It's Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting at the IPRC about to attempt to print and self-publish my first book/comic. Under normal circumstances I would be thrilled, but my car overheated on the way over here, and I am worried about it. (This is the first time I have allowed a car of mine to overhead in many, many years; but the fan stopped working and I was stuck in downtown traffic on a particularly hot day.) So I am feeling frustrated and annoyed—but I'll be over it soon enough.

Self-publishing. The control and immediacy of doing things this way is great, but the promotion end has me a little underwhelmed. I expect things to go nowhere, but it will be a fun experience nonetheless. If I am really lucky, look for me at Powell's!

A couple of simple sketches I did recently...







And here is my story from our last writing meeting. (I skipped a few in there, that I may post up later).



Writing Prompt: Double Life

July 7, 2010



Incident on the Platform at 7th St.

It was a perfect evening. The sun slanted down across the tops of the trees and tall buildings of the east bank of Bridgetown, illuminating west-facing windows and coloring the edges of the broken grey clouds with pink and orange, but leaving the streets and sidewalks in shadow. On the light rail platform at 7th St., a light, pleasant breeze stirred glimmering leaves in the setting sun, dappling the imposing granite sides of an office building just to the south.

Three small figures stood alone near the ticket machine. Two boys about 12 or 14 years old were leering disdainfully at their lone opponent, hands on hips or head cocked to one side; it was clear mischief was afoot.

Francesca Julker gazed back at them coolly. She was 13, and not very big for her age. It was not uncommon for her be picked on; she was a little too pale, with very black hair and dark-rimmed eyes with heavy underlids. Usually it boiled down to jeering 'Goth!' or 'Freak!' remarks, sometimes just the normal teasing and tormenting that comes from having an unusual appearance. It didn't really matter, and for the most part she didn't care much. Today however, she felt particularly annoyed.

The taller boy stepped closer to her. “What's wrong with you?” he demanded, maliciously playful. “I said get off our platform.” The younger one grinned and made as if he was a ghost in a sheet, bumping into things blindly. “Yeah,” he said stupidly, “Move it, zombie-butt.”

Frankie's lips compressed. She reach quietly into the black pants pocket of her all-black ensemble.

It was not easy living here in the big city. Nearly a month had passed, and she was still trying to adjust. The Blodgett's were nice enough folks, but it was irritating to have to hide things from them all the time—like going out at night to practice. Her mother had decided to send her up from the south to live with the cousins for the summer, which was the last thing she wanted; especially so close to beginning her real training. Just until the start of the school year, mom said placidly. That's not that long. You are too, alone, too intense, you need a change of scene. But I'm almost helpless, Frankie protested, I don't even have my broom yet! Patience. Patience and courage, mom smiled back. You'll be a full-grown witch soon enough. This will be good for you. Get to know some normal kids, go out to the park, loosen up; cauldrons and spells and drafty old houses do get a bit gloomy for a child, you know. When mom said something it was law. Frankie didn't argue after that. So here she was, alone in this bright, summery city without her books or candles, trying to pretend she was a normal little girl. She even had to wear colorful clothes sometimes when Mrs. Blodgett got that worried look and muttered under her breath: “Such a dark child!” At least she had her glasses. They were no broom, they worked in a pinch.

“Dude, she's dumb too!” The sarcastic voice broke through her thoughts roughly. “Hey moron! Hey ghost-face! Can you even understand me?”

The heavy, old-fashioned black framed glasses were in her hand. A really mean spell was needed for these two. Her patience had run out, and she plotted dark, witchy punishment. Fumbling to put them on, she began to craft her spell, quickly, in a soft voice that shook a little. It was an unforgivable risk, here in public, in broad daylight, and she knew it. And the glasses were a little unpredictable...

The boys looked at each other. The younger boy burst out laughing, but the older one frowned. “Hey, cut that out, weirdo!” He reached for the glasses just as she was putting them on. Her voice rose in pitch. Almost there! She grabbed the earpieces with both hands. “I said STOP IT.” The older boy looked serious. His big hand slapped the the glasses rudely off her face.

And the spell reflected, it backfired in her inexperienced hands. The glasses fell to the ground, cracking one of the lenses, and bounced a few feet away. Everything was very quiet.

