Huh, kinda forgot about this.
Anyhoo, below is the prologue for my yet-untitled dark comedy/fantasy novel, which I'm writing for NaNoWriMo. If you are bothered by depictions of serfs being dismembered for humorous intent, do not continue.
You were warned.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Novel, Prologue
"Barnard! Go outside and fetch me leg!"
For all of his forty-three years, Barnard always flinched when Mother shrieked; this time, both his whittling knife and the twig he was whittling leapt from his hands and clattered into the darkness under the table. He lurched to his feet and shambled into the front room of their hovel.
There by the door stood Mother, sure enough missing one leg, leaning heavily on her cane. As Barnard stood waiting for his wits, Mother hopped and shuffled and tottered over to her rocking chair by the fireplace and plopped town into it, slightly more heavily and huffily than usual.
"What happened?" he finally managed.
Mother scowled. "Whuddya think? Somethin' bit me," she said, jabbing her cane in the direction of the darkened window. "Outside."
"Did you see it?" he asked. "What was it?"
"Course I didn't see it, dummy. Dark out there. Quit standin' there jawin' and fetch me leg back."
Barnard had several other questions, but he kept them to himself as he fumbled with the family lantern. Once lit, he started toward the door, thought for a second, and trundled back to the storeroom to grab his whittling knife, folding it, and stuffing it in his pocket.
Mother was gathering her skirts around her bony knee, looking more sour than pained. "Fates, that's me good leg too. Make it quick, so it don't go bad and the augur can stitch it back on!"
Barnard shouldered open the door and stood in the doorway, waving his lantern around to ward off the shadows.
"In or out! Yer lettin' the bugs in!"
He flinched and slammed the door a bit harder than neccessary.
Mother had left a trail to follow, difficult to see in the amber light of the ancient lantern, but when Barnard stooped over and squinted a bit, it was easier to see. He set off carefully and dutifly through the weeds.
"What was ya doin' out here?" he called back to the house.
"I was fetchin' me knittin' basket," Mother yelled back. "I set it down by the fence when I was talkin' ta Mrs. Hupyird earlier. Did you know her boy Rogar were switchin' from dock hand ta deck hand?"
"Why dint ya take a lantern?"
"Pheh! Like I needs a lantern in me own yard."
Barnard rolled his eyes at Mother's foolishness and trudged toward the fence, which marked the border between their plot and the Hupyirds'. Found your way, but lost your own good leg, he mused.
Halfway to the fence, he called, "Were ya at the fence?" a bit louder now.
"I just said I was! Talkin' ta Mrs. Hupyird!"
"Nah, not earlier! I mean just now, when ya got bit!"
"Just shut up and look! It's right there!"
Fates, was she in a mood, Barnard thought. He lost the trail in the tall grasses, so he stooped over further, pawing around with his free hand, seeking the leg. His hand landed in something wet and tacky. He stood up to examine it in the lantern light; he had found Mother's trail again. He wiped his hand on his trousers, squeamish.
"What's takin' so long?" Mother howled. Her voice could sure carry, especially in the night air.
"I'm lookin'!" he replied, testy.
Barnard heard a rustle off to his left, like a bounding rabbit. He swung the lanern around and up to get a look, but saw nothing. Now something else dawned on him.
"Hey, if somethin' bit off yer leg, wouldn't it leave with it ta eat it?" he yelled at the house.
"Quit yappin' and do as yer told!" Mother shrieked. "And get me basket while yer out there!"
Barnard chuckled. Silly Mother had sent him on a wild goose chase. Still, best to humor her, make like he had been diligent for a bit, then go back in and help patch her up. He sighed and made casually for the fence.
A few paces from the fence, he spotted Mother's basket. As he approached, his boot caught on something deep in the grass and he teetered. Catching himself, he turned and used his toe to kick whatever it was up out of the tangle. It was Mother's black boot, with the rest of Mother's leg sticking out the top.
Gingerly, Barnard picked it up by the heel. Not eaten after all, he thought. What kind of animal does that?
Not an animal at all, he realized. More likely a monster.
It had been over a dozen years since Squidbush Flats had seen a monster. Well, a real monster anyways. Bugbears hardly counted.
