Short Story Week 2016: Day Five -Sacrificing the Lamb

This wound up being a combination of two different short story types. The first is that of a fable, even if it doesn't really resolve to a single sentence axiom. The second is a frame story, or a story within a story (even if it's not quite paced out in the traditional fashion).

Sacrificing the Lamb

The sun rose over the Eastern hill, casting gentle rays on the meadow below. And as far as one cared to look, a banquet of wildrye and goosegrass beckoned the large flock of sheep, who grazed with little care beyond satisfying their stomach's demands.

It was only the smallest lamb who noticed that high above them, a stone's throw and a half away, there was a fox, who had taken more than a passing interest in her flock. And after some thought, she broke away from the herd and climbed the hill to where he lay.

The fox eyed her curiously as she bounded well into the scope of his prospective lunge. She greeted him kindly. "Good day, to you sir."

"Indeed little one," the fox smirked, "It is a good day."

"I always find mornings to be most agreeable," said the lamb.

"Well, as luck would have it," said the fox, "I find myself in agreement with you."

The two creatures laughed together, and the lamb found a comfortable patch of greenery in which to sit. "Might I be so audacious as to ask you a question?"

"Audacious?" The fox stretched, shaking off the dewdrops from his red coat. "Yes, you might very well be."

"Seeing as how you are a fox, is it fair to assume that your intention is to make a meal out of one member of my family?"

"That would be a safe assumption," the fox snickered, "It is in keeping with a fox's nature."

"Well, sir," said the lamb, "you have so many sheep to select from in size, health, and number of seasons. How does a fox's nature choose?"

"A fox's nature chooses the same way the nature of all living things chooses; the greatest amount of reward for the least amount of effort."

"I see," said the lamb, losing herself in thought.

Perhaps out of curiosity, the fox made no motion towards the vulnerable lamb, opting instead to wait for whatever droplet of reflection her innocent mind constructed.

"Is that wise?" she asked.

"Wise?" the fox sneered. "It's effective. How should wisdom factor into it?"

"Foxes are known for their cleverness. What is cleverness, if not wisdom as tactic?"

A curl appeared on the fox's mouth. "You know, I was wondering why you approached me. Being as small as you are, you were already easy prey. And now you've made my task all the simpler."

The lamb smiled, allowing a gleam to appear in her eye. "And despite the minimal amount of effort it would take, you haven't eaten me."

"All right then," the fox chortled. "I'm intrigued. Why I haven't eaten you? If you can give me a satisfactory answer then I will let you go. And I will also leave your flock alone."

"What a delightful challenge!" The lamb sprang to her feet and scampered up next to the fox; closer than any lamb had ever dared on their own volition. She sat down next to him and gazed out over the landscape. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Truly. I'll not deny it."

"Did you know that where you and I are sitting so peacefully is in fact a battleground?"

The fox shook his head. "I'm not familiar with the history of these hills."

"Oh, I don't mean a battleground of the past," said the lamb. "I mean the one happening right now."

"This battle of wits between us?"

"Not at all." The lamb sniffed a lavender blossom between them. "The jaws of a predator are gruesome, but they pale in comparison to the murderous aggression of the grass. As far as you can see, there are seedlings strangling each other for territory. These peaceful hills are absolute carnage that you and I see as serene, because we only see a single moment in the eons of chaos."

The fox nodded. "That is both fascinating and insightful, but how does it answer the question at hand?"

"Because the grass doesn't have a choice the way animals do. The ability to choose surely must indicate that something beyond self-interest motivates one such as yourself."

"I agree with you little one," the fox winced. "But all you're doing is supporting the claim that there is an answer, not what that answer may be."

"Well for that," grinned the lamb, "I should tell you a story. There was a vain centipede who was so proud of its magnificent length that it would walk all over the land, drawing attention to itself, making sure everyone saw the immaculate way its many, many legs functioned in unison."

"Yes, I'm familiar with this story," the fox interrupted. "Somebody asks the centipede how it manages to get all of its legs to function in harmony."

The lamb continued, "And the centipede, who had strode so gracefully before without a thought, suddenly thought about it. And as such it was unable to walk the way that it had ever again. What does that story tell you?"

"That some questions can be harmful."

"Maybe," said the lamb, "but maybe questions only serve to awaken us. Maybe we sleepwalk through our lives and strangle each other for our own self-interests, until we start asking ourselves why. You see, there's an ending to this story that very few know. That centipede loved walking. So much that being robbed of that activity that had brought it so much joy drove it to keep trying. And failing. And trying. No, it was never able to walk the way it had before, just like you can never unask a question. But the centipede was able to walk a new way, learned from pain and effort. And in the end, it could do more than just walk. The centipede could dance."

For several moments the two of them didn't speak. In the distance, the lamb's flock bleated, but the fox could barely hear it over the rustle of the grass waving in the breeze. After some time, the fox spoke. "Why you cunning little mutton scrap. How could I possibly eat you now? It would make me too sad." He glared at her. "Was that your plan all along?"

"I had no plan. And no answer," she insisted. "I only thought, if I were to die today I would make it mean something. And be remembered."

The fox stretched back out in the grass. "You know, little one? Today truly is a good day."

The lamb curled up next to him, and together they fell asleep.

Short Story Week 2016: Day Four -The Elevator

Here's a story that I presented back in 2011 at Flash Fiction Night, and for whatever reason it just never made it into the blog. If you're so inclined, feel free to visit the link to the Youtube video where I read it out to an audience.

The Elevator

Monday

So now he was an elevator attendant.

Seven hours and nothing happened.  Leon wondered why anyone needed an elevator attendant. No one had used the elevator for seven hours. There was nothing to do but stand and wait.