The two bullies stood staring before them with glazed eyes in mute amazement. The fading sun winked across the last of the tallest rooftops, and the clouds begin to lose their fiery color. Signal lights changed over empty streets, and in the gathering dusk on the now deserted platform no one even noticed the wiggling green toad on the sidewalk, hopping awkwardly in the direction of an old-fashioned pair of black-framed eyeglasses.

Science Fiction short story

I should have mentioned last post that in our writing group we set up rules to go with our writing assignments. The rules from last meeting were:

1. Ghost story
2. Has to take place on a plane or at an airport.

For our next one, we got a bit more specific:

1. Sci-Fi
2. Opens in a forest
3. Written in first person
4. Develop at least one character besides the main one
5. You (main character) don't know one of the other characters

Now of course, we don't all follow the rules perfectly, but I really tried to meet all the criteria.

Here's my story from Tuesday night.



M.O.E.
May 11, 2010

Other than the fact that the Stratos now had a significant slash in her hull and the ion-fiber bundle that provided power to the thrusters had ruptured, we were all more or less okay. Through the rising steam and unsettling groans emanating from our downed machine, we found our way, one by one, through the side exit door and stood or sat in silence in the warm rain. Thomas and Belt, dazedly crawling from the cockpit, seemed entirely unscathed—probably because they were belted in—but Owen and I were less fortunate. Judging by the extent of the damage that could be seen near the engines and on the tail fins, the living quarters at the rear of the ship must have taken the brunt of the impact; and it was there I had been brushing my hair and looking for my copy of A Canticle for Leibowitz when I heard shouting from up front. There was no time to wonder about the cause of the alarm or to react before I was flung off my feet amid a cacophony of horrible tearing, grinding noises. I think Owen was just coming out of the can when we hit.

My ears were still ringing from the deafening noise of the ion bundle being ripped open, and my body had that all-over thick, numb feeling you get when you walk full-tilt into a glass door you didn't see. My glasses were gone. I didn't know whether I was okay or in too much shock to feel my injuries. Not daring to look down just yet, I hoped that I was still mostly intact.

All four of us were accounted for and outside now; Owen was sitting awkwardly against the curved side of the Stratos, his right arm hanging limply at his side, his face bruised and dirty. He looked more pissed than surprised. It was raining lightly, with warm steady drops. No one had said anything yet. We all stared at each other and at our now ominously silent means of transport, which lay canted a little to one side, buried in broken tree limbs and dank vegetation. The ship looked pretty bad from the outside, but we had no way of knowing the full extent of the damage at that point. All I knew for sure in those first few minutes was that we had veered too sharply to starboard in the canyon and lost airspeed. There was no chance of recovery at that altitude, and down we went, fast, slicing straight into the close, thick trees on the valley floor. Whether it was pilot error or something else was not certain. Surprisingly, we were still alive.

Starting suddenly to life, Belt plunged roughly through the damp undergrowth toward me, and called through the steady rain, “Natalie! Shit.” He was pointing the general area of my head “You're really bleeding.” Being the only girl in the group, I usually got the most attention.

“I'm okay, I think” I wanted to be confident, but my voice sounded weak and annoyingly squeaky. I didn't feel any pain yet, only stiff and bruised from being flung headlong down the aisle of the cabin; but touching the side of my head I felt my hair was matted and sticky, and I saw a bright red stain spreading steadily over my shoulder and down my left side.

He came up to me, looking grave. I put out a shaky hand. Belt was our navigator and probably the most reasonable and reliable of the whole crazy, radical bunch of us. He was the one who always made sure our plans stayed within the realm of reality; he was the organizer for the operation from day one; he had found the money; he found Thomas.

Belt took my arm, and we just stood there, quietly. The rain kept coming down, wet and warm, and blood was getting in my eye. All of a sudden, I wanted to cry.

The problem was, none of us really knew Thomas. The pilot was new to our group. He had joined us only a week before we set out on this fool's errand, though we hadn't thought it so foolish when we left—and now he had crashed our ship, our only way back, damn him...but I need to back up.

* * *

It was two years ago this Spring. We were in college then, so of course we were all filled with a sense of budding intellect and our own importance, and were tattooed and pierced and drank too much and smoked. These were the irresponsible, passionate days of unbridled dreams and grand ideas.