Now, standing in the dark with a lantern in one hand, Mother's leg in the other, and a folded whittling knife in his pocket, Barnard tried to remember all the monster signs his father had tried to drill into him as a child. The effort left him frustrated. If he'd have known the information would actually be useful one day, he might have tried to pay attention. He could have sworn there was one about severed limbs, discarded and uneaten.
Distracted, Barnard dropped the lantern. He cursed the Fates and stooped to pick it back up, still trying to remember the rhyme that was supposed to help him remember the monster sign. Something like dah dah dah limbs, dah dah dah whims? Shims? Shins? No, maybe the limbs was the second bit?
"Barnard!"
Barnard flinched and stood up. Back at the hovel, Mother stood in the doorway, shaking her cane. "What's takin' so long?"
"Fates, Mother, will ya just sit down!" he hollered back at the house. "I'm doin' he best I can!"
"Don't you take that tone with me!"
"I'm busy out here!"
Barnard ignored Mother's tirade and bent back over to pick up the lantern, but the handle was avoiding his grasp. Then he took a good look at it, and saw his hand did actually still have a good grip on the handle, but his hand no longer had a good grip on the end of his arm.
The lantern winked out.
Panicky, Barnard fumbled for the knife in his right pocket, but he couldn't grab it for the same reason he couldn't pick up the lantern. Thinking fast, he tucked Mother's leg under his handless right arm, then tried to fetch the knife out of his right pocket with his left hand. After a brief struggle, he succeeded! But the knife was closed. His mind fueled by adrenaline, Barnard pried it open with his teeth and struck a defensive pose, jabbing at the air and pivoting randomly to confuse the monster.
If he could get back to the hovel with all the detatched limbs, they could put them in the ice cellar until morning, and then go into town, where the augur could probably stick them back on and they'd still sort of work. His dad had lost his share of fingers and toes in scythe accidents and such, so Barnard had seen it work.
Barnard suddenly felt dizzy. He recognized the symptom and raised his stump over his head, dropping Mother's leg in the process. Cursing, he began alternately kicking the leg-filled boot and the hand-gripped lantern toward the hovel, waving the whittling knife randomly through the air in front of him. The air stunk of lamp oil.
He was vaguely aware of Mother's keening voice, and he stumbled in her direction. He was sweating and his head swam. Swims! he thought. Something something swims, something something limbs. Closer, but still not helpful.
"Mother! I have your leg! Open the door!" he gasped as loud as he could. Fingers of flickering firelight from the windows of the hovel reached out to him.
"Did ya grab my knittin'?"
"Just open the door, please!"
"First ya tell me ta sit down, now it's get up. Ye better have me basket!"
His knife hand hit something that felt bouncy, like a willow branch, and his arm recoiled wildly. He made another swing, but it felt awkward; too light. He reeled and fell, his doughy face compacting the earth, since neither of his hands remained to catch him. Bells rang and faded.
Barnard rolled to his back, took a few deep breaths and tried to sit up, but failed. Idly he realized he couldn't feel his legs. He rolled his head and eyes up, and saw the hovel, just a dozen paces away, but now each pace might as well have been miles. Through the window, Mother's lumpy, stooped shadow hopped toward the door, impossibly slow.
Grass stroked his back and the hovel receeded from view. I've got it, he thought. The fall must've shook it loose.
Through the grass the hydra swims,
It wants your middle but not your limbs.
No, not a helpful rhyme at all, but Barnard was proud to have remembered it.
"Fates, Barnard! Why'd ya leave me leg lyin' here in the yard? Pick it up and carry it next time!"
For all of his forty-three years, Barnard always flinched when Mother shrieked; this time, both his whittling knife and the twig he was whittling leapt from his hands and clattered into the darkness under the table. He lurched to his feet and shambled into the front room of their hovel.
There by the door stood Mother, sure enough missing one leg, leaning heavily on her cane. As Barnard stood waiting for his wits, Mother hopped and shuffled and tottered over to her rocking chair by the fireplace and plopped town into it, slightly more heavily and huffily than usual.
"What happened?" he finally managed.
Mother scowled. "Whuddya think? Somethin' bit me," she said, jabbing her cane in the direction of the darkened window. "Outside."