There wasn’t even music. Only a panel of buttons and a handrail, which Leon wished had been installed higher so he could hang himself from it. He thought he might last a week before coming unhinged.

Five minutes before he was scheduled to leave, the box sprang to life. It carried him twenty-two floors, with each button on the panel winking at him. The doors slid open to reveal a small man in a business suit who clearly had no interest in human contact. Leon presumed this was the sole reason he’d been hired.

The man took his position in the elevator and gave the order. “Down.”

Leon blinked. ‘Down’ had twenty-two possible interpretations and Leon gestured indecisively at the panel. “Down?”

“Down.” The man repeated as if it couldn’t be any simpler.

Without even trying to determine what the small man’s problem was, Leon pressed the double L and the elevator descended to nothing but the sound of grinding metal.

The doors opened and his passenger disappeared into the world.  Leon rode out his last two minutes in isolation.

Tuesday

After seven hours in the elevator Leon had written a song melody, which he hoped to keep in his head until he could actually write it down. His peace was disrupted at five until by the summoner on the twenty-third floor. The buttons blinked at him but Leon was too inconvenienced to notice. The doors opened. The order followed.

“Down.”

Leon gestured innocently to the array of possibilities on the panel. “Down…?” he asked.

“Down!” came the demand, and Leon hit the button with none too gentle force.

The elevator descended and arrived at the floor Leon had indicated. The doors opened and the passenger stepped off. It was only at that moment they both realized that Leon had accidentally pressed the button for the third floor.

The doors shut silently separating them from a discussion. Leon pressed the double L feeling a tiny victory.

Wednesday

Seven hours vanished. It wasn’t until Leon felt the jolt from the elevator gears that 
he even remembered where he was. He ignored all the buttons except for double L ready to pounce on it the moment his passenger appeared. 

The doors opened. The small man stared at him refusing to step inside. The doors tried to shut but the small man blocked them. Not a word was spoken, but Leon could hear the small man’s voice in his head. “Down.” Over and over again. Leon began to hate the word.

Thursday

Leon seethed for seven hours, pacing and occasionally kicking at his containment. His agency insisted he finish out the week.

The elevator grumbled to life, pulling him upwards. Leon stared at the panel expecting some sort of inspiration to strike him. The lights blinked in rhythm, calmly as if beckoning him to find out what was on the other floors of this building.

His hand shot out at the button for the twenty-second floor. Leon inhaled deeply as the cool air from the hallway before him blew into his stuffy box. He thought, if he got out now and walked he could leave on time. The small man could push his own damn button and go to double L for all Leon cared.

Halfway out of the elevator, Leon considerately pressed all of the buttons and took the stairs.

Friday

Leon showed up seven hours late.

He hadn’t planned on coming in at all but the word ‘down’ had been gnawing at him. Leon stepped into his elevator and waited. He wasn't sure what he was going to when he got to the top, but he wanted to hear the small man say 'down' one more time.

The twenty-second light blinked out and Leon held his breath waiting for that bell of approval from the elevator. But instead there was a violent shake that threw Leon off his feet. He caught the handrail as darkness filled the box.

For a moment there was nothing. Then the doors opened quietly revealing that he was stuck between floors, with the small man standing over him, smiling kindly.

The man spoke, but Leon never heard him as the cable snapped. 

Short Story Week 2016: Day Three -The Journey to the Journey

This piece would probably fall under the 'vignette' umbrella, a writing style I've never been particularly drawn to. By definition, a vignette is a short piece that clearly expresses the typical characteristics of something or someone. I thought it might be worth an attempt. This is based on a personal anecdote from about ten years ago. And a dream from earlier this week.

The Journey to the Journey

He adjusts his pace to match the small pair of feet beside him. When the boy asks about holding the tickets, he relinquishes them without a second thought. Sacred documents entrusted to innocent hands.

Over at the doorway with the lights, he explains to the boy why the woman is dressed like a police officer. She asks where they're going and he pretends to have forgotten so the boy can answer for them. He asks the boy for help with the contents of his pockets; keys, loose change, a phone. He gives each item to the boy to set in the large plastic box. He asks the boy to make sure it the box makes it into the mouth of the tunnel. Per request, he lets the boy go through the doorway first.

He points to the huge window where metal dragons take off and land. The beasts move so fast. The boy has never seen them up close before. Together they gasp in awe at the size of the tail resting so close to where they are. The boy laughs dizzily as the colossal creatures circle overhead.

There is a grand hallway full of people just like them, coming and going; and a floor that moves. He congratulates the boy for jumping on the moving floor without falling over. And they ride. He spots paintings and tapestries on the walls as they continue. He asks the boy what they are and agrees with whatever the boy says. By the end of the moving floor, he has lifted the boy's tired legs onto his shoulders. The boy can see everything now. So many people. So many things. So many stories.

The boy is seated now. The boy has his own story, and it fills some of the time they'll have to spend waiting. He listens attentively to every detail. Asking questions about what happens next. And when the boy finishes the story, he reacts as if it's the most amazing thing he's ever heard. He assures the boy that he's only going to step away for a moment. They both need something to eat, and he points to the place he's going to be. The boy isn't worried. The boy is happy.

He turns to move towards the place where the food is, but his eyes meet those of a stranger who happened to have taken notice of his reaction to the boy's story. The stranger smiles at him, with an expression that can only mean "good dad".

It's all he needs.

Short Story Week 2016: Day Two -Stakes and Ratings

I wanted to at least try doing a story completely from scratch this time around, i.e. no previous work on it before this morning. So here then is the result of an idea that came into my head while sitting in the doctor's office waiting room with a generic TV station on.

Stakes and Ratings

Welcome back! So as I promised you before the commercial break, today we're going to show you what to expect when you stake your first vampire.