It was in the back room at Elroy's where we first started talking about it. Owen brought it up. It was always his idea, from the beginning, and I thought he was brilliant for it. We had know each other since he was a 9-year-old science whiz and I was a skinny tomboy with too-big glasses a couple of months younger than him, who wanted to know everything about everything too. Over the years our friendship cemented and became a deep and unalterable part of our lives; he was more of a real brother to me than those two idiots who called me their sister. But that is a another life and another story. Belt first turned up in our Freshman Philosophy class, and was just about as weird as we were, and just as much of an outsider. He was really damn smart, and was steadier somehow, less emotional baggage or something, and in time, the three of us became inseparable. That evening at Elroy's there was a sense of wildness and excitement in the air; it was magic: it was revolution. Owen talked with his hands in that animated way of his, rectangular glasses glinting in the red and black lights, hair falling over one eye, and convinced us all.

“We'll reclaim it,” he said expressively.


It had been a statement with no preamble, but we knew exactly what he was talking about. In 2043 a powerful group of prominent, self-proclaimed environmentalists, under the guidance of the IPCC had succeeded in actually outlawing the use of fossil fuels for any purpose. In had been a very long time coming, but the world was still unprepared for the ramifications of such a ruling. If that was not feat enough, they also ordered the destruction of all oil-producing facilities, refineries and applicable infrastructure. Driving was made illegal almost overnight, and that left a whole hell of a lot of cars in the world to suddenly have to get rid of, and a lot of angry people to pacify. A mire of dangerous politics ensued; there were protests and riots, and people got killed. But the bill passed, and several companies were hastily formed in a few different countries and set to the task of eradicating nearly two centuries worth of what now amounted to so much industrial waste.


Belt was talking now.

“How can it be done? I mean, the clouds must be miles thick by now, it's always raining, and the polar caps are basically gone. The ocean has risen 27 feet since Exodus. And 200 degrees Fahrenheit at the Equator! People just can't live there anymore. They say that nothing can be done about it at this point, and it's hard not to believe them.”

“The trend can be reversed, I'm certain. I've been thinking about this for years.” Owen folded his hands in front of him. “Nothing is impossible, especially if they say it is. Imagine if an event could be created that is so large it could tear through the troposphere...an escape route for the clouds and gasses could be opened...”

“Um, that's a pretty big 'event',” grinned Belt, making quotations with his fingers.

“How would you keep it open?” I broke in. “Even if you could rip a big enough hole in the sky, that's not enough; it would have to stay open for a very long time—years, even. If you expect to really make anything happen.”

The truth is, every human person since Exodus had thought at least once in their lives about how things could be undone, how things could be made right again. Owen's ideas were not entirely new, nor were my objections. A dead subject with no resolution. No one was supposed to talk about it; they had determined there was no solution long ago, and outlawed it's discussion. Maybe we were smarter than everyone else, or maybe we just had less fear or guilt or bigger balls, I don't know. But in secret we kept talking.

“You're right, of course. There are some big if's, I know; but just think... ” Owen let his words hang in the smokey air of the bar, drifting through our eager imaginations and lighting a fire that would grow and grow and not go out until the day I stood bleeding beside a broken spacecraft, cringing in anticipation of what was to come.

In the semi-dark room, the three of us sat back in our chairs, drank our beers and pondered the future and all its wild possibilities. My thoughts drifted to ancient history. Not a single school kid in the last 87 years had not heard the official account:

After the legislation was firmly in place, and public outcry had died down a little, the government controlled and sponsored demolition crews went to work. In the tumble and frenzy to get through a very distasteful set of tasks as quickly as possible, things got messy. Really messy. The lack of planning and poor execution of 'Operation Earth Scrub' started a domino effect, and within a few short months it became apparent that the amount of pollution in the atmosphere, caused by the steam and toxic chemicals released in the hurried destruction of so much, far outweighed all previous levels. By the time enough of the important people were forced to admit a grave mistake had been made, it was too late. The world over was covered by thick clouds that refused to go away, and things began to warm up. Then it began to rain. A lot of scientists and engineers tried a lot of different things, but the situation was not getting better. The rain got warmer, and so did the air. Fear was rising fast, and blame being cast freely in every direction.

