buckling from under her. She could feel her mind unravelling at the edges, the dogs of confusion tearing at her rationality. This was a terrible vision, a hallucination, nothing more; it could be no more! There was no medium through which these two could stand before her today, living and breathing. The gods did not have ghosts! All this would pass soon, this bout of madness would leave her, and she could claim what was rightfully hers…

Lilith stood, then, rising to Amos’ side, her eyes a mixture of anger and pity as they fixed on Dior’s shaking form. “As dead as his sons? Perhaps, Dior.” She spat the name, venom in her words. “But what of his grandson? What of his granddaughter? We, the children of Ano and Lilith, shall judge you for your crimes!”

Not one amongst the gods was ever certain, not really certain, of what had happened, the day Amos passed away. Sisca was dead, her line broken, and the same must be assumed of Dior: for she was not seen again. Amos was back, as if he had never left, save being more youthful than he once was, but Amos was always one for keeping secrets, and this was just another grain of truth which they never succeeded in prizing from him. They wondered, pondered on the answer to all the questions Amos left them, for the longest time, but his silence confounded them all. It would take many years, but eventually all these mysteries would be forgotten.

As Lilith ascended the marble steps, towards the marble plane which held the twin thrones, she remained carefully silent, so as not to distract Amos from whatever it was that he was doing. It was almost a week later, and he had been keeping to himself for much of that time, speaking to no one. Now, he was crouched in the centre of the white floor, intent on something in his hand; but despite her silence, he turned and straightened at her approach, inclining his head to look at her, a little lopsidedly.

“What are you doing, Amos? Is your throne no longer good enough, that you must sit on the floor?” She laughed, but he just smiled, and shook his head.

“No, my sister. I have just completed a work, one which I began the morning after the passing of grandfather. See? It is done.” Amos opened his palm, revealing the little shining orb held there, pulsing with a luscious and verdant light. He crouched down again, to where there was a tiny crack in the otherwise perfect marble floor, and dropped the little shining orb inside.

Amos turned to look at Lilith, and smiled, and the smile widened and widened until he was laughing with joy, laughing and laughing, as behind him, the first green shoot of the castle of Life pushed its way up towards the sky.

Victory Not Vengeance

Sun, 08 Oct 2006 20:04:02 GMT

Life is good. I'm more or less better, it's too soon to worry about all the lectures I missed, I've got tickets booked for VNV Nation (Second time seeing them! They're so good live!), 19th october, Nottingham. I've got tickets for Avenue Q, 16th october, London. The Cruxshadows have released samples from their up-coming album - Dreamcypher - on the website, and the clips are brilliant. I'm going to get tickets to see them in London, 2nd december. Awesome.

Only downer is my story idea, which is stubbornly refusing to resolve itself into a sensible plot. I know how the story goes from an event-perspective, but the characters driving those events? Who knows. What masterful storytelling device gets the little sods to be in the right place at the right time?

Of course, it's a cyberpunk story, and cyberpunk does tend to be a little heavy on the coincidences, but there are still limits of plausability...

Finite Dreams

Thu, 05 Oct 2006 10:39:43 GMT

I've had too little sleep today. To understand why, it might be helpful to draw some kind of timeline. Let's do that.

- Sunday, 1st October, 11pm. Realise I can't swallow properly. Not too long before other symptoms of flu start appearing.
-Monday, 2nd October to Wednesday, 4th October. Symptoms persist. Go to NODDSoc anyway, because otherwise my week would be utterly t3h 5uxx.
-Wednesday, 4th October, 10:30pm. Arrive back at room. Sore throat, headache. 2x Ibuprofen. Go to bed.
-Thursday, 5th October, 1am. Awake, shivering uncontrollably. Throat even worse.
-Thursday, 5th October, 2am. Give up on sleep. Sit at computer, wrapped in duvet and wearing two layers of clothes. Play CSS and write forum posts.
-Thursday, 5th October, 6am. Finally tired enough to sleep. Go to bed. Too tired to undress, but remember to turn off 8am alarm.
-Thursdat, 5th October, 9am. Lectures begin. Absent.
-Thursday, 5th October, 11.22am. Test of the fire alarm *twitch*

Bloodshot eyes, headache, sore throat, unbelievably dehydrated from sleeping in so many layers of clothes. Happy days! I'm still gonna try and make my 2pm lab session, but lectures can go hang.