"Did you see it?" he asked. "What was it?"
"Course I didn't see it, dummy. Dark out there. Quit standin' there jawin' and fetch me leg back."
Barnard had several other questions, but he kept them to himself as he fumbled with the family lantern. Once lit, he started toward the door, thought for a second, and trundled back to the storeroom to grab his whittling knife, folding it, and stuffing it in his pocket.
Mother was gathering her skirts around her bony knee, looking more sour than pained. "Fates, that's me good leg too. Make it quick, so it don't go bad and the augur can stitch it back on!"
Barnard shouldered open the door and stood in the doorway, waving his lantern around to ward off the shadows.
"In or out! Yer lettin' the bugs in!"
He flinched and slammed the door a bit harder than neccessary.
Mother had left a trail to follow, difficult to see in the amber light of the ancient lantern, but when Barnard stooped over and squinted a bit, it was easier to see. He set off carefully and dutifly through the weeds.
"What was ya doin' out here?" he called back to the house.
"I was fetchin' me knittin' basket," Mother yelled back. "I set it down by the fence when I was talkin' ta Mrs. Hupyird earlier. Did you know her boy Rogar were switchin' from dock hand ta deck hand?"
"Why dint ya take a lantern?"
"Pheh! Like I needs a lantern in me own yard."
Barnard rolled his eyes at Mother's foolishness and trudged toward the fence, which marked the border between their plot and the Hupyirds'. Found your way, but lost your own good leg, he mused.
Halfway to the fence, he called, "Were ya at the fence?" a bit louder now.
"I just said I was! Talkin' ta Mrs. Hupyird!"
"Nah, not earlier! I mean just now, when ya got bit!"
"Just shut up and look! It's right there!"
Fates, was she in a mood, Barnard thought. He lost the trail in the tall grasses, so he stooped over further, pawing around with his free hand, seeking the leg. His hand landed in something wet and tacky. He stood up to examine it in the lantern light; he had found Mother's trail again. He wiped his hand on his trousers, squeamish.
"What's takin' so long?" Mother howled. Her voice could sure carry, especially in the night air.
"I'm lookin'!" he replied, testy.
Barnard heard a rustle off to his left, like a bounding rabbit. He swung the lanern around and up to get a look, but saw nothing. Now something else dawned on him.
"Hey, if somethin' bit off yer leg, wouldn't it leave with it ta eat it?" he yelled at the house.
"Quit yappin' and do as yer told!" Mother shrieked. "And get me basket while yer out there!"
Barnard chuckled. Silly Mother had sent him on a wild goose chase. Still, best to humor her, make like he had been diligent for a bit, then go back in and help patch her up. He sighed and made casually for the fence.
A few paces from the fence, he spotted Mother's basket. As he approached, his boot caught on something deep in the grass and he teetered. Catching himself, he turned and used his toe to kick whatever it was up out of the tangle. It was Mother's black boot, with the rest of Mother's leg sticking out the top.
Gingerly, Barnard picked it up by the heel. Not eaten after all, he thought. What kind of animal does that?
Not an animal at all, he realized. More likely a monster.
It had been over a dozen years since Squidbush Flats had seen a monster. Well, a real monster anyways. Bugbears hardly counted.
Now, standing in the dark with a lantern in one hand, Mother's leg in the other, and a folded whittling knife in his pocket, Barnard tried to remember all the monster signs his father had tried to drill into him as a child. The effort left him frustrated. If he'd have known the information would actually be useful one day, he might have tried to pay attention. He could have sworn there was one about severed limbs, discarded and uneaten.
Distracted, Barnard dropped the lantern. He cursed the Fates and stooped to pick it back up, still trying to remember the rhyme that was supposed to help him remember the monster sign. Something like dah dah dah limbs, dah dah dah whims? Shims? Shins? No, maybe the limbs was the second bit?
"Barnard!"
Barnard flinched and stood up. Back at the hovel, Mother stood in the doorway, shaking her cane. "What's takin' so long?"
"Fates, Mother, will ya just sit down!" he hollered back at the house. "I'm doin' he best I can!"
"Don't you take that tone with me!"
"I'm busy out here!"