Now this big guy that we're bringing out now is still in his coffin. If you're fortunate enough to be dealing with a- okay, I think he's waking up. Not to worry. Our producers had us nail the coffin shut. But like I was saying, if your bloodsucker is still sleeping, you want to stay as quiet as possible. Vampires are pretty deep sleepers, but once their eyes are open you lose a lot of your advantage.

So reali- sorry. Guys, can you help me hold him down? He's really squirming. Realistically, when you have him at your mercy like this, it's best to just set the coffin on fire. The heat will bake him long before the wood is damaged enough to- yeah go ahead and bring camera five down. And do we have the crowbar? Great! We're going to open him up and drive the stake in.

You can go to your local hardware store and find pointed sticks. Professional killers usually fall in love with one particular type of wood, but really any sturdy piece of wood will do, just make sure the tip is as sharp as possible. I made mine out of a mop handle- okay he's a lively one. Can you get him back on the table? Yeah, just go ahead and pry that- is your foot okay? I'm actually glad this came up. Remember, accidents will happen. You're dealing with an intelligent creature that can understand what you're saying. You may remember Joe Schlepski a few years back? The vampire had one of those multi-door caskets, and he'd curled up down in- Oh shit! He's- my apologies everyone. How did he get loose?

Not to worry, everyone. See, all these guys are professional vampire wranglers. Is she all right? Get the camera on her. That's Phyllis, our stage manager. Did she get bitten? It looks like she may have cut her arm on his fangs. It's worth noting that's not always a death sentence. Depending on how deep the incision is, a lot of people have lived through that. And if you get to a doctor fast enough, sometimes simple amputation will clear that right up. We'll check in with her in a minute, but I want you to see how these guys work.

Even when you outnumber a vampire, you never want to give up control of the situation. Notice how they're not rushing him like you see in the old black and white films, but they're keeping him cornered with their- what is that? Is that just a regular crucifix or is it- well, he's bust right now, but you see how they function as a unit? Vampire wranglers are irreplaceable in the field, because your best tactical approach is to get the fiend in his coffin.

It looks like we're good to go. Are we cued up? Remember, pound it hard right in the middle of the chest. Mallet? Thank you.

Son of a- Dah! Damn it to hell! Somebody shut him up! I really did a number on my thumb there. Oh, God! No, just go ahead and close it back up. Then put the restraints on it. I think it's broken. Okay, that's really the basics. I'm sorry this didn't turn out the way we hoped. I think we're going to need to go to commercial break, tie up a few loose ends here. When we come back, we're going to take him outside and let the sunlight wipe him out, so you'll- I said get the straps around the casket! Good grief. So you'll definitely want to come back for that. Um, how's Phyllis...all right. Unfortunately it looks like we're going to have to cut our stage manager's head off, but we'll post that video online this afternoon. You can check it out on our website. As always, be sure to subscribe, and let us know in the comments what you thought about today's topic.

We'll be right back. Motherfu-


"Master? Master, wake up."

"Huh?"

"Master, are you all right? You were twitching really violently."

"Oh, I vas having a terrible nightmare."

"Daymare, master."

"Vatever. Just, could you change the channel back to the Cartoon Netvork?"

"Of course master. Anything to help you sleep."

Short Story Week 2016: Day One -Playing a Glissando

Welcome to Short Story Week 2016! I don't know why I do this to myself.

If you missed last year's festivities, Short Story Week is when I spend an entire week churning out never before seen (by you) material in a personal challenge to bludgeon the creative side of my brain into productivity. Sometimes it involves taking half-to-tenth written stories and dusting them off. Sometimes it's going through old files and finding limestone shards that never quite made it to my blog. And a few times throughout the week I'll probably be staring at a blank screen for a few hours; moaning, crying, and yelling at the phone until a few somewhat related keystrokes of gibberish appear courtesy of me banging my head on the laptop, which I'll refer to as 'experimental literature'.

So let's dive in with a piece that's probably a spiritual relative to The Carousel. It was going to be Caris as the protagonist, but I found that the concept doesn't work anywhere in Caris's whole life, so here instead is the stand alone version.

Playing a Glissando

It was not the divorce that continued to to grate under my skin like an allergic rash; having married a divorce attorney, I had probably been preparing myself for the inevitability ever since I threw on my wedding veil. Nor was it the fact that the alleged 'settlements' had left me in roughly the same straits I'd been in when Mr. Stipulation had promised me the moon and stars three years prior; again, the warning signs were blinking in bright neon. I had even moved past the shock of being cheated on and blamed (twice, alternately) and finding out the details from his second mistress's conscience-driven e-mail apology.

It was the fact that I was still saddled with his leftover shit cluttering up my apartment.

I just wanted him gone. I wanted everything about him erased. Every shirt, sock, sports flag, and shot glass out of my sight, mind, and life forever. It had likely been this sense of desperation that had provoked me into signing my name to an 'agreement' that I would return every one of his belongings to him. Myself. No help from him. Unharmed. Not in the pile of shredded and burnt fabric from which I would have taken so much recompense in depositing on his doorstep.

For months I'd been making special trips to and from his downtown office, cramming my tiny car with whatever would mostly safely fit, and dealing with his instructions on where and how to carefully set and fold every single item in my possession once I'd delivered them. No, I couldn't just drop off the packages. I was under a damned contract that required me to lay everything out for inspection before the bastard would sign off on them. And just to add fuel to his amusement, if anything from his extensive list turned up damaged, his law firm would be charging me for the sum of everything. I swore I would never write my name on anything ever again.

