MrJames

Writing would be easier if I didn't read, too.

2007-11-11T08:35:58Z

In honor of this National Writing Month, or whatever the bloody thing is calling itself, I've been trying to hash out a workable story. Oh, there's the Carnival thing, that's been fun and a nice way to exercise brain cells that've been snoozing, but I'd like to work on something that I could point to and say, "That's mine. I did that."

So far, I've written quite a bit. Deleted a lot, too. The problem with being a rabid reader is that I can look at just about anything I've written, and say "Heinlein did that." "Bradbury did that." "Pratchett did that. Twice." Koontz. King. Butler. Hamilton. Lovecraft. Updike. Tolkein. Hickman and Weiss. Asimov. Robinson. Shelley (Mary, that is.)
Hell, I got fourteen pages into a short story the other day before I remembered I'd read a Sidney Sheldon trash novel along those same lines.

This week's Community Ed labors will be spent trying to think of
One. Original. Idea.
Failing that, I've got to think of a way to be unoriginal, with style.

And now, Pratchett talks about writing.

If you didn't bother to watch all that, let me sum it up.
His best piece of advice for people who want to write is "make sure you're born me." Yeah, I know. Helpful. Still. I recently finished Making Money, the latest Discworld book. Then I reread The Colour of Magic, the first Discworld book. You could barely tell they were written by the same guy. Frankly, I remember reading Colour when I was in Junior High, and I had hated it. It was plotless, not all that funny, and the characters were sight gags with names. Twoflower and Rincewind, today, are some of my favorite characters of his. He got better. A lot better. It was years later that I became a fan of his, and I was a little surprised to find he'd written Colour. I still don't like that one, but it's fascinating from a technical point of view. To see how his style emerged, how he grew as a writer.
It's like reading Christine, by Stephen King, which will always be my favorite King book, and then Insomnia, allegedly by the same guy. His writing changed utterly and fundamentally midway through his career. Unlike Pratchett, though, King got a lot worse. He quit the coke and the booze, and all the soul drained out of his work. He grew technically, of course, his works today are masterfully built. But if they were architecture they'd be Dams, not Cathedrals. Functional, even beautiful in an abstract sense, but not inspiring. Not anymore.
I looked back at what writing of mine I managed to find saved online - none of my old notebooks survived the passage of time - old Carnival posts, story submissions to gaming sites, bits of short fiction archived at contest sites. It's terrible, terrible stuff. But I see that. I'm taking it as a good sign, a sign that I've improved as a writer, enough so that I'm not making the same mistakes I did at twenty or twenty-five. Now, at thirty-four, I think my prose is flowing more smoothly, my descriptors are clearer and disrupt the mood less abruptly than they did, and my characters show a lot more depth. Maybe I'm not improved enough, yet, but still. It's progress.

One wonders what the me at forty-three will say when he looks back on this post. Probably sneer at my syntax and simplistic imagery. Screw you, older me! I don't see you helping, here.

Sigh.

Maybe I should teach this stuff. "Those who can't," and all that.

Narnia by Gaslight

2007-10-31T05:38:37Z

Last night Sarah had a date with this Jessie fellow, a guy who she saw briefly last year, after his divorce. He'd said he needed time to get over his breakup, before he started in on something serious... So Sarah gave him a year. To the day. Called him up. He came over, and we had a pleasant evening of chit-chat - there was a showing of Sean of the Dead, and Lilly also attended. I made it clear in advance that this was not to be a double date sort of evening, and it was fine. Lily's cool, and I like hanging out with her, but she's a little too deranged for me. Entertaining, yeah, but, yeah. Anyway, that evening had gone well, so they arranged an actual date for Monday.

I spent Monday evening at Conifer House, concocting what I feel was an absolutely astonishing Chicken Tortilla soup, considering what I had to work with. I made my own tomato paste by pureeing peeled tomatoes and squeezing holy hell out of them in cheesecloth. I heated canola oil, and deep-fried strips of corn tortilla, making low-salt ultra-fresh fritos, essentially, to be displayed atop the soup when served. I used equal parts chicken and turkey, to make a more savory broth. I gotta say, it was great. My boss has been pushing for me to offer new recipes, things these folks haven't already had a hundred times, so I've been experimenting - and I'd almost forgotten how much fun cooking can be, when you've got the freedom to try new things. The reaction from the seniors? "Pretty good," said Omer. "For spic chow." I nearly burst a blood vessel in my eye not laughing in his face. Barbara said "It should've been spicier - people my age like a little spice, you know," and made a grope toward my junk. Ah, but I've learned how far she can reach past her walker, and so my junk remained unmolested. Al complained bitterly that he'd ordered tomato soup, the alternate, and I explained yet again that he's not allowed to eat fruit. Or dairy. Or too much salt. And that he was lucky I didn't just give him a piece of bread. Elsie scolded me for using too much chili powder; "It was so spicy I couldn't even taste it! Just awful!" But she'd used the cornbread muffin I'd served with it to mop her bowl empty, so it couldn't have been that foul. For the most part, I heard a lot of "Ole!" and "Mucho Gusto!" If I can find a decent sugar-free chocolate, I'd like to try a Mole Chicken dish - I had some at a local mexican place, and it was fantastic - the spicy salsa blended with melted chocolate and cinnamon, the chicken stewed in the sauce until it was falling apart... I'm going to try something along those lines in a crock pot at home, and if it goes well, I'll twist the recipe for the seniors to try. They seem to enjoy the more exotic options - as long as it's not more than once or twice a week.

Anyway, after work I walked home, since the bus stops at seven and Sarah was out puttin' the moves on Jessie. It was dark. I mean, darker than I've seen outdoors in a really, really long time. It had rained much of the afternoon, and while the rain had stopped there was a really heavy layer of clouds overhead. So, no moon. No stars. And, after a while of wandering down sidewalks muttering "Wow, it's dark," it occurred to me that there was no Dowlight. I'm so used to Dow Chemical lighting the undersides of clouds at night that a dark night has become something almost mythical to me. Hewlett Packard has their corporate headquarters here, but it's a very different kind of plant than Dow's. They mostly do research here in Corvallis - it's where they invented inkjet printers. Their manufacturing is indoors, and like most places around here, they don't overdo the lighting at night. Heck, streetlights dim after midnight to conserve power, the city bus runs on biodiesel, and there are recycling bins next to public trashcans. Very green town. So, after dark, it gets DARK. It didn't help that I was taking a shortcut through the hills for the first time. I usually take the 9th street to Walnut to home route, takes me about forty minutes to walk it. It's also almost level, because it skirts around the hilly residential area at the northernmost end of town. But last night, I thought I'd try it. I was regretting this, because for one thing, it was DARK. For another, when there were yard lights, the houses all start to look alike pretty quickly. For yet another thing, between the twisty curvy residential lanes and the upsy downsy terrain - I was navigating hills that were easily ten to twenty stories tall - I got totally disoriented, but fast. Completely lost.

I turned a corner, peering at the unlit intersection, without roadsigns, and saw an island of light downhill and to my left. I was reasoning that downhill was good, because I was tired of walking uphill, and because if I returned to the valley floor it meant I would be back in town proper and therefore unlost. Further north, and I'd be in the Cascade Mountains proper, and while really really lost I would at least have a nice view of home. So I went downhill. The light I'd seen was the only light source I could make out. Between the hills and the typically really tall Oregon pines, there wasn't a lot of open lines of sight. And HP was no help at all with the dark sky. When I got closer, I had one of those "struck dumb by surreal beauty" moments, and had to stand and gape for a while.

The light was an old fashioned cast-iron lamppost, with one of those flickery lightbulbs they sell, the kind that give the illusion of a real flame. The post itself was ornate and elegant, and the sight could have been lifted from Victorian England. Gaslight and mist - not fog, per se, but a kind of rain where the water just drifts down, and sometimes sideways. It was a yard decoration, set amidst the most wonderful garden. The weather here in the Willamette is freakishly mild, and great for gardening. It's been amusing me for weeks now that it's late October, and yet everywhere I go there are flowers. Roses bloom all year here. This yard had, in the misty shadows at the edge of the faux gaslight, tall plumes of something or other that looked like red forsythia, roses in white and pale gold, and a flowering vine with tiny blue flowers climbing up a tree trunk that was thicker than I am tall. Closer in, around the base of the lamppost, were moonflowers in full bloom, and some kind of huge white night-blooming flower that smelled intoxicating. I was forty feet away, and I could smell flowers so strongly they might just as well had been growing in my beard. So there I am, gawking at this Victorian night-garden, an island of gaslit beauty floating in the void.