The Lost Valley

Sun, 24 Sep 2006 23:36:32 GMT

This short story is a simple little thing, but it's one of my favorites. I don't know...I just like it. It hasn't been proof-read by anyone other than myself, so might be full of little mistakes, but eh. It seems to read fine. Feel free to comment on it, if you want.

It was written to go with an image, which can be found over here:
http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j136/mlle_violette/Open%20Cafe/lostvalley.jpg

Enjoy.

It had been going on for as long as he could or cared to remember, once a year, with a regularity that belied the anarchic man's usual nature. Every year, on the the eve of Midsummer, the damn fool would send him out for wine, and would proceed to drink himself to the ground. And then, in such a state, his cheeks red with drink, his voice slurred, his eyes unfocused, he would wave an uncertain finger at his apprentice.

"Hither! Hither!" he would cry, "Hither! Come hither!" And Johnathon would get up from his armchair, where he had sat all snug and comfy, and pace over to his master, upon which the old reprobate would cry, "Johnathon! Dear Johnathon! Help me to my desk, for there is something I must show you!" And he would continue to shout and holler to be taken to his desk, long after Johnathon had heaved him to his feet, and helped him on his unsteady way across the room to his ancient oak writing desk; he would carry on with his incessant demands until such a time as Johnathon fulfilled his part of the ritual.

"What is it, this thing that you must show me?" he would ask, eventually, at which point his master would fall silent, and wave a gnarled and unsteady hand at the desk drawer, until Johnathon pulled it open, and brought forth a single sheath of parchment, neatly rolled, and spread it flat on the desk, pinning it down with ink pot and paperweight so it would not re-coil. And then his master would reach out a shaking hand, and draw Johnathon's ear close to his lips, and whisper, urgently.

"I must show you where the Dragons went! Take a quill! Quickly, boy, quickly!" And he would fumble for the feather, and dip it hurriedly in the ink, and then stand, nib poised above the parchment, awaiting instruction. "Now...place a dot, anywhere on the page!" he would say, excitedly, and, when Johnathon had done so, he would say, "Now...another! Anywhere on the page!" And Johnathon would do so, and then wait patiently, for what he knew was coming next, just as it did every year. His master would pause, as though to bring a greater sense of wonder at the truth he was about to impart, and then whisper, deathly quiet, as though it were a great secret, and he were afraid some hidden listener would overhear, "Now...draw a line between them!" And Johnathon would take out a ruler, and oh-so-carefully, he would join his two little blotches of ink, and his master would nod, and murmur agreement, saying, "Yes, yes, that's it," or else he would shake his head, and say, "No, no, straighter, straighter!" And Johnathon would nod, and smile, and finish drawing his line, and whether he made it straighter or no, the old man seemed happy, and would beam at Johnathon, and say, "Good! Now...put your eye to the line! Look closely, and tell me, what do you...?"

But then the old codger would fall asleep, and Johnathon would return to his rest in his armchair, without suffering further embarrassment. That was the Ritual, that was how it went, every Midsummer's eve, and every time he dreaded it, and felt it weigh upon him in the days leading up to it, and after every time, he would feel light and free in the days following it. That was how it went, until the year Johnathon decided that he had had enough, he would follow the old drunk's instructions, and then the next day, he would confront his master, and tell him that he was a fool, and he would put an end to the annual ritual torture.

And so Johnathon bent over the parchment, and closed one eye, and stared hard at his neat little line, feeling the elation grow as nothing happened. He was right, his master was just a senile old coot, and he didn't have to put up with this any longer. For conclusive evidence of his master's failure, he opened his other eye, turning the parchment so that the line ran parallel with the bridge of his nose, so that he had to squint to see it with both his eyes, and stared once again...

And almost screamed as the edges of the line blurred out to encompass him, reaching out until he was surrounded by the blackness of ink, which is very black indeed, and all was still once more. He sat there, in his darkness, his eyes wild, and staring around, looking for something, anything, on which to focus, in that uniformly dark realm, until he finally allowed his breathing to slow, felt his heart come down from its breakneck dance, and that was when he noticed the light. It was dim, and distant, a tiny point a million miles away, a minute glow the colour of dying coals, but as he watched, it grew and grew, just as the line had done before, until it encompassed him, and despite its dimness, he was blinded by it, and held his arms to his face to shield his eyes from the light, and did not lower them for some time.