The coffee table had eaten up my remaining sick day, as I'd had to tie it to the top of my car and lug it at 15 miles per hour in the middle of the night when traffic was light enough. Counting both times the police stopped me to make sure I wasn't high, that trip took four hours. And then my ex arrived at his office an hour and a half late; I could tell from his expression that he'd done it on purpose. I didn't make it into work that morning.

I was one obstacle away from finally ending the ordeal, but it was a leviathan. That damn piano. I don't know why he bought it or where it came from, but the week before I'd had a heavenly dream about taking an axe to the thing. That had been my last night of decent sleep, because ever since then I'd woken up from nightmares about having to push it down the street.

See, in addition to all of these other enduring attachments to the enthusiastic split, my ex husband had seen fit to instill a deadline on the process. My sweet dream was on the eve of what I thought would be the end of it, a full week before his self-imposed cutoff date. And when the moving vehicle I reserved turned out to be a hitch trailer capable of transporting...I don't know, a sheepdog? I was none too jovial with my comment card.

I had to reschedule. And getting a proper sized set of wheels sent to the piece of shit outlet to which I had access was going to take a week -meaning: I would be dropping this damn piano off on the last damn day of this damn contract or get dragged into another damn court battle to deal with whatever amusing hoop Mr. Attorney at I-don't-even-know-how-to-play-the-damn-piano could devise for me to leap through.

The morning-of came and I'm quite sure I didn't sleep. I may have passed out for a few minutes here and there, but overall my brain wouldn't shut up. I wound up driving to the outlet an hour earlier than I was scheduled, in hopes that I could get this all taken care of before the sleep deprived hallucinations set in. There was nobody there when I arrived, and I waited.

And waited.

I'm not sure when my creeping sense of doom caught up to me but I began to take note of the realization that I wasn't seeing any kind of movement from within or outside of the office. I didn't want to get out of my car, so I let it roll forward until I could make out the handwritten ink on the piece of cardboard taped to the front door. 'Out of business' it said. I may have bitten a piece off of my steering wheel.

I was in tears by the time I reached my ex-husband's office, with mascara I'd forgotten to remove the previous evening now dripping down my cheeks. As I'd predicted he wasn't there (it was a Friday after all), but I wasn't there for him. I was there to see Kent, the mechanic who had set up show across the street from him.

Kent and my ex had been friends since before I'd fallen into the picture. And as such Kent and I did not share any affection. But my ex had granted Kent the third party power to oversee any of these numerous transactions in his absence, and I'd been seeing quite a bit of Kent in recent weeks.

My poor car groaned at the steep hill that led from the street to his service area, and I'm sure the familiar sound drew his attention because he was outside my driver's window before I noticed him. Kent took one look at my appearance and let out a gleeful snort, which only made me hate him more.

"Kent?" I tried to sound scolding, but my voice quivered. "I HAVE to get that piano out of my home."

"It sounds like you've got a problem then," he chuckled.

"Please?" I swore I would never ask him for help, but I was beyond the point of keeping promises to myself. "I can't do this anymore!"

He nonchalantly retrieved my ex-husband's final document from his desk and handed me a pen. "He says all you have to do is leave the piano in one piece in his office lobby and you're in the clear."

"I can't GET the piano here, Kent! I've tried!" I was sobbing now. I started explaining what had happened that morning, but he was taking too much amusement in my plight to really listen to the details.

"Here-" he interrupted me, tossing a set of keys in my direction that I promptly dropped. Kent pointed to a fairly large pickup truck that he'd apparently been working on for someone. "I didn't see you borrow it." And with that, he was back in his office enjoying whatever phone call I'd made him put on hold.

This was the kind of truck that scared the hell out of me as a pedestrian. Now that I was fully covered behind the wheel of one, I was petrified. I'm quite sure I was taking up multiple lanes and the occasional sidewalk, and it's a wonder I didn't get pulled over. Maybe even the police were afraid of the tank I was driving. I actually wouldn't have put it past Kent and/or my ex-husband to report the vehicle as stolen just for their own entertainment. But I managed to get the parade float home with no sign of having run over any hybrids. And when climbed down from the seat there were no flashing lights nearby which granted me relief, a feeling I'd nearly forgotten.

Getting the piano into the back of the truck had also been a culmination of karmic pity, as the construction workers down the street chose my near-breakdown as their bid for angel wings. They lifted the 88 keyed monster up like it was a trust fall exercise and tied it off with bungee cords. Twenty minutes later I was back on the road.

I drove slowly. I would have given anything to just floor it and be done with this chapter of my life, but I needed to get the piano there undamaged.

That damn piano.

I noticed every time I hit the slightest imperfection in the street I got a response from the thing in the back. A discordant collection of notes, almost in protest. Even if I couldn't feel the vibrations of the potholes all the way up in the cabin of the monster truck, the piano let me know it was displeased. And each time one of those chords struck, it startled me. I thought, did one of the legs just break?

I had to keep pushing away the compulsion to stop the truck and check on my passenger, no matter how many times it called for me. I sort of wondered how much more stressful transporting a live jaguar would have been. Even turning up the radio didn't drown out the snarling of the beast in the back.

The worst one was the hill to Kent's service area. I think all 88 keys sounded at the same time, and I jumped. "Please don't fall out the back," I whispered twice. My ex-husband, in his infinite foresight, had neglected to rent an office with any kind of parking lot. There was his front door, the street, and the driveway up to Kent's. I wasn't going to park an arguably stolen vehicle three blocks away while I pushed the massive instrument across multiple intersections.

So naturally I pulled up to the service area, and there was no Kent. He'd put up his sign claiming to return by three in the afternoon. I just stared at it, harboring some strange hope that I could will the sign away. But, no. The sign was there. And I knew he'd done this on purpose, just to hit one last nerve with me. I slowly drew in the deepest breath of my life and screamed "Son of a BITCH!" holding onto the last word like it was the final note of the opera. Eventually my lungs gave out, thus confirming I hadn't the raw power to shatter the glass of windshields with my voice.