It was strange, and thrilling. I'd said that Oregon felt like Eden. I was wrong.
Turns out, it's freaking Narnia.

I wish I'd had a camera. I wish I could find that place again. I wish I knew how to paint. Starting on a black canvas, I would show the flowers and the gaslight, the mist and the silence - I can see it in my mind, but I'll never be able to show it in words that do it justice or capture it on film or paint it for anyone else.

Eventually, after a walk that ended up taking almost two hours, I found Rolling Green, my own road. I followed it downhill, and came eventually back to the intersection with Walnut - only a few hundred yards from home. I dreamed of that garden later in the night, and remembered it vividly all day today.

Today was a lot less interesting. I did laundry, and read most of the morning. I left early for work and tried to find the night-garden again, but without success. In the daytime, in Sarah's car, those roads are just as confusing and I just got lost again. Later, at the high school, everything went peacefully - no trespassers or fires or lost people. Just routine and a crossword. And now here I am, back home and I still can't shake how pretty that scene in the darkness and the misty rain was.

Good.

It's not something I want to lose, ever.

Spathic: A geological term meaning "having good cleavage."

2007-10-29T04:56:37Z

Okay. So Sarah has this annual Halloween party - she's been throwing it for the last three years, and the Oregon crowd looks forward to it every year. Yesterday, Saturday night, was party at my house time.

I was less than enthused about this. Twenty people crowding into my little apartment, messing up my stuff, keeping me awake into the wee hours. Kaci and Chris and Sarah I know, and Kelly, of course. Everyone else, though, I know on a nodding acquaintace basis if that. Some of the Suds regulars, a neighbor who Sarah used to date, Sarah's old roomie Lily who I do admit is pretty cool in a Goth Bettie Page kind of way. Still, I resigned myself to a chaotic night and figured I'd go with the flow.

Despite myself, I had a great time. People came and there was frivolity and mirth and more bad puns than a Spider Robinson workshop. I traded war stories with other restaurant veterans - the story about Levi calling in late because she had to hit her husband with her car went over very well, and everyone agreed that vehicular assault was a good excuse, and one that discouraged too much inquiry. I debated the merits of Deep Space Nine versus that sad, sad Voyager crap. I traded Guy Walks Into A Bar jokes with Joe and Sally. I played Knightmare Chess - difficult when sober, much less... Oh, yeah, the booze.

Sarah and I bought a number of juices and sodas, a big 'ol jug of Seagram's Vodka, and a moderately sized bottle of Cap'n Morgan's. Guests were invited to bring their poison of choice - and a lot of them decided to bring enough for everyone. Rum. There was an astonishing abundance of rum. Early in the evening, some chowderhead decided to start making toasts. Shots were poured, and passed around. Six shots in twenty minutes later, I fled out to the porch. I am not used to drinking like that - not anymore. I spent some time with some squirt and cranberry juice, but a blond girl whose name escapes me took a sip, and reported to the others that I was shamming. People then made a point of spiking my beverages. Okay, I wasn't trying very hard to behave - but they didn't help. To sum up, I was "bullet-proof" early on, and maintained a level just a hair shy of "invisible" after that.

The people were smart and funny and affable, the beverages were never-ending. Some people wore costumes, but most didn't bother. Kelly had a medieval dress, Lily was all Goth-Bride, Melanie had cat ears and whiskers drawn on her face. I compromised by wearing my half-mask, the one with the pheasant feathers on. There were party games; bobbing for apples, even. Much more fun than I remember it being, and the cold water was, for a time, sobering. Ah, and someone new; Lily brought a guest. Her roommate Phoebe is moving out, and her guest was Lindsay, who'll be taking over Phoebe's half of the rent.

Damn.
When she arrived, I opened the door and the phrase "please come in" stopped in my throat. I stopped it, because I wasn't sure I could say it to a woman like that and NOT have it come out like a proposition. Tall, almost six feet, and as tall as me in the heels she was wearing. Brunette, probably fake because her skin was this creamy pale that's more common in blonds. She's a big girl, not the sort with collarbones and ribs showing - no, she's the kind of girl you can roll around with. Curvy as hell, too, and spathic? Don't get me started. Long neck, and the most distracting mouth - watching her smoke a cigarette was maddening. And she was wearing a bandolier and fishnet stockings. Hot girl with bullets. I say again, Damn.

So, I flirted. Why not, right? Between the mask and the rum I had no fear. The old Pon Farr is annoying as hell, and she seemed agreeable and flirted back, and that seemed to be about as far as it was going. More people arrived, and more toasts were made. A pleasant evening.

And then I was in bed, my alarm going off. Someone had gotten into Sarah's markers and drawn a squid high on my arm, like a tattoo. And there was a big red heart on my chest. I have no memory of the last hour of the party, none. But apparently, I thought, I was shirtless for a bit.
Not a pretty thought, that. My pasty white, hairy back fat on display. The shirt I had on had snaps, so maybe the shirt was just opened. I made a mental note to ask Sarah, so I'd know how embarrassed to be later. I get cleaned up, straighten the apartment a little, and head out to work. Pot Pies at Conifer House tonight, and I was already thinking spices and cooking times. Kaci and Chris took a cab home, so I returned their car, and Kaci offered to give me a lift to Conifer House. On the way there, she askes me, "So... Lindsay?"

I grin, and reply, "Yeah. She was something."

She says, "So tell me about that kiss."

Kiss?

"Kiss?"

"Sarah says you two were going at it pretty strong," she laughs. "And you were all swoony after she left."

"Kiss?"

I remember debating the merits of Measure 50, a constitutional amendment that would raise the gas tax in Oregon. I remember Chris with a potato chip balanced on his head, because he wanted to see how long it would be before somebody asked him why he had a potato chip on his head. I remember loaning Phil my Shadows over Baker Street book, the one with a collection of Lovecraftian Sherlock Holmes stories. I remember people taking pictures and threatening potential blackmail.

The ONE thing I'd like to remember ... and don't.

Son of a bitch!

There's a moral here, and it's not exactly subtle. Rum is not my friend. Alcohol is a harsh taskmaster. And so forth, and so on, I get it. And yet, NOT FAIR. The first action I see in well over a year, and with a huggable number like Lindsay, and what happens? I erased the damn file.

Oh, I'm kicking myself. Believe it.

I'll see Lindsay again, of course. Lily's around a lot, and so she's in the proverbial loop. Or will be, next month when she moves into the Lilly pad. I do remember telling Lily to pass on my phone number. So who knows? Maybe I'll get a do-over.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not looking for a girlfriend, not here. Lindsay's adorable, and I would certainly like the chance to learn those curves a little better, but she's twenty. years. old.

I'm old enough to be her father. Barely - I'd have been fourteen - but still.

In other party news, Chris too is regretting his indulgence of the previous night. Chris is a big guy - six foot five, and a construction worker. He makes me look dainty. He takes a great deal of pride is his drinkin' stories. The man has a Kegerator on his porch, for pity's sake. It's a fridge that he stripped all the shelving out of, put a keg in, and drilled a hole in the door and installed a tap. Frosty mugs go in the top compartment. Whatever you name, he's drunk it, and better than you. Well, last night he was feeling sophisticated, so he put away two bottles of wine. Then he switched to vodka, neat. Poor bastard was still suffering an epic pukey hangover hell at one this afternoon. At least I have some glimmer of silver lining - I've still never had a hangover. Blotto as I was, blackouted memory and all, I woke up clear-headed and ready to go to work.

A toast, then, to Halloween parties! Thank God Halloween is only once a year.

mrjames @ 2007-10-25T00:07:00

2007-10-25T07:12:45Z

Tomorrow, due to the double shift today, I will be enjoying a day off.
A whole day.
Gets better. Wait for it. It's a payday.

I'm going to pay my cable/internet bill. I'm going to go grocery shopping, and maybe find a new belt. I'm going to eat Lebanese food for lunch. I'm going to buy a book. Maybe two. I'm going to... Okay, that's about the extent of my plans. I don't know, maybe I'll catch a movie. The thing is, I'll have a few bucks, and time to do something with 'em. That's a combo I've rarely had of late. Oh, and I'm starting a new savings account. It's going to be for travel, I'm thinkin'. GenCon, or Cleveland, or maybe Florida. Heck, there's this train that goes up Mount Hood...

Okay, this post just started and I'm already rambling. Screw it. Goodnight, all.