Barnard ignored Mother's tirade and bent back over to pick up the lantern, but the handle was avoiding his grasp. Then he took a good look at it, and saw his hand did actually still have a good grip on the handle, but his hand no longer had a good grip on the end of his arm.
The lantern winked out.
Panicky, Barnard fumbled for the knife in his right pocket, but he couldn't grab it for the same reason he couldn't pick up the lantern. Thinking fast, he tucked Mother's leg under his handless right arm, then tried to fetch the knife out of his right pocket with his left hand. After a brief struggle, he succeeded! But the knife was closed. His mind fueled by adrenaline, Barnard pried it open with his teeth and struck a defensive pose, jabbing at the air and pivoting randomly to confuse the monster.
If he could get back to the hovel with all the detatched limbs, they could put them in the ice cellar until morning, and then go into town, where the augur could probably stick them back on and they'd still sort of work. His dad had lost his share of fingers and toes in scythe accidents and such, so Barnard had seen it work.
Barnard suddenly felt dizzy. He recognized the symptom and raised his stump over his head, dropping Mother's leg in the process. Cursing, he began alternately kicking the leg-filled boot and the hand-gripped lantern toward the hovel, waving the whittling knife randomly through the air in front of him. The air stunk of lamp oil.
He was vaguely aware of Mother's keening voice, and he stumbled in her direction. He was sweating and his head swam. Swims! he thought. Something something swims, something something limbs. Closer, but still not helpful.
"Mother! I have your leg! Open the door!" he gasped as loud as he could. Fingers of flickering firelight from the windows of the hovel reached out to him.
"Did ya grab my knittin'?"
"Just open the door, please!"
"First ya tell me ta sit down, now it's get up. Ye better have me basket!"
His knife hand hit something that felt bouncy, like a willow branch, and his arm recoiled wildly. He made another swing, but it felt awkward; too light. He reeled and fell, his doughy face compacting the earth, since neither of his hands remained to catch him. Bells rang and faded.
Barnard rolled to his back, took a few deep breaths and tried to sit up, but failed. Idly he realized he couldn't feel his legs. He rolled his head and eyes up, and saw the hovel, just a dozen paces away, but now each pace might as well have been miles. Through the window, Mother's lumpy, stooped shadow hopped toward the door, impossibly slow.
Grass stroked his back and the hovel receeded from view. I've got it, he thought. The fall must've shook it loose.
Through the grass the hydra swims,
It wants your middle but not your limbs.
No, not a helpful rhyme at all, but Barnard was proud to have remembered it.
"Fates, Barnard! Why'd ya leave me leg lyin' here in the yard? Pick it up and carry it next time!"
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Now that they're organized...
...I can make cool stuff, like:
This demolition hardsuit, perfect for wrecking the creations of the other kids.
This open-topped speeder, great for those late-night cruises around the dark side.
And finally, this streamliner, ready to cut loose across the nearest dry lake bed.
And who better to test this vehicle than our tame racing driver. Some say he's got extra studs in interesting places, and that he has broken seven vacuum cleaners from within. All we know is...he's the LEGO Stig!
This demolition hardsuit, perfect for wrecking the creations of the other kids.
This open-topped speeder, great for those late-night cruises around the dark side.
And finally, this streamliner, ready to cut loose across the nearest dry lake bed.
And who better to test this vehicle than our tame racing driver. Some say he's got extra studs in interesting places, and that he has broken seven vacuum cleaners from within. All we know is...he's the LEGO Stig!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Is this OCD?
While I've had all this time off, I decided to do a terrible, wonderful thing.
My LEGO bricks (okay, our LEGO bricks) were all dumped into this big green plastic box:
While compact and expediting clean-up, this made building anything specific a challenge. LEGOs form layers in the opposite manner of sedimentary rock: the tiny pieces filter through and end up on the very bottom, while the massive plates float on top. So, when you needed that one silver 1x2 vent to finish your model, you had to dig and dig and make a huge racket; this is satisfying by itself on a primal level, but not on a serious building level.
As you can see, I started a rudimentary breakdown a few years back, with a smaller box for all the minifigs and their tools, apparel, animals, and weapons; another small box for small pieces (in LEGO terms, that meant anything sized less than six studs total); and a third for hinges, swivels, and other special pieces. This worked somewhat, but I knew it could be better. The box of small bits was so full, it was still nigh impossible to find what you needed.