Fury led to determination as I resolved to get the damn! damn! damn! piano out of the truck on my own. I had two problems: getting the piano moving, and not dropping it out of the back. I came up with one solution for both: Kent's hydraulic lift.

I pulled the truck's front tires into the service area and put on the emergency brake. Then I got out and went over to Kent's control panel (that he always left operational, because he's a moron) and activate the switch that operated the lift. Kent's lift moved slower than those of more professional mechanics, and that gave me plenty of time to initiate phase two of my plan. If I could get the truck at enough of a slope, the tailgate would touch the pavement. Then I could undo the bungee cords and gravity would take over. It sounded so simple in my sleep-deprived head.

I was surprised when the giant keyboard didn't so much as flinch once I'd freed it from its restraints. The truck was at enough of an angle now where I should have gotten some kind of reaction. And so, like a dumbfounded Wile E. Coyote, I started testing the wheels to see if they had a kind of locking device.

In retrospect, the wheels may have built up a little bit of rust over time, but that didn't occur to me then. But then the impossible chord struck again as if a wild animal was waking up, and I jumped back. For a second, the damn piano and I just looked at each other. And then whatever had prevented the wheels from rolling gave in, and the ivory remains of elephant tusk lunged for me.

A stream of profanity poured from my mouth, quickly devolving into gibberish, as the instrument scooped me up like an amateur matador and carried me down the concrete hill. The street traffic was kind and sensible enough to form a crosswalk for me while I wrestled against traction with my shoes. Gravity was clearly on the piano's side, but I was not going down without a fight. I struggled, and I think the rubber on my shoes was burning. And right when I reached the door of the law office, I apparently did something impressively agile. I spun at just the right time and wedged both feet against the wall, my adrenaline absorbing all the weight of the runaway piano.

Everything came to a standstill. And then I heard the shattering of metal. And somebody in a car started yelling. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't block out the knowledge that I had left the hydraulic lift running.

The truck was almost vertical now, and the front end had torn the roof of the service area off of its support. It landed on the pavement where I was hoisted by the piano like a judo flip, and the truck rolled backwards on top of it. And it started sliding down the hill.

There was only one thought in my head, save the piano. You know that condition where moms can lift cars off their children? I must have tapped into it somehow, because I pushed the bane of my existence out of the oncoming headlights just as they smashed into my ex-husband's office door and continued on into his hallway.

You know the funny thing? I hadn't figured out how I was going to get the piano in one piece through his door. I hadn't even thought about it until that moment. But leaving it in his office turned out to be much easier than I would have expected.

Chromatic Dragon Con -The Other People's Convention

As a middle act Generation X-er, I feel confident to say that I witnessed the birth of the alternative pop culture phenomenon known as nerd-dom. Ever since those seeds were secretly planted in the back alleys of Neverwhere, the vines have grown, blossomed, and engulfed the mainstream; courtesy of out of control technological advances and the realization that the reality of the 1990's sucked quite a bit.

I was there for pre-A New Hope Star Wars, Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books, the first video game in color, and I even owned a John Denver 8-track cassette. I chose a side for the first console war (Atari, Odyssey, Intellivision, Colecovision) where everybody lost. I witnessed the birth, rise, and implosion of Tim Burton. I remember when it was possible to watch every single anime title available in a 63 mile radius. And to this day I carry the special memory of sending my first e-mail and feeling the giddiness of this new technology.

It's not to say out loud that I'm better than you, just that my life has coincidentally synchronized with the zeitgeist to which my generation was apparently so hostile. It's a strange sense to have grown up a nerd when the identity guaranteed one being outcast from social circles, to a world where we seem to have accidentally taken over.

This is Labor Day Weekend, the annual costumed gathering in Atlanta, for nerds who have more vacation time than me, known as Dragon Con. I used to go every year, back when I had stamina and knew someone who could sew. If you've never been, think of it as the Light Side of the Force's Adult Halloween (or Mardi Gras for people who'd prefer that exposed cleavage have a back story). I'm not there, and I'm a little sad. But after going on a press pass two years in a row, I got a little spoiled, and it's hard to go back to searching for a purpose.

Throughout my life I've been at least ten times, and there's always the excitement of seeing Sly Cooper share a beer with a Starship Trooper, and there's always the collection of meet and greet stories along the 'Eric Roberts is so charming' line, and it's always sad on Sunday afternoon when the world goes back to normal. But somehow I never had that ambiguous 'experience' that I always hoped to have at Dragon Con. I don't know what catharsis I was looking for. I just somehow felt that I was noticeably closer to it amongst other freaks in capes than I am at the mall.

Perhaps one of the factors is the way nerd culture has exploded beyond the scope of one measly blogger's ability to connect with everything that has a fandom. It's just too big now. Kind of like when the 2nd edition AD&D Monster's Manual skyrocketed out of control with endless variations on dragons themselves. We went from a simple dragon that breathed fire to the dichotomy of color vs, gem based dragons, and then into the endless stream of fanfiction dragons; Weather Dragons, Shallow Dragons, Trippy Dragons, the unidentifiable Adjective Dragons, and (my personal favorite) the Snide Dragons who can drain a character's charisma 1-4 points with their magical eye-roll.

So I think Dragon Con should consider reflecting the growing complexity of nerd culture. I can't think of a more traditionally appropriate method for celebrating diversity than partitioning off elements of the culture that I honestly couldn't care less about into a separate community, just like the dragons of yore. Here then are some of the most popular elements among my community that I have never been able to give a shit about.