People Watching: A study of despair amidst beauty

2007-10-24T06:10:43Z

So I was really early for my meeting at the college today - about an hour. Must learn to read my own handwriting. Being ever-ready for such events, I had a book in the car with me. So, I found a good parking spot adjacent to the school and a park, with a pleasant view of sun-dappled fall trees aflame with reds and oranges, the mountains in the misty background, and a baseball diamond on the far side of the park. I settled myself in to read and enjoy the warm fall breeze.
After some time I looked up, and saw a boy wandering around in the park. He was quite young, maybe nineteen, but I'd guess two years younger. He was dressed in loose white slacks, with a navy blue blazer and a straight black necktie worn in a loose, dangly knot. He was pale, but I'd guess he had some arab or greek ancestry, as his hair was a mass of curly black ringlets worn long over the forehead and trimmed short on the sides. He had both hands shoved deep in his pants pockets and was wandering aimlessly, staring off into space. He looked right at me for a little while, but he wasn't seeing me, or the cars in the parking lot, or the girl with the yappy little terrier on the sidewalk.
He looked so goddamn sad. It struck me that this kid would look perfectly at home in 1988, and I turned the radio to a station that plays music from twenty years back. A Sir Elton John from back in the days before he'd been knighted started singing to me what I can't help but hear as "hold me closer, Tony Danza." The boy stood about a hundred yards off into the park, in a sunny patch of impossibly green grass under an impossibly blue October sky, looking up at the sky, his profile to me. I swear I saw a tear on his smooth cheek. I wondered what on Earth could make a handsome young man like that, in such a beautiful setting, seem so hollowed out. Like his very soul had been gouged out with a rusty ice-cream scoop. He seemed to have enough sorrow in him for a man of eighty years, or more.
Boy George was asking if I really wanted to hurt him now, and I wondered if the disc jockey had the same view I did. It worked with the scene almost too well, like I was watching an old John Cusack movie. The boy was strolling toward the baseball diamond, moving each foot with the finality of a man leaving home with no hope of ever coming back. He held his head high, but seemed to be carrying, no dragging a weight too great to measure.
A bluejay flew by, chirping madly, and knocked a yellow and gold spray of leaves off one of the nearby trees, which the warm breeze pushed across the scene like an artist who wanted to keep painting, but was afraid of ruining an already perfect picture. The boy spent some time in the outfield, moving from right field to left as though if he were to stop he would just lie down and die, but since he had no place left to go he was giving the idea some thought.
The Bangles started singing that the leaves were brown, and the sky was a hazy shade of Winter, proving that the disc jockey was looking out his window at a very different scene indeed. The boy, meanwhile, was facing away from me, toward the infield. I imagined a look of longing on his face, as if he wanted to go there, but knew he belonged where he was. Outfield, away from the game, alone in the green. Ignored by the fans, resented by his teammates. Nah, I thought. Sports metaphors weren't cutting it. Besides, the boy was leaving the ball diamond now, was taking off his jacket. The shirt underneath was a white button-up job with an oversize collar, and no sleeves. His arms were thin, and I realized how the jacket had hidden how very gaunt he was.
Maybe this was a ghost. Haunting the park in dazzling broad daylight, this was a shade from the eighties, forced to remember some great sin, some awful deed that he either did, or had done to him. Year after year he would walk this park, growing more and more emaciated. Consumed from within by despair and sorrow, until the burden of grief became too great, and he could bring himself to walk no more. His spirit would never know rest, would only one day abandon the quest for answers. He would lie uneasy in his grave, too wasted away by his endless torment to wander, and too miserable to care.
The boy lay down in the shade of a century-old oak, and made a crude pillow out of his jacket.
Huey Lewis began crooning about how he wanted a new drug, and I turned the radio off. It simply wasn't cooperating anymore.
I went back to my book, but couldn't shake the image of the sad anachronistic boy in the park. I looked up, and he was gone.

That would actually have been pretty cool, and a great way to end a story, but ten minutes later when I was going in to the meeting, I saw the kid coming out of the men's room. October ghost stories rarely incorporate a potty break.

Collegiance

2007-10-23T19:07:58Z

Today I set my alarm to wake me at eight, just so I could turn it off and go back to sleep. 'Tis Tuesday, and that means sleeping-in-day.

Mid-week work is easy on the James. Today I go into the college at 2:00, for an office staff meeting covering emergency protocols. Specifically, what to do in case of fire alarm, windstorm, power outage, or earthquake. In Michigan that last one would read "thunderstorm" but lightning doesn't happen in the Willamette Valley. Well, they had one thunderstorm here five years ago - folks are still talking about it. By all accounts, it was a lame-ass storm, the sort that back home I'd not even bother going out to the porch to watch. Ah, well. Earthquakes, now. That's new. Mary's Peak, the largest mountain in the Cascade range, is just northwest of Corvallis. I can see it from most of town. It's technically an active volcano. Mt. St. Helens is about seventy miles away, and it's bulging. I used to make fun of the halfwits who chose to live on the ring of fire (cue johnny cash soundtrack), and now I'm one of them.

Anyway, meeting goes until four, then I'm on my own until 5:30. Then I've got to be at the high school to put up Linn-Benton Community College signage, set up our pamphlet table, unlock and prep the classrooms, and purge the area of loitering teenage scum. There's a girl's volleyball game tonight, so a lot of the teenage scum won't be loiterers, but will actually have a reason to be there. Then I read for two hours. Then I go around collecting my signage, and put away my table and propaganda. While I'm at it, I peek into the classrooms and make sure the class actually showed up. Sometimes the teacher is sick, or they're meeting elsewhere - the Wilderness Survival class in particular shows a certain disdain for classrooms. Go figure. Anyway, we don't have to pay the high school for classrooms we're not using, so that's important. Then I read for another half-hour. By then it's almost nine o'clock, so classes are leaving. Starting with the outlying buildings, I sweep through making sure they're all gone, and lock up the joint. If the rooms are left messsed up, we catch hell for it, so I tidy up some. I have to swing by the college again to drop off the laptop and projector kit the Driver's Ed instructor borrows. Then I'm done for the night. Ten dollars an hour to babysit a school. Too bad it's only two nights a week.

Tonight is a Driver's Ed night. They are a bane unto me. They are noisy, messy, disogranized, and a right pain in the ass to coordinate. But the instructor's this bubbly blond, about my age - which makes bubble retention somewhat impressive. Most carbonated girls have gone flat by the time they hit thirty.

I'm broke, too. Seriously, seriously broke. There's empty cans I could return - 5 cent deposit which I know isn't bad - but seems sad compared to the 10 cents I'm used to. Thursday is a Conifer House payday, though, so there's three hundred, out of which I have about a hundred due to Comcast, and that's it. Four days after, is an LBCC payday, which should be around five hundred, out of which three hundred goes to rent. Finally, a decent block of income. The college pays only once a month, and so I'm just now raking in the money from the start of the Fall term. It's a good job, though it takes forever to see the money come in. Next term I get six credits of free classes- and I'm taking them. Damn right. Plan is to start in on the Administrative Professional two-year program. That's what I'm doing at the Registration desk anyway, and if I get some certification along those lines, then I'd be eligible for more hours - which means I could stop going to cook dinners at Conifer House and finally be out of foodservice! Better yet, after a year or two of Registration work at LBCC - and I've already got a goodly chunk of that at four months - I'm eligible to apply at Oregon State. Go Beavers. Seriously, they start their office staff at two thousand a month. Four times what I'm making now, and twice what I'm making if Conifer House pay is factored in. Similar benefits, i.e. free college, plus other bennies too numerous to list here. I'm going for it. Easy, non-food work in an air-conditioned office, with a parade of pretty coeds, a lack of latex gloves and I get to dress nice for a change. I clean up pretty good in a jacket, and Oregon seems to be an almost universally anti-necktie state. Oh, and when I get out of work, I'd still look nice - not all covered in flour and grease, smelling of onions and fish. I'd have all my evenings free, weekends off, and no working on holidays. Heck, once I'm not low on the totem pole, I could even take my summers off. And at that pay grade, I could (gasp) afford to do it! Heck, going to GenCon in Indy would be easily affordable! Why, I could take classes in the summers, and work the rest of the year. I could just collect degree after degree for the sheer joy of learning new things.

Like I said, Eden, man. I have reached the promised land, and found it smells of patchouli and rains a lot in the winter.

Okay, that's enough for today. I've covered my plans for the day and for my future career.

Oh, and how did I luck into this job? Not having any office experience or training, or even an in-state reference? I modeled for a couple art classes early in the summer term. I needed money, bad. I did the portaiture class, and the office staff (all women) warmed to me, and then I did the nude study class. Both professors went on at some length about how congenial and professional I was, and the office staff found me charming and handsome - or so I was told. When the positions at the high school and the registration desk became available, I didn't even have to interview. Two of the admin staff called on the same day, offering me steady work. And, unbeknownst to them but very much knownst to me, an open door to a better life.