So Jacob and I spent several hours doing this:
Whew!
Here's what youre looking at: a standard hardware store parts bin system, with one drawer for round 1x1 flat studs; one for square 1x1 studs, flats, and wedges; one for 1x1 round and cone bricks; one for 1x1 square bricks; one for 1x1 bricks with side studs (including the famous "washing machine" pieces); one for 1x2 flats with a single center stud; one for regular 1x2 flats with two studs; one for transparent 1x2 flats with two studs; one for 1x2 tiles (no studs on top); one for 1x2 vents; one for 1x3 flats; one for 1x4 flats; one for 1x4 tiles, one for 2x2 square flats; one for 2x2 tiles, one for 2x2 round flats; tiles, and round-bottom sliders; one for 2x3 flats; one for 1x6 flats; one for 1x6 tiles...and so on. All the 1x2 bricks ended up in the large bin that previously housed all of the small pieces, as there were so many of them, and I may have to split the 1x2 flats into two drawers.
That's about 20% of the collection sorted. I'm just doing this for the small bits that would otherwise end up on the bottom of the box. I've still got a lot of work to do, but it will be much easier to build stuff after this. It's also surprisingly satisfying to get this done.
My LEGO bricks (okay, our LEGO bricks) were all dumped into this big green plastic box:
While compact and expediting clean-up, this made building anything specific a challenge. LEGOs form layers in the opposite manner of sedimentary rock: the tiny pieces filter through and end up on the very bottom, while the massive plates float on top. So, when you needed that one silver 1x2 vent to finish your model, you had to dig and dig and make a huge racket; this is satisfying by itself on a primal level, but not on a serious building level.
As you can see, I started a rudimentary breakdown a few years back, with a smaller box for all the minifigs and their tools, apparel, animals, and weapons; another small box for small pieces (in LEGO terms, that meant anything sized less than six studs total); and a third for hinges, swivels, and other special pieces. This worked somewhat, but I knew it could be better. The box of small bits was so full, it was still nigh impossible to find what you needed.
So Jacob and I spent several hours doing this:
Whew!Here's what youre looking at: a standard hardware store parts bin system, with one drawer for round 1x1 flat studs; one for square 1x1 studs, flats, and wedges; one for 1x1 round and cone bricks; one for 1x1 square bricks; one for 1x1 bricks with side studs (including the famous "washing machine" pieces); one for 1x2 flats with a single center stud; one for regular 1x2 flats with two studs; one for transparent 1x2 flats with two studs; one for 1x2 tiles (no studs on top); one for 1x2 vents; one for 1x3 flats; one for 1x4 flats; one for 1x4 tiles, one for 2x2 square flats; one for 2x2 tiles, one for 2x2 round flats; tiles, and round-bottom sliders; one for 2x3 flats; one for 1x6 flats; one for 1x6 tiles...and so on. All the 1x2 bricks ended up in the large bin that previously housed all of the small pieces, as there were so many of them, and I may have to split the 1x2 flats into two drawers.
That's about 20% of the collection sorted. I'm just doing this for the small bits that would otherwise end up on the bottom of the box. I've still got a lot of work to do, but it will be much easier to build stuff after this. It's also surprisingly satisfying to get this done.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
F is for Foundation
Spoiler Alert!
I finished Foundation and Empire last night. The last chapter has this big reveal that the clown Magnifico is actually the mutant general The Mule. The problem is, that from the moment they introduced Magnifico, I knew he was The Mule. I just thought about Magnifico for a second, and how all the other characters kept hyping The Mule, and I said to myself, "It's Kaiser Soze!" So when the characters finally figure it out, I'm like, "DUH!"
This happens after the whole bit about Riose. I actually liked Riose, and having his campaign ended completely off-stage was such a let down.
So, I'm taking a break from Asimov and reading Good Omens. I'm like 20 pages in and it's already more entertaining than all of Foundation so far.
I finished Foundation and Empire last night. The last chapter has this big reveal that the clown Magnifico is actually the mutant general The Mule. The problem is, that from the moment they introduced Magnifico, I knew he was The Mule. I just thought about Magnifico for a second, and how all the other characters kept hyping The Mule, and I said to myself, "It's Kaiser Soze!" So when the characters finally figure it out, I'm like, "DUH!"