1. Pokémon Dragon
Breath Weapon: Magical round cages
Habitat: Hotspots
Diet: Small inoffensive creatures and Mewtwo

It may have been my age, but I was starting to realize some part of me needed to grow up when Pikachu burst on the American scene reminding everyone of his name over and over. I have to admire Nintendo (and so do you) for the multi-media marketing management that manifested their mutinous menagerie. But the TV show was too kiddie for me, and I began to hate every teenager who came into Blockbuster asking if more trading cards had come in. I will say I love collecting things. There's an addictiveness to the sense of progress. But I like manageable levels of collecting, and Pokémon had about 127 more characters than I was willing to deal with.

2. Magic: The Gathering Dragon
Breath Weapon: A combination of Cheetos and Mountain Dew
Habitat: Comic book stores
Diet: (see breath weapon)

In addition to being another trading card gimmick, I have an aversion to rules. I like to be able to jump into a game with minimal effort. Rules are supposed to create fun, not hinder it, and I have no patience for card games more complicated than Phase 10. I don't like Magic because I don't get Magic and there doesn't seem to be a homework-free access point to the game. Hell, I don't even get into Munchkin. Spades, Uno, Old Maid, I'm there. I'm even willing to try out some basic accounting, but Magic just doesn't hold my attention.

3. Final Fantasy 7 Dragon
Breath Weapon: Any excuse to bash Nintendo
Habitat: Message boards
Diet: Announcements, screenshots, rumors

Pretty much any post-SNES Squaresoft is going to have to have Donald Duck in it to hold my attention, and even that's susceptible to ruination by card-based gameplay. But FF7 holds some personal animosity from me for two reasons. I allied with Nintendo during the N64 era, and had this game flaunted in front of me while Ocarina of Time got delayed for over a year and there was no sign of a single RPG. I also played the game. Good lord, it's boring! Cloud is so completely, utterly, tediously dull. Brooding is not a character, guys. Brooding is a character weakness. Cloud needs to go away and take all of his Cloud wannabes from countless other RPGs with him.

4. World of Warcraft Dragon
Breath Weapon: Insistence that the maxed out level is only the beginning of the game
Habitat: If you're at a computer, you're looking at it
Diet: Everquest enthusiasts, their own resources, each other, time itself

I've never played it and I never will. I hear it's fun, and it probably is, but I've had such a negative experience with the game from an outsider perspective that my answer is going to be a definitive 'no'. I'm all about gaming and escapism, but these things are supposed to compliment your life, not replace it. I've seen the latter happen with WOW, and I can't shake the suspicion that it's designed to consume your whole waking routine. And then some. I just can't fathom bending my whole work schedule around virtual raids.

5. Game of Thrones Dragon
Breath Weapon: Spoilers
Habitat: George R. R. Martin's front lawn
Diet: Heartbreak

First problem, it's HBO. I watched Rome, which was amazing, but the nudity and violence in it honestly crossed a line (here's the spectrum: necessity/atmosphere/fun/to get the R rating/because we're HBO). From what I hear, Game of Thrones deliberately caters to the audience's perversions. Secondly, the series seems to be about the seedy soap opera side of humanity, with constant back-stabbing and likable characters being murdered. I realize a lot of very vocal people like that kind of thing, but none of these elements are selling points for me. As an audience member, my fundamental question is always "Who am I supposed to be rooting for?" And if you leave it up to me to decide and then kill my preferred character off, I'm not going to stay with you. Everything about this series warns me 'Don't bother'.

6. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Dragon
Breath Weapon: Someone else's problem
Habitat: radio, stage shows, novels, comic book adaptations, a TV series, a computer game, a feature film
Diet: Esoteric quotes

My whole life, people have told me I HAVE to read this book. Now that I'm 43 and still alive, I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't have to, and when I die I seriously doubt it will be due to complications of not having read this book. The usually plugs are "it's funny" and "it's so you"; two declarations that never seem to bring about anything positive (for the record, Napoleon Dynamite makes my skin crawl). Now I don't have anything against Douglas Adams, I'm sure the book is amusing enough. I just honestly think I would be bored with it. And then I would turn around and hate everyone in my life who over-hyped it. And they would deserve it but then I'd just feel like a stuck-up jerk, and I have better stuck-up things to spend my time feeling like.

7. Joss Whedon Dragon
Breath Weapon: Buffyspeak
Habitat: uncredited
Diet: Anything starring Nathan Fillion

Ah, Joss Whedon. Okay, let me say upfront that I think he did a fantastic job on one of the two Avengers films he was in charge of. I also think he's a talented writer who handles ensembles well, and he excels at dialogue and nuance. But I don't get why people ever started wearing 'Joss Whedon is my Master Now' t-shirts. He does what he does decently. But that's it. I've never seen anything from him that comes across with the brilliance he's given credit for. I suspect he may have been in the right place at the right time. Buffy just happened to find a passionate audience that happened to develop its own subset of the culture, and by default everything else he touched MUST have been good enough to justify its fan base. But I continue to find the bulk of his work to be merely okay, and the fervor of his fans keeps me at a distance.

8. Harry Potter Dragon
Breath Weapon: Nonsense words
Habitat: Freaking everywhere!
Diet: The phrase "but she's such a good writer"

Dear God! If there is one damned franchise I could go the rest of my life never hearing about again, it's this one. Out of all eight films, I only started caring about any of the characters in film seven, and then I stopped again. I've never read the books. I'm never going to read the books. I don't care how much more there is in the books because I don't care about what I've seen through eight films, I'm not interested in more. Do I find anything wrong with the story? Honestly, no. But just like with Joss Whedon, Harry Potter fans irritate me to the point of strangulation fantasies that I can't help but lash back. Bottom line: stop putting it on the level of Lord of the Rings. I'm not saying Tolkien was definitively better than Rowling, I'm saying Harry Potter has not proven itself yet. It's too new. No matter how much you refuse to shut up about it right now, it is the next generation who gets to decide if it's a timeless classic or not. And even then I'm still not going to read the damn books.