Pulling out a cigarette, I listened as Belt and Owen quietly dreamed and speculated. The smoke curled slowly up from the end of the perfectly proportioned paper-and-tobacco cylinder, balanced gently between my fingertips, and spread out lazily against the dim ceiling. Elsewhere in the building music was thudding softly and people were dancing. Drinks flowed pretty freely on the moon, and bars were plentiful. You needed something to distract you when there was no sunlight, and 'outside' to go to. They were out there, hundreds—millions of them, all over the Dark Side on this Friday night, kicking up their heels and making noise and getting drunk—but here in the soft glow of a back room, lost in the heart of the city, we were alone and thoughtful. I chewed on the sliver ring in my lower lip and pushed short brown hair back over the earpiece of my glasses. “What about Thrak?” I said. “What about the oil?”

* * *

Owen was on his feet now, and the four of us struggled to get far enough under the trees to be out of the rain. His arm didn't appear to be broken after all, just badly bruised and maybe sprained. Belt wrapped a strip of cloth he retrieved from the ship around my head to slow the blood, and Thomas stood with his hands jammed in his pockets and looked miserable. The arguments and accusations had not lasted long. He had encountered a flock of gulls, stirred up by our noise, and in the confusion and mass of wings and feathers that obscured his vision he had lost control. We wanted to be angry at him, we wanted to scream at him and blame him and hate him—but we knew that it really wasn't his fault. Thomas was a good pilot and a good guy, and he didn't want to be stuck in this valley with what was about to happen any more than we did...what did it matter we had only started to get know him in the last week or two? He believed in us, found us a ship, and could fly it too. He had been around campus and Elroy's for all those years the same as us. Everyone knew Thomas, or had at least heard his name. When things go wrong, people just want someone or something to blame, and in these serious circumstances, he was the new guy, the odd one out.

I gazed out at the rain and trees, at the forlorn wrecked Stratos and found myself amazed that we were here at all. On the earth! A place not one of us had ever been, though it was the origin of all mankind. It was incredible to think of how far we had come from that night in the bar. We really believed in this, all of us, and we hadn't failed yet, despite everything.

* * *

With the first tsunami came the initial talk of Exodus. The stability of the earth's climate was deteriorating, and there was whispered talk of the end of the world. As the polar ice caps began to recede at a rapid pace and ocean levels rose, the clouds kept getting thicker, and the rain wouldn't stop even for a day. Less than a year after the catastrophe, there were men on the moon, building the solar panels that would eventually power the cities that covered the Dark Side. It took nearly 15 years to get every man, woman and child off planet earth, but they did it. Project Human Exodus, know by all of us who were born on the moon as simply: Exodus. The guilt people felt about what happened was probably the primary reason the project succeeded—like children of divorced parents, they blamed themselves for the destruction of the thing they wanted and loved most; but many of us felt there were too many dark undercurrents to take the stories at face value. Was it really so wholly accidental? So unforeseen and unpreventable? But ideas like these only came out in private, of course. We were careful. And we talked and talked about the issues and the injustice, about the tragedy. We wanted the earth back. It was ours, and it had been taken away before we even were born or had any say in the matter.

M.O.E. Belt came up with the name: Man On Earth. Things moved quickly at first. The oil really proved to be the answer, or at least it was our best working theory. Once there was hope for a way, a chance of success no matter how slim, our trio of nerdy friends went to work. The plan was pretty simple: build a huge fucking bomb, evade the moon perimeter patrol, fly to earth and set the bomb off on the site of the last and largest oil refinery in the world: Thrak. It was one of the few that escaped the wrath of the IPCC, and it stood on top of the largest oil reserve ever found. If the bomb was big enough, if the oil fires that resulted burned for long enough...well, maybe we could tip the environmental scale through pollution itself. I would have loved to see their faces at the mere thought...!

Two years later, everything was in place. Saying our private goodbyes to our dark home the night before, we wondered if we would make it back at all. I got a haircut and put on my best orange dress and boots. Belt and Owen got drunk and wished they could get laid.

The perimeter patrols were surprisingly easy to get through—people don't really try leaving the moon that often, and we slipped by undetected. The flight was swift and uneventful, and we set the bomb down in the predetermined location. All was well. Then we lifted off, frightened, as we should be, hurrying away from that somber black sphere of firepower that would have made the former U.S.S.R.'s H-bomb look like a firecracker. Cut though the valley in case it went off too soon. Fly low and fast. Get a few hundred miles clear before aiming for the atmosphere. Haste makes waste goes the old saying. We were wasted by gulls.