This happens after the whole bit about Riose. I actually liked Riose, and having his campaign ended completely off-stage was such a let down.
So, I'm taking a break from Asimov and reading Good Omens. I'm like 20 pages in and it's already more entertaining than all of Foundation so far.
Friday, February 27, 2009
How to enjoy International Derek Day, liveblogged
8 am: Roll out of bed
8:30 am: Report to outpatient lab for blood work (per regular doctor) and chest X-ray (per oncologist, it's a once-a-year precaution) at Summa. Had a blood test at onc's office earlier in the week, but phlebotomist opts to make a second hole. As I am being drawn, another patient enters; she's in a wheelchair pushed by her daughter, who is wearing a huge ICP t-shirt and is pierced and inked something awful. My phlebotomist complements the colors of the girl's evil clown tattoos, and rolls up a pant leg to compare her colorful vine tat to the clown.
9 am: Pick up new boxes of contacts.
9:30-11 am: Pump aaahhhrrrrnnn at the gym, followed by a swim and extra time in the whirlpool and sauna. Nice not having to rush! Mostly retirees here at this hour.
11:15: Retail therapy! I pick up the new Jetfire & Jetstorm TF:A figures at Target, tres chic. I also browse the Hobby Lobby, which I've never been to. They have a decent model rocket selection, which gives me some ideas.
12:15: Lunch! Restaurant seems to have the A/C on. Manager says the system is computerized and cannot be over-riden. Boggle.
1:30-3:00 pm: Kenmore Komics! In peace, I pick up some TPBs (Nextwave Vol. 2, Secret Invasion, and Battle Angel Alita Vol. 2) and some comics.
3:30 pm: Home. Read comics. Read comics again!
6 pm: Order Chinese. Tomorrow we're going to Lockview for gourmet grilled cheese for lunch!
A very nice day indeed!
8:30 am: Report to outpatient lab for blood work (per regular doctor) and chest X-ray (per oncologist, it's a once-a-year precaution) at Summa. Had a blood test at onc's office earlier in the week, but phlebotomist opts to make a second hole. As I am being drawn, another patient enters; she's in a wheelchair pushed by her daughter, who is wearing a huge ICP t-shirt and is pierced and inked something awful. My phlebotomist complements the colors of the girl's evil clown tattoos, and rolls up a pant leg to compare her colorful vine tat to the clown.
9 am: Pick up new boxes of contacts.
9:30-11 am: Pump aaahhhrrrrnnn at the gym, followed by a swim and extra time in the whirlpool and sauna. Nice not having to rush! Mostly retirees here at this hour.
11:15: Retail therapy! I pick up the new Jetfire & Jetstorm TF:A figures at Target, tres chic. I also browse the Hobby Lobby, which I've never been to. They have a decent model rocket selection, which gives me some ideas.
12:15: Lunch! Restaurant seems to have the A/C on. Manager says the system is computerized and cannot be over-riden. Boggle.
1:30-3:00 pm: Kenmore Komics! In peace, I pick up some TPBs (Nextwave Vol. 2, Secret Invasion, and Battle Angel Alita Vol. 2) and some comics.
3:30 pm: Home. Read comics. Read comics again!
6 pm: Order Chinese. Tomorrow we're going to Lockview for gourmet grilled cheese for lunch!
A very nice day indeed!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Foundation grind
I have my used copy of the Foundation collection, and I'm slogging through it. I'm a few chapters into Foundation and Empire, and for the most part, the whole series consists of men sitting around discussing inevitable things in the most pompous way they can. Every once in a while there's a nice 'gotcha' moment, but for the most part it feels like work. I have to keep telling myself it's pulp from the 1950s, so the 'futuristic' tech and the generic sci-fi sounding names are part of the show. I hope it gets better.
The good news is that the book also has 'I, Robot' in the back, so I can get rid of the beat-up paperback edition I have been carrying around for eons.
The good news is that the book also has 'I, Robot' in the back, so I can get rid of the beat-up paperback edition I have been carrying around for eons.
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