Next time: James and the dreaded Pon Farr.

Daemonstration

2007-10-23T07:30:33Z

If you haven't read Phil Pullman's magnificent His Dark Materials series, go get to it.
These are some of the finest books I've ever, ever read. And this is me talking. I read, oh, a lot.

My sisters took the same quiz - Sarah's a greyhound, and Kaci's a fox. Kaci's beau Chris is a chimpanzee.
Clay's a lynx. Marci's an ermine.

So. What're you?

231 weeks. Holy crap.

2007-10-23T03:55:26Z

That's how long it's been since I posted to LiveJournal. You know how long 231 weeks is? The LiveJournal interface and look has completely changed. It's long enough for me to forget I even had a LiveJournal. Long enough for everything to change. The MrJames who started this journal (If we may be so lax as to apply that name to it) is dead now. Mourn him but briefly, for a new, allegedly improved MrJames has risen from the ashes. I'm living a new life, in a new state, in a new career. Without a family of my own anymore, but with my sisters nearby for the fist time in, well, ever.

So. Four years. Okay, to sum up my life for the last four years....

Had another granddaughter - Chloe Mae Ward. She's adorable, and just a teensy bit evil.

Quit my job at the diner. Started managing the kitchen at a local bar. Much better crowd to work with, and for.

Split from my wife. She'd been having an affair. No, that sounds too serious. "Affair" implies a relationship, and my Jacklyn had better standards than to become romantic with that schlub. They were just screwing around. Still. That was enough.

Spent a year being really depressed. Marci and Dave took me in, and gave me a safe place to heal, for which I will never be able to thank them enough or repay them. I spent some time being angry at Marci, too. Had she not intervened, I would have gone on blissfully ignorant of the "dalliance" and maybe the subsequent "rendezvous" that would no doubt have followed. I would have been a cuckold, and a fool, but I would have been blissfully, happily ignorant. Except that were I to choose, I would rather have real heartache than happy lies, because apparently I have this masochistic streak in me. She was right, and it just took me a while to figure that out. In the meantime, I started drinking more than I should. I worked at a BAR, and hell. Not like I had a house payment to worry about. Bad move, man.

In a clerical error involving my evil twin, my car got stolen by my bank. No kidding. Those heartless bastards. It being the last of the last straws I was going to take, I made plans to depart Michigan. I needed a change of scene, something, anything.

I moved here to Corvallis, Oregon. Got an apartment with my youngest sister, Sarah, the photographer. The elder of the two, Kaci, is an entomologist. Fancy way of saying bug specialist. Some people kill spiders. Some people toss them outside. Kaci classifies them by genus and species and comments on how pretty they are. For the record, I kill them.

Missed the birth of a third granddaughter, Abbigail Christine Densmore. That hurt. A lot. Wanna hold the grandbaby. Wanna read to Chloe. Wanna take Melodie to festivals and have her tell me stories again. I couldn't stay, though. Being so close, but not being ... I couldn't stay. Let's leave it at that. It was killing me.

So yeah, Oregon. This is Eden. Land of Milk and Honey, and a bag of chips.

Good move, man. I suggest everyone in Michigan depart. Compared to the soul-numbing pit of despair and hypocrisy and economic descent that is Michigan - now with extra winter - a new life in Chernobyl would look good.

Now I'm working at Conifer House, an Assisted Living Facility (place where they put people to wait for them to die) and at a Community College (place where they put people to learn how to live). The contrast is amusing. And I think I'm ready to go back to writing. Finally.

It's been too bloody long.

Brace yourselves, pages. MrJames has returned.

Damnation, friends. And nothing but.

2003-05-16T20:50:44Z

So while browsing, I found this little gem.

It tells you to which level of Hell you deserve to go. After an eternity spent in your circle of Hell, one might be moved up. After an eternity there, one might be moved up. In this manner, souls are purified, and eventually accepted by the loving God back into his Presence.

I've only got to wait...eight eternities...nine, counting purgatory. Huh.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)	Moderate
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	High

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

Wow...

2002-12-10T16:41:57Z

Neat.

I am Cthulhu G.A.!

What G.A. are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh, this I need.

2002-12-09T07:55:38Z

So, where can I buy one of these?

what fucked version of hello kittie are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Welcome to Miskatonic University

2002-11-21T00:15:30Z

Ladies and Gentlemen, school is now in session.

The Miskatonic Project LiveJournal is up and running, all systems go, full steam ahead, gitalong lil' doggies, etc.

As of now, there are six members of the community, those being the people who responded with some interest to the idea. Ania, G.A., Dave, Marci, Clay, and of course, your humble moderater, myself. If anybody else wants in, tough.

I'm kidding, relax! Just drop me a line, and we'll work out a character for you. Or more than one character, that'd be fine. We've found though that giving each writer a "core" character to work with helps to focus them. Got a better idea? We'll talk.

Questions about plot, character ideas, or whatnot can be emailed to me, but you'll get a quicker response by using the message boards here at LiveJournal. I always check those.

Huzzah!

Oh, and extra special thanks go to Marci, for helping me get a handle on how LJ communities work.

Miskatonic You (It's a pun, or play on words.)

2002-11-18T18:10:06Z

Anyway. I've had a couple days to think about it. I'm thinking we'd be better off as Grad students. As students, we'd be less sedentary, more active. Grad students would still mean we've got mucho brains under our belts, access to University perks and whatnot, and still be old enough to oh, get plastered when we need to.

Student loans. Campus Police. Faculty. Girlfriends. Shambling horrors. The usual kinds of things grad students worry about.

Thoughts?

G.A. said he was aiming at the Theatre department, via the Pickman Art Intstitute. Go to Miskatonic University to get an overview of the campus, including things like student statisics, financial aid, location, tuition, degree programs available, and the colleges that make up the University.

The Orne Language College. Arkham Medical. Pickman Institute. etc.

Anyway, as a Drama student working on his Master's, G.A. would be able to produce and write and direct his own shows (maybe as part of a thesis), have access to props and costumes, possibly even live in the catacombs beneath the stage...possibly even get laid on a regular basis.

I'm leaning toward a Med student. Internship at Arkham Hospital, access to bone saws and speculums, in debt up to my eyeballs.

What?

Sorry, speculi.

Marci's Malkavian character in Dave's Chicago game would fit in just fine at Orne. Toss in a double major with Ancient Languages and Philosophy and she'll be on the fast track to a job at Wendy's.

Some of us could be related...I like the idea of being G.A.'s brother...drama guy and med student...yin/yang. Some of us could be roommates. Either way, we could all be friends. I think this could work pretty well.

Once we get the scene established, we can start tossing in macabre elements...or we could start with some right from the get-go. How about a campus curfew, due to the abduction/murder of half a dozen co-eds. One of them an undergrad who used to sleep with G.A., another one from one of the classes where Dave is a T.A.

My guy, at the hospital, would have access to some unusual autopsy reports, and that could lead...almost anywhere.

We could even set up Ania with a stalker...

Feedback, people.

Conception

2002-11-17T17:21:37Z

In a comment to an earlier post, Marci wrote:

we're all teachers at the same school (which gets the benefits of all of us being educated people).

To which I replied:

College. Teachers at the same college. I'm getting a Miskatonic University vibe...that I like. A lot. Lovecraft, anyone?
Even better, we'd be specialists. Professor of Journalism would have all sorts of access to information, Head Librarian could have some seriously useful books in the Rare Book Vault. Engineering, Chemistry, History...
We'd have perfectly mundane means of introducing bizarre elements.

This one gets my vote. Remember Caine Hated the 80's? We had the same thing going for us there.

I'm reposting here because I know some of you have better things to do than troll my posts for comments. Understandable.

Kind of sad, then, that I don't.

Moving on.

College faculty is a GREAT idea. The school provides a setting. An influx of characters. Granted, they're students, but still. Since we know damn well that Drew won't be in on this, we can even go ahead and do a tie-in with the Carnival and have Mr. K. on staff as head custodian. It gives us a good reason not to ruin the story and go to the authorities - "Vampires in the Frat house? Damn. No, don't call the police! Do you have any idea what that will do to enrollment?"

For that matter, we could even use Miskatonic. Legally. Never mind the fact that the setting is so old that it's now public domain. When H.P. Lovecraft was alive, he encouraged other writers to use his setting for their stories, because more voices made the whole thing more vivid. The Lovecraft Mythos is probably the first large-scale collaboration in fiction. Thieves' World, Wild Cards...inspired by good ol' H.P.