* * *

Owen was calm, but I wished he would speak. I wanted someone to say something, even though there was nothing to say. Time had run out for us. How far we were from the bomb hardly made any difference now, because surviving that blast, if we did, would only prolong the inevitable. With few tools, no spare parts and the fact that not one living soul in the universe could possibly guess where we were, our fate was clear enough.

Looking around at my friends, I searched their faces for emotion, and found little. I felt sad, but there was no panic as I faced the sobering reality. This was something each one of us knew could happen, but we chose to believe it would be otherwise. There was no room for regret here, just wistful resignation.

Belt stood near me, but not too near, staring fixedly through the clouds as if he could see the horizon. Thomas was standing just down from him, muddy and defeated. Owen's eyes were closed. He was waiting. His mouth was set but not bitter; he was content. Though we had been great friends for so many years, Owen did not come to me now. There were no arms around me to offer comfort, no noble words or jokes about glory. He was a brother, not a lover. There had never been a lover. I suddenly realized that I did not know what it was like to kiss someone, and oddly that seemed a far greater tragedy than my untimely death.

It had been long enough. Any minute now.

And then in an instant, it stopped raining. The clouds parted like Moses at the Red Sea, and in the eternal moment before the shock wave reached us, I could see out through the far end of our valley, a perfectly clear sky with the sun hanging low and golden over spreading forests. The earth was awash with light. Through the gap I saw an enormous dome of white and gold and purple rising majestically into the atmosphere, absorbing all it touched, paling the afternoon sun. And in that moment, I knew that I was witnessing the most beautiful thing I would ever see.

Writing Club

Over the last few months our writing club has gained members and depth, and we are starting to produce what could be called real short stories---that is to say, our work is starting to be longer than a page, and we are actually finishing them before the meetings! Whether they are written well or worth anything at all, is something the reader will have to decide, but I know I am improving nonetheless. Here is mine from two meetings ago; and I am very open to criticism!



Gate 13
April 20, 2010

Mr. Martin G. Holden opened his eyes slowly, aware of a distinct soreness in the region of his lower back. Blinking several times, and shaking his head to clear the jumble of spent dreams and confused thoughts from a mind just coming back into focus, he was startled to note the cafe had closed. Getting up with a grunt of sore limbs, he stood, swaying slightly, as he tried to remember why exactly he had been sitting in an airport terminal Starbucks, and more to the point, why he had fallen asleep in one of their chairs. The lights were dim, the chairs were stacked on tables (all except for his), and a plastic chain hung across the opening to the terminal. Strange that he had no recollection of ever coming to the airport, or getting coffee, or sitting down; in fact, this didn't even look like LAX. Pushing his stylish, gold-rimmed glasses back into their accustomed position, he turned a full circled before feeling quite certain he had not been in this airport before.

Martin glanced around his feet and the chair legs, but apparently he did not have anything with him beyond his now rumpled Nordstrom Rack suit. Tired, disoriented, and nursing a growing mild annoyance at his blank memory, he stepped over the chain and entered the wide hall.

Surprisingly, it was dark out here too. The main lights had been turned down, and the shops and eateries were locked.

'Airports don't shut down,' he rather loudly. The empty hall offered no confirmation or denial. With a glance over his shoulder, he mused over the fact that it is always oddly unsettling to be the only person present in a public place. More curious than really upset, Martin put his hands on his hips and tried to repress a smile. He was a good-natured man, successful and comfortable; he was cheered by the thought that whatever was going on would make a great story for a Monday morning coffee run.

After consulting the shadowy overhead signs, he started down the hall in search of the exit. As he walked along, he studied the darkened windows and empty boarding gates---rows and rows of vacant seats, lonely store aisles behind somber glass, locked and closed doors---a rare sight indeed at an airport. Looking closer as he walked along, he began to experience the distinct feeling that things were not normal here. The signs in the windows didn't look right. The carpet was an odd color. The direction signs weren't making sense. Reaching the end of the building, he put his hands against the glass, but could see nothing outside but darkness.