Chasing the Rabbit: Chapter Twelve -Bugs in the System

Click here for the table of contents.

Minnie had retreated to the control booth. It was the quietest place in the studio since the previous afternoon, when they'd discovered Oswald's virtual world had activated. She paced on the producer's level of the booth, which was about two steps higher than where the techies were meant to sit.

At this moment, Max was the only other occupant in the room. It had been a stroke of luck that he'd been able to drop by the studios at such short notice, and bring help. Pete's son PJ was in the security room next door poring through footage, and Roxanne was down on the floor below the control booth with her feet poking out from underneath the backup motherboard.

Minnie kept glancing at the monitors, hoping for some sign that Jasmine and the others had figured out what was happening. She had to will away the urge about nineteen times to ask Max if he'd learned anything new. The trio was certainly more savvy with the current electronics than she was, and Minnie wished to every star in the sky that they could fix the problem before the executives had to be told what was going on.

Max leaned into the microphone. "Talk to me Peej. Anything on the external footage?"

"Nothin' yet, buddy. I'm only at seventeen percent."

"What have you got on the internal?"

"Ah, it's weird. I've got eyes on the Headless Horseman, but he's just kind of...standing there."

"I think the Horseman isn't actually real," said Max, taking a second to get affirmation from Minnie. "He was programmed in, based on the original model."

"He's still creepy," said PJ.

"Here's what I don't get," came Roxanne's voice through her headset. "If you can program a simulated world to accurately mimic the Matterhorn's yeti, why don't you just create a virtual version of Elsa?"

"Everyone would be out of jobs," snickered Max.

Minnie hopped down to where Max was and leaned over his shoulder. "That's come up before, but the computers don't have enough memory to program every possible dialogue tree."

"It would be a lot safer," said PJ.

"But a lot less real," Max added. "Dad always told me he was most proud of the shorts where he had to play every character on screen."

Minnie smiled at Max and gave his head a gentle rub. "It used to take him 36 hours to film one minute of footage. I never heard him complain one time."

A low buzz came from the panel, and Max fumbled around with the knobs trying to locate the source. "What's that?"

"Someone's outside." Minnie twisted the microphone's dial to the alternate speakers. "Minnie here."

"It's Belle," came the voice on the other side. "I found the information on the banshee you were looking for."

"Why don't you come on up?" Minnie suggested, switching the microphone switch back to where it was.

"-st has been disturbed," Roxanne's voice crackled over the speakers.

"Sorry, Roxanne," said Max. "We had to switch frequencies."

"Oh, I was just asking if something back here had been unplugged recently?"

Max looked to Minnie, who just shrugged. "No idea. Why? What are you looking at?"

Roxanne slid out from under the area where she'd been working and dusted herself off. "It may be nothing," she said, looking straight into the security camera. "I was just thinking. What if this wasn't a malfunction?"

"What else would it be, Rox?"

"Do you guys think it's possible someone may have sabotaged Oswald's project?"

For a few seconds nobody said anything. PJ gave a bewildered look to the camera in his room that only the control booth could see. It took Belle's knock on the door to break the silence, and it startled both Minnie and Max.

"Come on, Roxanne," said PJ. "You don't think anybody at Disney would do something like that?"

The young lady was clearly not happy suggesting what she was suggesting. "There's- how many lives in danger?"

"Ten," Minnie called from the control booth's door.

"Ten," Max repeated.

"There's ten lives in danger," said Roxanne. "Do you really want to risk ruling the possibility out?"

Minnie ushered Belle up onto the higher level where the librarian opened three books and spread them out in front of the mouse. "Here she is," Belle pointed to the glowing apparition. "The banshee."

"Darby O'Gill!" Minnie exclaimed in recognition. "I'd completely forgotten about that movie."

Belle nodded. "And if Alice said she recognized what the banshee was-"

"Then that means," Minnie picked up the thought, "information about Disney films made it into the simulation."

"Probably in the form of the books Alice and Megara have been reading."

Max blinked. "So what does that mean?"

Minnie took in a deep breath. "It means Roxanne might be on to something. There's no reason that information would make it into a virtual world unless it was brought there intentionally."

"I'm afraid its worse than the sharing of metadata," said Belle. "Alice said she knew what the banshee signified. If it's cackling the way Alice described, it may mean someone is about to die."

At first everybody reacted to Belle's comment the same way, by not reacting at all. Then in unison they all started doing something different from each other. Max went on a soliloquy that the banshee's appearance was merely ambient atmosphere. Roxanne pulled up footage of Alice and Meg's conversation at a secondary terminal and tried searching for a sound wave of the phantom. Minnie just stared at the image in Belle's book as if she was trying to will it to disappear. And PJ obsessed over a detail that nobody else was thinking about.

"Did you guys say 'ten'?" he asked. Then two more times before getting confirmation.

"Yes, Peej," Max huffed into the microphone, not having meant to be irritated but it slipping out nonetheless.

"I think it's only nine," PJ insisted.

"There's ten of them in there," said Minnie in almost a hush.

PJ started counting on his fingers. "Frollo, Bagheera, Tarzan, Kronk, Elsa, Jasmine, Meg, Alice, Maleficent. That's nine. Who's the tenth?"

Minnie gave a look of confusion to PJ's face on the monitor, then one to Belle.

"I thought it was supposed to Madam Mim," said the librarian.