The school is old. Founded in the mid 1700's, it predates the Declaration of Independence. A series of fires has caused the place to be partially destroyed and rebuilt half a dozen times, leading to sealed rooms, abandoned cellars, and tunnels under the campus. We'd have a lot of room to maneuver, is what I'm getting at.

Writer's Forum

2002-11-14T16:42:21Z

Okay, writers of the LJ world (Gamers in particular, since like it or not if you Game, you are a writer); let's talk.

I'll give you a topic.
What is the difference between a story's concept, and its plot?

Go.

Collaborations: Suggestions: A summary

2002-11-13T21:05:16Z

Incarnations of Immortality, as Ania suggested, was a damn fine concept done by an author with no real talent. Piers Anthony has considerable skill as a writer, and I'll be the first to defend that. But his style is better suited to children's books. With tits. We could tackle something like that...but the trouble is the same as in an Amber game: what kind of challenges abound for Gods?

Neverwhere, a Niel Gaiman setting mentioned by G.A., kicked much ass. Not as much as American Gods, but still, there were some seriously dented buttocks there. Beautiful symbolism, with all the charm and poignancy of someone finding a bent, rusted Excalibur in a dumpster behind Hooter's.

Marci's suggestion is a World of Darknesss setting without the White Wolf systems to limit us. God knows we're experts on that kind of setting. She suggests something less grim, but perhaps a little more violent and serious.

So. A contemporary setting, with faerie/Gaiman imagery, World of Darkness variety, and epic stuff like Death hanging out at the bar while his Pale Horse is hitched outside next to the Harleys. I like that kind of synergy.

...Now we need a concept.

A way to combine our characters into a cohesive whole.

This is where we need some more ideas. Are the characters graduate students, sharing a co-op? Perhaps the sponsor of their scholarships has something nefarious in mind for our heroes and their unusual potentials?

Are we government operatives, essentially mixing a little X-Files into the cauldron?

Are we survivors of alien abduction, meeting each other in support meetings or at conventions?

Are we relatives? Neighbors? Co-workers?

The Carnival was in itself both setting and concept. For the story to be more than a one-shot, stand alone snippet, we need both. One or the other won't do.

Time for a new Collaboration?

2002-11-12T20:10:27Z

Right, then.

I think it's safe to say Dr. Celestine's Carnival of Souls is dead.
There's some good stuff there. Real good. I'm particularly proud of the direction Aimee and the Wax house went, of B.B. Wolfe, and of the Molly banter with the Doc, but I think we're tapped out.

What did we do right? That's easy. We did some damn fine characterization and dialogue.

What did we do wrong? That's easy, too. We rambled. We beat dead horses. We contradicted each other and stepped on plotlines that we didn't understand. There's some serious confusion in there, particularly between story arcs.

I think.

I think we could do it better if we tried again.

Marci, G.A., Dave, Clay (especially Clay. He made a zombie character live.), and everybody. Let's get something going.

I suggest we stick to the supernatural angle. We've demonstrated a flair for horror. But we should back it off a little. G.A., that means you don't get to be a GOD. And I don't get to work for one. Two, in Mr. James' case.

What we need is a theme.

Contradicting myself after only two paragraphs, how about gods? Anybody read American Gods, by Neil Gaiman? No? Read it. Even if we don't use it, it's a damn fine book. We could do someting with that kind of concept. Anansi, Czernobog, Hel, and Television, and the adventures of the modern day.

How about immortals? Nothing so gaudy as Highlander, but something along that line. You could have some fun with that...

How about an alien setting instead?

Fun in the Phantom Zone?

Superheroes with grit? Anybody else read The Pro, a one-shot comic from Image? Read it. Especially you, G.A.

How about some suggestions, people. I've missed the interaction and creativity.

Giovanni Chronicles: Interlude

2002-04-26T15:02:26Z

He frowned, staring out over the sea. To suit his mood, there should be a storm. Violent winds, flailing at the ocean. Whitecapped waves crashing into the rocks below. Salty spray filling the air as though the Earth itself were wounded, bleeding.

Instead, the cresent moon offered gentle light to a sea as placid as glass. Stars decorated the sky like jewelry on her graceful neck.

He frowned again. It pained him to think of her.

He knew her better than she knew herself. It wasn't arrogance on his part to say so, it was simple fact. Had he not explored every corner of her mind? Had he not spent decades in her dreams? Had he not forged dark pacts with unnamed forces to examine her every possible future? She was just a woman, really. Fickle. Whimsical. Teasing, even, the way she toyed with his heart. But she was so much more...

Casting out his thoughts, away from Gibraltar, away North, he sought her out. Again.

She sat in her garden, alone. A wolf lay at her feet, sleeping. A viola case adorned her lap, and the sight of it caused his breath to still. It had been a gift to her, half a century ago. She caressed the engravings he had carefully etched into the cherrywood, her eyes lingered on the moonlit finish he had applied layer by layer. After a time, she set the instrument case aside, unopened, and surveyed the garden. Her expression was composed. Almost regal. But touching the instrument had made her think of him, and her mind was pensive. He sighed, saddened. He knew how she had loved to play, and it grieved him that because of his gift to her, his attempt to share in that joy, she had chosen to set it aside. How long since she had played? How long had she chosen silence, rather than share in the music?

He noticed the pistol nearby, handle done in ivory and chased silver. It was a lovely weapon. What did it say of his darling Veronique that she kept her weapon close, and left the music unlistened to in its case?

Perhaps that she was forgetting.

For the first time that night, Vayle smiled.

He returned his thoughts to his own location, and was pleased to see lightning far out over the water. A storm was coming. He idly dropped the body of the boy off the rock, watching it tumble and bounce on the way down. "Like a dancer with no bones," he whispered, and he laughed aloud. He laughed much of the way home, too, because he liked the sound of it.

Nothing much.

2002-03-04T09:03:17Z

Damn. It's been nearly half a year since I've written anything here.

Anything anywhere.

I used to consider myself a writer, too.

Firp. This means I've gotta get back into the writing thing again, or acknowledge that I just flip eggs for a living.

I wonder if I can do anything with that Wrath intro... Or I've had this Lovecraft thing lurking in my head...

Something must be done, though. I'm not about to abandon an "early adopter" account.

The Carnival Saga:

2001-09-27T17:13:02Z

?Well, actually,? Jim said. ?I do have a few ideas . . . ?

He was gratified to see everyone pause, waiting to hear what he had to say. It made him feel good to see how his friends valued his ideas. "To start with, I'm going home. I need a shower, and some fresh clothes before I do anything else around here. Mike," he added, "do you want to ride with me?"

Mike was still staring at the place where Dante had vanished. He was scowling, and Jim had to ask him again before he grunted an affirmative.

"Secondly, we need to find G.A. This is his brainchild, and I think his head contains the key to fixing all this."

"Don't you mean stopping it?" Dave asked, warily.

"No. I mean fixing it. If Celestine wanted the Partner stopped, he'd be stopped. I don't think this is about damage control anymore. It's about making sure nothing like this can happen again. Maybe even making it so that nothing like this happened in the first place."

Marci looked at the table and frowned. Dave looked over his shoulder, feeling a strange sort of second-hand guilt. Mike hit the table, glaring at Jim, and snarled "What do you mean by that? Dammit, this is no time for riddles!"

"I mean we make it so that Jacklyn, Drew and Stacey, Murph, Clay, Steve..." his voice trailed off, and he looked away. Jim's expression was that of a man who'd suddenly realized something bad.

Without looking up from the table, Marci finished his sentence. "Ginger, Big Dav, and the rest of them. We make it so they never died in the first place."

"We can't do that! How are we supposed to do that?"

"Jim died last night, Mike. Remember? But he's here." Dave watched his friend carefully. It wasn't like Mike to be so...volatile.

"We aren't supposed to do it." Marci whispered. It was a terrible responsibility Jim was dropping on her shoulders. A terrible price. And he knew it. "I am. I used Stephan's hat to bring Jim back."

Jim rejoined the conversation, grabbing Dave by his ears and staring deep into his eyes. "Dante, you pissant, I know you're in there! Pay attention, dammit! Where's Steve? Celestine fired Stephan! He wasn't part of the equation anymore...so why did the partner kill him?"

Dave gaped like a fish, shocked first by being grabbed by Jim like that, shocked again by the words that came from his mouth without his permission. "Maybe he didn't want Stephan to come back?"

"No..." Marci looked up, her eyes wide. "He used too much power killing people. The deaths of the others all empowered the Carnival somehow...including the Partner."

Jim nodded, releasing Dave's ears. "Right. He wouldn't have killed anyone if there wasn't something in it for him. So where did Steve go?"