'Fog.' He was still speaking out loud, but his voice was soft in the silence. Behind him the hall stretched into obscurity. He turned around and headed back. 'Wrong way', he muttered.

He made it almost to the other end of the hall before realizing that there was no exit this way either. Running a hand through his hair, he fought back a moment of claustrophobia. If everything else were normal, if there were people around and noise and lights and planes, all this running around and dead-end nonsense would merely cause frustration. But things were just too quiet. Standing still for a moment, he listened for even the tick of a clock. Thinking for the umpteenth time about his abrupt waking in a random chair, Martin was once more incredulous that he had no idea how he had come to be there. He shivered, suddenly aware that the airport was cold. He hurried back toward the Starbucks and the Duty Free, and the signage that had so viciously set him awry.

About halfway down the long hall he caught the first sign of movement since arriving in this weird place. He gave a cheerful shout and jogged toward the figure. When he got to the doorway however, it was as empty as the rest of the place. He looked all around, puzzled and worried. The desire for human company gripped him, and after several seconds standing motionless and irresolute, he began walking more quickly than before. The atmosphere of the closed down airport had become positively chilling. It had been interesting, even entertaining at first, but enough was enough. Time to snap out of it. Time to leave this place and get back to warmth, comfort, familiarity.

There! Surely that was somebody over by Gate 11, moving behind the chair. This time, he ran. Again he was amazed to find nothing but blank rows of seats.

Mr. Holden's optimistic nature was starting to flag. He was more than a little unnerved, and the annoyance was turning almost to anger. What was going on? Where was everybody? Footsteps lost in the industrial carpet, he scanned every cavity and undulation, senses strained.

All at once, there were people everywhere.

Coming out of doorways, filing from behind pillars and counters, pouring into the hall, all going apparently the same direction: Gate 13, the last gate in the terminal. Awash in this sudden sea of humanity, Martin struggled to regain composure, nearly speechless with relief. Everything was all right again. He took a few steps back, turning in a slow circle as people of every sort brushed by him silently. No one looked at him. No one looked at each other either. Everyone was shuffling determinedly toward the gate, without a word or a glance. Not noticing the grim faces, Martin addressed himself to an old man near him, when he was sufficiently recovered---but the man walked on without a word. Unfazed, he called out to the next person, but he too ignored him. Several hails later, the discomfited businessman shouted, “Are you all deaf?! I want to talk to someone!” His fear and outrage had returned with all the force of a moment ago. This outburst gained some somber looks, but the crowd did not falter in it's movement. Encouraged that he could at least be heard, he began running through them, calling, elbowing, pleading, but it was as if he were a dreaded affliction, to be avoided at all costs. A certain wildness crept into his consciousness, a fear-driven desperation he had rarely experienced, not even when that car was in his lane not so long ago, bearing down on him at 70 miles-per-hour...

He grabbed a teenage girl by the shoulders and shook her violently. “You!” He yelled in her face, “Can you hear me?!”

She nodded slowly, as if underwater.

“What is going on here? Why are you all ignoring me? Where are we?”

She seemed to speak only with great concentration. “At the airport...the plane.”

“I know we are at the airport,” he growled, voice pinched, “What plane?”

“Ninth Ring Airlines,” her lips trembled, “Aren't you coming too?”

He echoed her words, barely realizing that he was gripping her biceps so hard that she was gasping in pain.

“Ninth Ring---no, of course I'm not coming! What the hell kind of airline is that anyway? Never heard of it. I want to know why I am in this stupid place, and why no one will speak to me. I want to know what...” trailing off, his racing mind surfaced again through the rising fog of fright that held him fast, and he relaxed his hold on the girl. Vision clearing a little, he looked her closely in the face. Her brown eyes were wide and scared---of him or something else he didn't know. A tear ran down her cheek and hung from her chin. Helplessly he let his hands drop to his sides, wondering at the angry red outlines of his fingers on her bare arms. She wavered for a moment, seeming uncertain.

“You really don't know where we are going.” It was a statement, not a question, said in a tone of infinite sadness. She left, joining the multitude.

There were so many people pressing all around now that he was being pushed backward, stumbling with them. The numbness of his confused mind sapped what determination was left to him for a time, and he allowed himself to be swept along, staggering and grasping for clues, for something that could make sense of all this fearful nonsense.