"That's right," said Minnie. "It was down to her and Dr. Facilier because we wanted another magic villain. It was getting too heavy on the modern era, so we went with Mim."

"Have any of you guys seen Mim in there?" said Roxanne. Belle shook her head while PJ scrolled through the virtual map.

"She could be disguised as an animal," offered Max.

Minnie had an inspiration. "What about that thing that came through the forest, that Frollo keeps calling a demon? Didn't it speak to them?"

"Peej," said Max. "Try to find the footage right before Elsa got wounded."

Roxanne chimed in before PJ could respond. "I've got it pulled up right now."

Max rerouted the sequence to the main screen in the control booth. There was only about ten seconds of footage showing the shape of it, and it the details were blurry. Max started adjusting the color palette to try to clean it up.

Belle and Minnie stared intensely at the frozen image while the backgrounds faded in and out. "That doesn't look like Madam Mim," said Belle. "That looks more like Maleficent."

"Not quite," Minnie responded, tilting her head at an angle. "It looks more like a-"

Her jaw dropped when she recognized the silhouette. Neither Belle nor Max realized what they were looking at until a layer of details found resolution.

Max blinked in disbelief. He turned over his shoulder to get conformation of what he was seeing from the upper level. "Is that-" was all he could say before comprehending that they were more stunned than he was. Belle asked how it was even possible, although her question wasn't directed to anyone but her own perplexity. Minnie's gloved hand had already brought the receiver of the emergency phone to her ear.

"Jiminy?" she said into the mouthpiece. "Put me through to the board. There's a predicament."




Daffy Duck had had worse days, but they tended to make more sense than the one he was having now. "Leon, you're killing me." He tossed the paper clipped pages back onto his bosses desk. "These are your fingers, around my throat, squeezing the last visages of an icon into yesteryears gone by! My life is flashing before my eyes and Space Jam is no longer the low point!"

Leon remained undeterred. "I thought you'd be happier than this. You've spent decades trying to one-up Warner Brother's biggest star."

"And what has that ever gotten me?"

"Relevance?" Leon shrugged.

"And exactly how receptive to Tex Avery's stamp of 'Your Anvil Here' do you think the Wonderful World of Saccharine is gonna be?"

Leon pitched a long one. "They've got all the princesses."

Daffy sank down into the chair across from his boss's desk and let his feathered head hit the wooden surface so hard it made the pen holder bounce. "So the rabbit's gone AWOL. What do I care which studio caters to him?"

"Daffy, did you actually read the file?"

"I skimmed it. Something about some Mouse House production that he's crashed?"

"It's a virtual world, Daffy. Cutting edge technology. And Disney's legal department is under the impression that our Mr. Bunny has deliberately sabotaged whatever they're working on."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Is it that far fetched?"

"Look," Daffy pushed himself back into a sitting position. "I'm all for the rabbit getting in a tussle with the cool kids, but he's got nothin' against Disney."

"I tried telling them that, but they think it's an ego thing."

"What ego thing?" Daffy snapped, more offended than surprised. "It's not like he's ME! He's on top of the world already! He doesn't need to put anyone down to feel better about himself."

Leon folded his hands. "They've looked at his character history and found multiple cases of disproportionate retribution-"

"When provoked," Daffy interrupted. "Jeez, doesn't anyone watch the old shorts anymore?"

"They suggest he may have gone crazy."

"Based on what? One tortoise race and some World War II gremlins?" Daffy snatched up the file and began speed reading it. "Studio executives sure don't sugar coat it, do they?" He flipped through all five pages in a few seconds and threw the packet back down. "Okay, going mad with success I can buy, but there's no way the rabbit's gone stupid. You really think he'd trap himself in a virtual world to prove whatever it is those people think he's trying to prove?"

"Be that as it may, their studio is drawing their own conclusions, and the last thing I need is to be two steps behind."

"So what's this got to do with me then? You're sending me over there to...I'm guessing, complain to guest relations?"

"No, I want you to figure out what's going on?"

"And apart from my legally binding contract that requires compliance, why would I do that?"

"Because unless they can prove that Mr. Bunny maliciously caused the crisis at hand, it's just as possible that he's as much a victim as the others who are trapped there. Which means we have grounds to send in our own representatives."

"Virtual world, eh?" Daffy snorted. "Disney always gets the fun stuff."

"So can I notate that you agreed to go without being threatened?"

"Two words, Leon. Why? Me?"

"Because if Bugs isn't holding a grudge against Disney, then someone may be holding a grudge against him. Someone who has a certain amount of access to the Disney lot, and who's crazy enough to come up with a plan that succeeds in trapping a bigger star in a virtual world. And I want said someone to be visibly bringing the crisis to a resolution before the rival company makes that connection."

"Yeah, I see your point. That does sound like me." Daffy rubbed his eyes. "Except for the part where it succeeds. All right, is there a plan or am I going Gilliam?"

"You're my best duck, Daffy. I'm not sending you alone." Leon buzzed the receptionist, instructing her to 'send them in'. A few seconds later the door to his office opened and a familiar pig, cat, and coyote proudly filed inside.

Daffy stared, waiting for a punch line that never came. He glared at his boss. "These clods?"

"You'd be surprised at what a little star power can accomplish."

"You really know how to pick the A-team, Leon," Daffy snarled, unaware of Speedy Gonzales's presence on the floor below. "We have a collective winning streak of, what? Zero?"

Leon smiled. "Weaknesses are just strengths that haven't blossomed."

"Oh, no-" Daffy pushed himself out of the chair and scurried out the door. "Don't start with that humanitarian sap!" he shouted from the hallway.

Leon chuckled before addressing the remaining assembly. "I'm counting on you guys. Try to bring him back alive."

Continue to Chapter Thirteen.
Return to the table of contents.