"I don't know. Maybe to the Big Top, or in the Top Hat..." Dave slapped his hand over his mouth, annoyed.

"The Hat is almost empty." Everyone stared at Marci, surprised. "Well it is! Stephan sort of 'charged up' at the performances, and then used the extra energy to move the Carnival. He'd just moved the Carnival to Florida, and they'd had three shows with piss-poor audiences. Then I used it for Jim. There's not a lot of juice left."

"I need to think. I'll drop Mike off, then I'm going to get a nap and a shower. I'll pick you up around four, okay Mike?"

Mike scowled, still. "Whatever."

"And we'll come back here." See you guys then, okay?"

Mike and Jim departed via Molly, leaving Dave and Marci alone in the now almost empty mess tent. Dave looked around at the mess the Partner had made. "Why do you think he didn't kill me?"

Marci shrugged, hiding the cold knot in her throat at the very idea. "Maybe he can't."

"He scared us, he tried to interrupt our meeting...but he appeared out of nowhere. He could have had a brick in his hand and done any one of us in before the rest realized what had happened."

"I know, sweetie."

"I wonder if it was just a distraction. What? What do you mean by that?" Dave looked a bit odd, debating with himself. "Are you sure that was Jim?"

Marci felt herself shiver. "But I used the Hat..."

"You're not a Carnie." Dave added, "You couldn't use the Hat at all, unless you were the Ringmaster..."

Now she felt downright cold. "The Partner and Mr. James left, I watched the fight outside, and with the Hat I pulled Jim back... At least, I thought I did."

"Jim looks a lot like the gambler."

"Yeah."

"And when you were talking about how Mr. James was working with the Partner, it was Jim that gave us second thoughts..."

"Yeah."

"If the Partner had a spy in our midst, Jim would be the perfect choice. And did you notice? He hasn't been mourning his wife since..."

"Since he died. Shit."

Dave raised his hand. "And where did Jim get keys for Molly?"

"Shit." Why was everything so damned complicated?

Hear, hear!

2001-09-18T19:22:32Z

The following excerpt was taken from the front page of Kenzer & Company, the makers of the Knights of the Dinner Table comic book, Hackmaster, Faerie Meat, and a number of other fine products enjoyed by tens of thousands of people. I only hope other Americans begin to see their point...

Dear United States Citizens, and Citizens of the World:

While nothing we write, say or do can erase the loss of life or replace the innocent individuals murdered Tuesday morning, we CANNOT let the terrorists win.

They intended to blemish America and destroy our way of life. The attack was very symbolic -- they struck the World trade Center, the center of world commerce. For them, complete victory is a market crash and impact to each and every American beyond remorse and shock.

And, as with all terrorism, they intend to spread fear. We must not let them win.

We will personally defy them by purchasing stock from our brokers. We will bid on eBay. We will continue to make daily purchases.

If anyone asks for our advice, we say, go out and spend as you normally would. Travel as you were planning to. Do not let them affect your freedom. Those of you that can afford it, buy stock to help the market and defeat them. If you're not enrolled in a 401k plan, think about enrolling. Those of you that are not in a position to support the market, make a purchase of some other type. Support free trade.

We will continue to work at our jobs and write prose the best way we know how.

On Friday we will play HackMaster.

In October, David Kenzer will attend Essen. You darn well better believe he will wait through whatever guantlet of security awaits and travel abroad. He will do this in defiance of their desires, and to prove they cannot affect us, our families, our friends, our colleagues or our way of life. We will not let the actions of a cowardly terrorist make us cringe in our homes or change one iota of our behavior.

We know that many of you are ambivalent about professional sports closings and cancellations. We have a slightly different take on the situation. We hope that baseball, football and hockey reconvene. We hope so simply because we cannot think of a greater defiance of terrorism than having 70,000 people sing the national anthem together.

People fear the stadiums as targets. We fear what it means if we do not continue our lives.

Are we affected? Of course. We all feel remorse, pain, anger and other emotions that cannot even be properly penned. But after a few days of mourning the effect should be stronger resolve and defiance. Our government will find those responsible and punish them. We will show that their cowardly attack gained nothing but the senseless loss of human life.

If you do let this inconceivably abhorrent event fundamentally change the way you conduct yourself daily, let it be for the better. Let it affect your heart, your compassion and your resolve.

Millions of people are giving blood now. That's great, but do it again in 6 months, a year, etc. People all over the country have small crises every day that never get press. Stop to help someone who needs help with their car. Give a homeless person some food, etc. If we keep this spirit of unity and compassion going, it will actually make our country stronger.

And that's exactly what they don't want.

Do not let them win.

Jolly Blackburn, Brian Jelke, Steve Johansson and David Scott Kenzer, Americans.

Thank you for indulging in this editorial moment, and by all means, go visit the nice people at Kenzer & Company. This is the sort of attitude that deserves support.

mrjames @ 2001-09-09T14:18:00

2001-09-09T19:07:56Z

Mr. James sat down in Ania's trailer, on an old antique rocking chair. It was a surprisingly lovely piece of furniture, and seemed out of keeping with her character. But the chair was clean of dust and had been well taken care of over the years. It didn't creak or groan under his weight, and remained silent when he began to gently rock. He watched Ania recline into her coffin and heard her slide home the deadbolt inside the lid. "Goodnight, Ania," he whispered.

Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea after all, switching roles with the vampire girl. It had seemed like a nice vacation, a chance to let someone else see to the details for a while. And the fact that it was someone he'd already established a certain dominance over made the deal seem that much sweeter. Who knew she'd grow a pair?

He'd run from the Squatch's clearing as though the devil itself had been after him. That insectile monster...was that Lady Staceybug's true face? Or was that what she had become when Stacey died? Mr. James shuddered at the memory of the massive, alien predator. And what it had done to the Partner...

For a moment, standing there over Mike, watching it pump Dante full of toxins, he'd hoped it was over. He'd felt a surge of triumph, and had picked up the blade the Partner had dropped in anticipation of returning it to Celestine. It had changed when he held it, becoming once again the cricket bat it had once been. But the Game had whispered in his mind, advising him that Dante's Partner still had a two to three chance of succeeding.

If Mr. James wanted to, he could call on the Game to make the odds even. Which would only help the Partner. No, it was better to leave the fight to those whose skill could win the day. The stakes were just too high to leave to chance, and that meant he had to go with Ania's plan, and that he was left to his own devices.

The Game couldn't help him now. Not enough.

Realizing that he was in danger, he'd fled the clearing. Cyrus would be fine. Mike...he was doomed. Screwed over but good when the Partner had slain the Old Squatch.

For that matter, he knew that Marci had picked up his hints and used the Hat at Denny's. She must have. Jim was still alive. For a moment, he'd thought he felt the surge of power that meant his real-life counterpart had passed on, but it had immediately faded. Good for her, he thought. Now if she could prove up to the task...

The danger was that she might not have picked up on the hints at all. She might have reached for the Hat on her own, and if she did...

That would be bad.

"Don't ever doubt me..." he'd said. He'd felt the Partner watching, but had wanted to warn her. To let her know what side he was on.

Ania had come to him shortly before Dante had. She'd told him what to say when the artist came, and he'd been unable to refuse. She was in charge, and she had a certain skill at leadership. Enough to know that the moment he'd left her that note, she held all the cards. It pissed him off, but like it or not he worked for her, and that was that.

Dante's Partner had realized the connection between the Carnies and their dreamers in the real world. He knew that their limitations would be stripped if the dreamers were slain by the dreams themselves, and he used the tainted power he'd been harnessing to supreme effect, going on a killing spree that spawned enough grief and angst to turbo-charge his palette. His mistake had been with Big Dav. It seemed that some dreamers aspired to be like the dreams, and in their deaths, they would only make the Carnival stronger. The partner then figured out that if they dreams themselves died, so near to the dreamers, the dreamers would be remade. Which is why Mike Borsum was about to learn that his life as he knew it was over.

The Artist had come to kill Mr. James. Jim, with the power of the Game but without Mr. James' experience in using it, would be easy to manipulate. But Ania had figured it all out first. She'd instructed the gambler to play along, and make himself out to be Celestine's foe.

It had been easy. Had he not slit Celestine's former incarnation's throat? Had he not placed a wager that even now might kill Celestine at any moment? When the Partner had achieved ascendance, had Mr. James done anything to help Celestine? No. He'd been dicking around with his Game.

He'd shown himself as a leech, attached to the Carnival because he liked to play with the marks, taking from them what he could. It was what the Partner (and Dante) had always believed. They weren't alone in their opinion, either. The Partner, unlike Dante, had liked that. So they agreed to work together.