Then they were at the Gate, flowing around the counter, pushing relentlessly forward, marching soberly through a black door leading out of the terminal to the boarding ramp. No one was there to take tickets, no attendant called out seating assignments; all was silent and seemed doggedly determined, even unstoppable. Above the door a sign stated simply: Ninth Ring airlines, Fight Number 0. Martin could see dimly through the glass, a plane, almost hidden in the stagnant fog; a huge menacing craft, all black, with no markings of any sort. He had now almost reached the velvet ropes that defined the boarding line. He could see the teenager he had grabbed earlier just entering the black door. The crowd would not stop for even a moment, but she looked back just once as they swept her through the opening; she looked at him in that split second with an expression of such misery and pity as he had never seen on another human face. Then she was gone.

In that instant, he snapped. Nothing in the world could have induced him to get on that plane. Death would be a sweet alternative. In a frenzy of horror he flailed his way through the crowd, not knowing who he kicked or trampled, and ran with all his strength toward the only way out he he could see. All sanity had left him, his mind wholly concentrated on a single purpose. The next moment he was crashing through the plate glass of the windows overlooking the docking area outside the terminal, and falling, head down in a shimmering snow-globe of glass shards.

Mr. Martin G. Holden opened his eyes abruptly. Laying on his back, he could feel the cold, infinite harshness of concrete. Everything hurt. There were cuts on his hands and face. His suit was ripped. He lay for some minutes on the ground, blank and emotionless.

Finally he decided to get up. Slowly raising himself to a sitting position, he looked around carefully, almost helpless with fatigue. Memories of terror and confusion crowded his rattled brain, and he tried to remember what had happened to him, what he had been afraid of, as he tried to comprehend his new surroundings. Blinking and rubbing his eyes in turn, he could make out that he was in a deserted subway station, and most of the lights were turned down low. In the almost darkness Martin climbed to his feet. He couldn't think. His senses struggled to function as if under a great burden. It seemed he had fallen a long ways. There was broken glass, and a teenage girl. And a black plane. Thoughts darted about, trying to connect with reality.

But the time for speculation was rudely cut short by the sound of an arriving train, and with it, the platform was suddenly thronged with people. They came out of every conceivable opening, hundreds of them, and every one of them made for the approaching train. There were so many that he was carried along with them, too weak to fight or call out. Behind him the train pulled to a stop at the platform, and the doors hissed open. A sign illuminated above the caution strip adjacent the track: Ninth Ring Line.

He looked over his shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat; all that had ever terrified him in his life came washing over him like an icy wave---the first time he was chased by a dog; that car wreck on I-405 he only vaguely remembered; an empty airport at night; and a big black plane, waiting to swallow him whole like a demonic shark---just like the big black train behind him, waiting to carry him into the vastness of the night.

Tasik's last blog post before he joined the Scroll of the Dead (as he put it) made mention that the blogosphere, at least our own circle of friends and compatriots, seems to have slipped away quietly to sleep---to have finally, truly died. Perhaps in general that is true: it would seem we really have quite writing. I certainly understand the ever-increasing flurry of engaged and married life, children, new jobs, and all those other things that engulf us with their demands. I also am keenly (and bitter-sweetly) aware that the need to narrate our deepest thoughts and pains, to illustrate our creative triumphs and publish our philosophical dilemmas wanes with age, personal security, and wisdom. Not that I am claiming wisdom for myself! It is admittedly sad in a way that we have to grow up, that our passions are more contained, more tame, more reasonable. It is appropriate.

I intend to make a stand however, despite my reveries. Several of us up in PDX have formed what started as a series of free-writing sessions, and has morphed into short-story writing assignments and readings over beer. I am also in school again, and free-lance design work continues to move forward. I am finally seeing some success on the creative front, and I am holding on for dear life!

This blog then, while it my have all but lost its petulant voice, will continue on as narrative of new projects, writings, drawings, and the occasional musing. It may be inconsistent, but it won't die.