What he saw, finally, when he did peek out from behind his barrier of shadow, took his breath away. The glow was not all around him, sourceless and without shade, not any longer; now it was the glow of a distant horizon, the promise of the coming sun, and by its red glow, Johnathon knew where the Dragons went.

He stood, for a long time, his mouth agape, tears welling on his cheeks at the beauty of the valley; not beauty as mere humans understood it, no fairytale greenery, no stunning blossom, here one season, gone the next. This was the beauty of eternity, the perfect knowledge that today is indistinguishable from tomorrow, that all was set in stone, that there was no more time in which things might happen to upset the perfect moment. And Johnathon wept, for he could sense that his time in this perfect place was small, and he would have to leave it someday.

And as he wept, he became aware of the figure, sitting beside him, and just as he could sense that someday he, Johnathon, must leave, he could sense that here was a man who had made this place his home. His master glanced up for a moment, before turning back to watch the sun come up over the place where the Dragons went, a flicker of a smile playing across his ancient face.

"So, Johnathon. You listened to me, then, in the end?"

Faces

Sun, 24 Sep 2006 23:24:48 GMT

Granny Weatherwax, witch, busy-body and healer of sick goats, once said that masks hide one face, but they reveal another.

This is an introduction, I guess. I'm chromedisguise. That's because my usual tag, Durandal, was taken (Bah!) and I happened to be listening to VNV Nation (A million faces each a million lies, For each and all the chrome disguise) and in a contemplative mode. Which was why it occurred to me that what I type here will by no means be an honest, fair, or - perhaps - true account of who I am. Which is the magic of the Internet.

So this is my disguise, my shiny, smooth, polished face, free of blemishes, that I will parade for the world to see. My metal face, my chrome disguise. Take from it what you will.

My name's David (Dave, if you like. Whatever), I'm 18. I guess I like grapes, and anime, and my guitars, and my New Rock boots, and assorted music (E.B.M, goth, metal, folk, rock, industrial), and Magic: The Gathering, and pretty much any computer game that can make me duck for cover as I sit at my desk, or that can leave me with a double-speed pulse and post-adrenaline jitters in my hands. I like all that stuff, but seeing as I've just joined a writing community, let's go there.

I've been reading for more of that time than I care to remember. The defining memory - which isn't quite the same thing as a defining moment - was of being in the third year of first school (I'd have been about 8), and being told by my teacher that I should try something easier because I'd never manage to finish the 500-page Martin The Warrior.

As such, one might almost say that I started to read seriously out of spite.

From there, I wandered around the world of literature a little - I completed my collection of the Redwall series, got into Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, the Star Wars books (That, in my opinion, are even better than the original film trilogy), Harry Potter, J.R.R Tolkien, Frank Herbert's Dune, and William Gibson's cyberpunk brilliance - but as with many things in life, I've always had a tendency to stick to what I know, reading, hoarding, and re-reading the works of a few choice authors, letting the rest more or less pass me by.

Writing was a natural progression for me, but even after my first few narratively shaky - although well spelt, punctuated, constructed and graded - attempts that were turned in as part of my G.C.S.E coursework assignments, it was still another few years, when I was half-way through college, before I started to work on anything that was really my own. RPGForumsOnline did it; my sister got me into role playing just before she left for uni (She's two years older than me), and I started RPing online a while later. RPGFO ran a writing contest in November 2005, challenging members to write a narrative about an image, offering a print of the picture as a prize. I didn't win it, but I was fairly happy with my entry, and I made a few attempts at writing on my own afterwards.

It was mid-May by the time I noticed that two more contests had been and gone, and a third was in progress. I knocked out an 800-word entry in 2 hours, fuelled by Nine Inch Nails and most of a bar of Green & Black's 85% dark chocolate. Looking back on it, that particular short wasn't hugely well written, but neither was it terrible, and the idea was unusual, a very different take, compared to other entries, on the same image. I won that contest. I have the print on my wall, where I can see it as I type.

So now what? I've written a couple more short stories since then, several of which I really love, and I've got another in progress at the moment. My next proper goal, though, beyond finishing that next story, is to make them longer, more involved. All but one of my stories to date is around 1000 words, and the one other is 8000 words. I'd love to hit 10,000 words, which is the generally accepted standard length for a short, but that means a lot of work spent writing, and almost as much deciding what to do with that space. We'll see. It's all sitting there, in the back of my mind, boiling away. I'll keep writing, keep reading, keep listening, keep watching, keep thinking. It'll come when it wants to.