If Marci had fallen for the ruse, without picking up his hints, then Mr. James would soon be in deep kimshee. When Lady Staceybug heard that...he shuddered again.

That was why he'd gone back to the clearing. That was why he'd picked up the skeletal husk of the Partner and carried it back to the Divine Gallery.

Outside the tent, they'd seen Tiffany's head mounted on the pole, up above the crow's nest. Violent Clay had left it there, a grim reminder that he was the best there was at what he did. The Partner had twitched in impotent fury, and Mr. James couldn't resist the urge to turn him away from the sight, 'accidentally' pointing him at the House of Mirrors. The House stood whole and undamaged. The Partner had all but shaken his bones apart in anger, and the gambler had carried him inside. He'd left the spectre lying on the sawdust floor of the tent, amidst some of his most gruesome and vile artworks. Their taint would revitalize him, for what it was worth.

He was losing. Ania and Celestine knew what they were doing, and Mr. James just had to play his part. He'd left the cricket bat with the Partner.

He looked around Ania's trailer, listening to her bedtime music. Dead Souls by Nine Inch Nails. He thought about the warped demonic thing in the Divine Gallery, and about the fact that he'd helped it nurse itself back to health yet again. About the fact that the Death of the Carnival was with it, and that he himself had left it there. He thought about the fact that his friends were in danger.

He hated this plan.

Evil Carnies and the Friends Who Love Them

2001-09-04T20:17:48Z

Mr. James flipped the coin again, thinking I bet our club sandwiches come out perfectly. Sublime masterpieces of the bread-and-cold-cut art form, they will be toasted golden brown but still soft; the bacon crispy but not burnt, and still hot; the lettuce ice-cold. They will be cut into quarters perfectly, with razor-keen edges aligned perfectly on the plate. I bet they'll be...wonderful. Either that, or they won't come at all...

The coin landed heads up, and he smiled as the Game surged in his veins, and he felt the world shift around him. Marci felt it, too, and was now visibly nervous. "I thought...you couldn't do that outside the Carnival..."

Mr. James smiled again, and filched one of Jim's Marlboros. "I couldn't. For that matter, I couldn't make a bet without another person. But I can now. I used to have to think long and hard before wording my bets, because if the odds weren't fifty/fifty, the Game wouldn't pay off. But now...two things have changed."

"Jacklyn died," she whispered.

He nodded. "Jim loved her the way I love the Game. And for a lot of the same reasons, too. She's powerful, and beautiful. She's fair, but cruel in her fairness. She sticks to her decisions, and she's willing to do whatever it takes. She can perform miracles, but only if she has reason to. She's seductive, and impartial."

"So when the real Jacklyn died..."

"That which she inspired in Jim grew stronger, yes. I've never felt my Game so strong. I no longer need to work within the odds. If I make a bet on something...I've tried on a thousand small things, our sandwich orders just now...the Game will make the odds even. And I can summon the Game outside the Carnival now. It's a part of me now. An extension of my soul, just like she was an extension of Jim's. I don't even need the coin, if I make the wager out loud. The words will seal the bet, and an outside event will decide the wager."

Marci had felt a touch of relief when the gambler had started speaking again. His silent brooding was uncomfortable. On hearing that, though, she wished he'd shut up again.

"The odds are still even, whatever the deciding factor is. They have to be. But like I said, now the Game will change the odds, making them fair. I can tell the odds just by thinking about them. For instance, did you know there's a one in twelve chance you'll leave this restaurant alive?"

Marci choked on her coffee. "What?"

Mr. James nodded. "I'm better off than you. I have a one in five chance. I think...when I stepped down, and Ania took over the Games...the flow of power from the Carnival began reaching me in new ways. Her too, probably. I wonder if her powers have shifted as mine have? I'm still just a guy with a line to the Game, but now I'm good at it. Skillful, you might say."

"Go back to the part about us not leaving here alive!"

"We might. I have a one in five chance, you have a one in twelve." He didn't look concerned. He didn't look frightened. If anything, he looked pleased, as though his new ability were a wonderful toy, and he was thrilled with the play.

Marci looked up as their food arrived. They were things of beauty. Even the garnish was perfect. She knew there was no chance these artworks were the usual fare here...then again, she realized...the odds were probably even. "What about Jim?" she asked suddenly. Mr. James stopped, his food halfway to his mouth, and cocked his head, as if in thought.

"He has one chance in one hundred and seventeen thousand, seven hundred and eleven. Wow. Long odds, that."

* * * * *

Jim watched the stars sail by as he flew, not thinking what a pretty night it was before his back came down on Marci's van. The windshield splintered but the saftey glass held, and the roof was only bent about six inches out of shape. Jim rolled, hurling himself to his right and landing in a crouch between the van and a red Chevette. He didn't feel any pain. He didn't feel any fear. He saw the world through a red filter, and the sound of his heartbeat was a drum in his ears, goading him on to battle. He looked around for the clown girl, aching to feel her bones break. Mr. James had pushed him close to the edge, and when the girl in the Violent Mime outfit had punched him, splitting his lips and knocking out four of his front teeth, he'd lost it.

Since Jim was a child, he suffered from Limbic Rage. The old Norse would have called him a berzerkiergang. The Native Americans would have said he was war-blessed. Jim was always afraid he'd kill someone, and lived in fear of releasing his temper. When it happened, he blacked out, and it would only be many hours later that his injuries would begin to hurt. He'd piece the aches and pains together, trying to deduce what he'd done...and what had been done to him. So far, he'd been lucky. Tonight though, he was fighting a fight he couldn't hope to win, and was far beyond realizing that.

The red Chevette was heaved into the air, executing a graceful arc before it smashed to the asphalt on the other side of the van. Jim launched himself, all two hundred and seventy pounds, at Tiffany, only to be heaved into the air yet again. He landed hard on his back thirty feet away. Five more, and he would have landed on the road. As it was, his spin met sidewalk, and his skull luckily landed in the grass.

Jim had a cracked femur. Two ribs were shattered, and two more had separated from their moorings. He had a ruptured kidney, a hairline skull fracture, and several dozen cuts and lacerations, the worst of them on his back from the splintered windshield. He'd pulled several muscles, pushing himself beyond stress tolerance in his rage-enduced adrenaline high. In short, he was already dying. He was just too pissed off to figure that out.

Tiffany ripped the driver's door off Marci's van and sent it at Jim like some kind of frisbee. He half dodged the projectile, half brushing it aside with his left arm. Breaking his arm in the process, of course. She laughed, enjoying herself almost as much as she'd enjoyed fighting the other clown, Violent Clay, the day he'd killed her. This was fun! Much more fun than that wuss dishwasher she'd folded into the cardboard compactor!

Jim charged her again, starting to feel the pain even through the anger. Starting to wonder why he was having trouble running in a straight line, and why he couldn't make a fist with his left hand. She effortlessly caught him by his biceps and held him off the ground. He was almost a foot taller than she was, but she held him aloft without effort. She squeezed.

His arms snapped. The shoulders popped out of joint. His ribs gave, making a sound like popcorn. He screamed, quietly, since he couldn't inhale. The rage broke, and Jim became aware again...in time to see the face that was killing him.

I thought Violent Clay was a guy...he thought, as everything faded to black.

* * * * *

"So make a bet!" Marci cried, snatching Mr. James' coin out of the air. "You can change the odds! Make them fair! One in two is a hell of a lot better than one in a hundred thousand and change!"

"Or one in twelve." He arched one eyebrow, and held his hand out for his coin. Marci looked at the heavy gold token, noting the sunrise on one side, and the skull and crossbones on the other.

"Yeah. Or one in five," she whispered, dropping the coin in his palm.

From outside, they heard a horrendous crash, and Marci's first thought was there had been an accident. Speeding car cruising into the parking lot, hitting a parked one, something like that. Then came another crash, and she stood up to look out the front windows.

She saw a dark green jeep, on its side in the road. It had been hit from behind, and it looked as though it had hit a car on its left, too. A pale green van door was projecting from the passenger window. People were already getting out of their cars, dialing cell phones, signaling oncoming traffic to stop. They didn't see Jim, floating two feet off the ground, being squeezed until his chest was looking like the waist of a hornet, but she did. They didn't see him, covered in blood and with bones protruding from his sleeves, but she did.

They didn't see what was holding him aloft, and for that matter, neither could Marci.

She spun around, and shouted at Mr. James. "I bet you whatever you want that we all get out of here alive!"

Mr. James laughed. "Are you sure? Things have changed. The odds are much, much..."