Went to see Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland tonight, and it was absolutely FANTASTIC! I have rarely enjoyed a movie so much, and highly recommend it. All the performances were flawless, (at least I thought so), and though I didn't watch it in 3-D, the visual style and execution was really stunning. The story was highly Burtonized, as you can well imagine, but it was all was done very well with some clever blending from Through the Looking Glass, and some well-placed direct quotes from the original book. While not ever really surprising, it was not overly predictable either, and had a pleasant, feel-good satisfaction to the ending. Just simply, a great film.

P.S. I have had a bit of crush on Anne Hathaway for a while now, but after this, I am totally in love with her! (In a married-person sort of way, of course...)

I recently recovered a couple of artifacts from my past that I haven't seen for more than a decade: A 1978 Realistic turntable and a huge, HEAVY, early-'80s Sansui amp. The local thrift store provided a set of vintage RCA 3-speaker boxes that sound great for $15, and I have been raiding thrift stores and vintage shops for LPs. The sound-quality of records (minus needle hiss) is fantastic, and there is something very satisfying about cueing up some vinyl that's older than me! The collection is growing nicely, last night's excursion adding Jim Croce, Chopin, and Joan Jett to mix.

On a different note, why are pictures of girls smoking so damn sexy?!?

Recently I have tackled some logo design for a couple of start up companies:


These guys are off the ground, and gaining momentum.





This company is still in the development stage, but the first proposal has gone out and things are looking positive. Either way, it has been good to do some design work.

Fall has brought many changes. Musings are often cut short, creativity curtailed (for now) and worldly cares have grown. I have an 11-mile commute by bicycle to work each morning, and same back again when the bell rings, and I relish looking at all the people and sights and wonder that is part of living in the city, while riding under grey Oregon skies. The rain is lovely, and the company charming, and our little 1950s house is beginning to feel like home. I have recently jumped headlong into the world of comics and graphics novels, and I am even (ever so slowly, uncertainly, possibly), being swayed by a comrade to---seriously?---consider playing D & D; making me, finally, a true and irredeemable nerd.... But all these things are doing wonders for my imagination! That being said, I think the winter will be slow. Work is sluggish this time of year, and money scarce. Fixing up my 142 will be put off for a while, but I have a garage of my own now, so who cares? We are having free-writing sessions now too, which are awesome, though as A.L. points out, everything I write or draw seems to be a little on the dark side. I will never escape being a thoughtful moody romantic, and I guess it shows. The best thing is that I feel settled for real now. I am doing things that I have wanted to do for ages, and there is a sense of permanence. It is good.

5:30 AM bike ride to work in the mist on empty streets. Free internet and awesome coffee at Muddy Waters. Yoshimi coming through the open windows. I love this town.

This is beautiful.

Singapore Lights Timelapse from Weehan Yeo on Vimeo.

Tonight, we drive north in the dark.

Goodbye, California.

This is how I feel right now.

The open road leading away from California forever (at least as a place to live) is looming just ahead; I can almost see it now, in the harsh morning light of a dusty SoCal summer, or perhaps enveloped in a chilly bank of June Gloom as we make our way up the coast in our two ancient, rusty cars. All extras have been cast off, along with some things that were hard to give up. The 145 station wagon is still in pieces and the move is just two weeks away---but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I just hope that this time I can break the first rule of auto mechanics, and the project will actually go smoothly. There are friends being left behind to be sure; but we have talked about moving for so long that no one is surprised. Work will never again be the same as it has been for these last years... That is a good thing to be sure, but I will miss the infinite free coffee, teaching the lore being a mechanic to great young people, and sitting around smoking in the first shop I ever did any serious work in. The promise and tragedy of certain change, even if for the better, is a deep, remorseless current that pulls you toward the known and unknown future. My brain is sharp and focused, bent toward all the things that need doing before any of these dreams can come to light---but I am looking for the time when it's okay to be lost in an empty room at twilight. Sometime not long from now, I hope to be caught up, guilt free, in Lovecraft or B.P.R.D. with a hot cup of coffee, sitting in my own backyard, or maybe a dark Portland coffee house...The time to jump-start all my writing and illustration projects, Junket, etc., and pick up the guitar again will come in time as well, I am sure.

California, I will miss you; and that is something I have said here before. I have left you before too, even for the same reasons, going to the same places, and with the same mixed feelings. But this time, I am not coming back: and though there will be pain over our breaking, it is right and appropriate that our relationship has come to an end...

On to greater things. See you soon.