"I said I bet you!" she screamed. The other customers were running out front, one guy wailing "My Chevette!" while the others were trying to see who was hurt. "Are you in or not?" When he didn't answer her right away, she picked up a pepper shaker and hurled it at him. It whizzed past his left ear, making him jump in surprise. "Unless you can't do it! If you were just talking shit about those new powers of yours, is that it? Or are you in?"

A steely glint came into his eyes. "I'm in. We have a bet." Marci felt something heavy settle around her, something electric and warm, something...waiting. The Game. "Don't push me again, you silly little girl," he hissed. "And don't ever doubt me! I don't care if you were Bloody Mary. If you had let me finish," he said, pointing back out the window, "I was going to say the odds are much better now. The cavalry is here."

Marci spun around, and saw Jim lying on the sidewalk again, coughing up blood and twitching. She saw something else, too. Violent Clay was locked in combat with a smaller, female version of himself. He was badly hurt, too, with gaping wounds in his torso as though he'd been hacked at by a huge machete. The girl clown was smaller, and not as strong as him, but she was just as fast, and had the advantage of being uninjured. Marci also saw a dark haired woman in a black leather jacket and sunglasses, tearing doors off the cars in the pileup on the road, and pulling out people. She was moving as fast as she could, trying to get as many people to safety as possible. By her strength and speed, she guessed it was Ania. "Oh, no," Marci breathed, both hands pressed to the glass.

Mr. James poured himself another cup of coffee at the waitress' workstation. "Enjoy the show!" he called, mocking the way Stephan used to say that same phrase, night after night. "They have a fifty/fifty chance of saving our lives. And theirs."

"God damn you! Whose side are you on?" she cried, feeling tears running down her cheeks as she watched the two clowns tearing into each other, lit by the fires coming from several of the wrecked cars in the street.

A familiar voice answered, but it wasn't Mr. James. "Can't you guess?" Marci spun around, and screamed.

It looked like Dave, but it was far, far too old. Wisps of white hair hung about a face that was smeared in gore and scored with dozens of deep cuts. Liver-spotted, wrinkly hands held Bloody Mary Black's old sawed-off steadily, the barrels aimed at her midsection. His velvet clothes were slashed and bloody, and bits of mirror were still embedded in his flesh in a thousand places. Worst of all, though, were his eyes. They were swirling black pits into oblivion itself.

"Dana giving you a bit of trouble, Dante?" Mr. James asked mildly, pouring a cup of tea and handing it to the artist.

"Not anymore. Without her House, she's just a memory. What should we do about her?" he asked, gesturing with the shotgun menacingly. He didn't take the tea, so Mr. James just dropped it.

"I've already taken care of that." Marci could still feel the Game around her, waiting.

The weapon dissolved into mist. "Then I won't interfere. Shall we to the Carnival, then? I think the Squatch should be the next one we liberate."

Mr. James finished his coffee in one go, and tossed the cup over his shoulder. "By all means. He took the specter's hand in his left, and as they faded from sight, he tipped an imaginary hat to Marci. "Good luck!" he called, and laughed as he and the Great Traitor left.

The Carnival Saga: There IS a Doctor in the House.

2001-09-01T02:06:10Z

Tiffany giggled. Back at Denny's again, such fun, such fun!

Everything had been fun since the Artist had painted her face. Made her pretty. Made her strong.

She giggled again, tiptoeing with exaggerated caution past the dumpster behind the Denny's. He'd made her happy, too.

Travis was less than happy. His job sucked. He hated wandering around the restaurant in a plastic apron filling bus tubs with half-eaten dinners and dirty plates. Every time he saw somebody he knew, he flushed in shame. They gave him pitying looks, or worse, tried to pretend they hadn't recognized him. Like charity was better than pity. Travis hated standing in a cloud of fetid steam, scouring pots and pans and plates of pre-chewed slop. It took three showers just to get the stench out of his skin. Most of all, he hated hauling the trash out to the dumpsters in back. Damn cheapo bags always tore, spilling the greasy, slimy trash everywhere. He was standing over another spill now, contemplating suicide as the most efficient means of escaping the filthy chore of cleanup, when Tiffany took the decision out of his hands.

Travis didn't have to worry about his job anymore.

* * * * *

Jim watched in awe as Mr. James stared at the tablecloth and mourned his friend. The man without a soul was actually on the verge of tears! "How...dare...you?" Jim cried, his field of vision narrowing. "How fucking dare you grieve? Fuck you!"

Mr. James looked up in surprise. "What? My best friend is..."

Jim slammed his fist down, breaking his plate and sending his Moons Over MyHammy flying, spilling Marci's coffee, and quite startling the waitress who went trotting off to fetch the manager. "My WIFE is dead! Remember her, you son of a bitch? Huh? Where was Jacklyn's grief, huh?"

Mr. James looked at his counterpart, met his stare and shrugged. "She's been dead to me for a long time. A long time."

Marci shuddered, uncomfortably aware of a certain sense of age emanating from the gambler. Over a hundred years, she thought. He's been trotting around the carnival for over a century and he still looks like Jim...but he isn't Jim at all, is he?

Jim glared at his alter ego, feeling his heartbeat in his temples, seeing the world turn red...too close. Too close to losing it. "I need some air," he whispered, and turned on his heel and walked out the restaurant's side exit. Marci noticed the stiff way he was walking, like he wasn't letting himself stomp or run. It occurred to her that in six years, she'd never seen Jim lose his temper. Then it occurred to her that she was alone with Mr. James.

And Mr. James was flipping a coin.

* * * * *

Jim ignored the sound of the fire alarm as he slowly, almost gently eased the emergency exit door open. Stepping out into the cool night air, he realized he'd left his cigarettes inside. Damn. To his right, toward the front of the restaurant, he saw his car.

Usually, if he were coming into Saginaw, he'd have taken Jacklyn's car. But it was dead, too. Wrapped around a tree two blocks from home. She'd been driving along the lake road, probably because she like to see the moon reflected on the water...the officer had said she'd fallen asleep. "No..." he heard himself moan, realizing that the tears had finally come.

She'd been dead two days, he thought, the very words causing him pain. Two days, he thought again, punishing himself. And I'm finally crying.

"Yes..." someone whispered into his ear, and giggled.

* * * * *

Ania ran, making much better time than usual. She dodged between pedestrians so quickly they felt little more than a breeze, vaulted over them when there wasn't room to go between, and even somersaulted over a hot dog vendor. "Since when could I do that?" she wondered...even though she knew the answer. "Ever since Mr. James stepped down, I've been getting better at, well, everything. Skillful."

She rounded a copse of trees and slid to a halt, her boots carving deep furrows in the hard-packed clay. She could just make out Dante, fading into mist, carrying...she blinked. What the hell? That had looked like a wooden stake! Lying on his back, she saw Violent Clay, but he wasn't right, somehow. She knelt down, glancing around suspiciously before examining VC more closely. He was smaller, less muscular. Smelled like him, though. His facepaint was gone, and he was hurt. Hurt bad. No wooden stake had done this, though...he looked like he'd been put through a blender!

"A car crash."

Ania spun around, baring her fangs even as she recognized the Doc. And with him, the Doc. "Uh..." she said.

Celestine glowered down at Clay's remains. Ania had never seen Celestine this angry, not even the night he'd grabbed a lightning bolt out of the sky. His jacket was gone, and his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. His hair was unbound, and it fanned around his head like a halo. His white gloves were gone, black leather ones taking their place. In one, he held the lower portion of his cane. In the other, a long slender blade on which purple and golden flames were dancing silently. The other Celestine looked stoned. He was staring at her, at Clay, at Celestine, repeating the cycle, and he seemed to have forgotten how to blink. His left hand (ungloved, she noticed, and unscarred) was clutched against his chest, and even though he was a perfect mirror of the Doc, he seemed smaller somehow. Lesser. Particularly since the Doc had a good mad on.

"He was in a car crash," the two Celestines said in unison. The greater said it with malice and scorn, as though he were accusing someone in court. The lesser said it almost apologetically, as though he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

"Okay, boss. Er, bosses." Ania wasn't about to argue. When the shit got this weird, you just had to flow with it.

Celestine (the greater, the one with the sword and the halo) touched the blade to Clay's forehead, and she watched as greasepaint began spreading from the point of contact. Slowly, but steadily, she watched the lesser form of Violent Clay metamorphose into the homicidal maniac she'd come to know and fear. He still didn't look very good, though.

The lesser Celestine dropped to his knees next to Ania to watch, flinching as she held him back with one taloned hand. "I think I understand," he whispered. "Clay died, but Violent Clay was already dead. Clay wanted vengeance, so Violent Clay let him take over, right?"

The greater Celestine did not answer. His eyes were closed, and a pure, unbroken calliope song occupied his attention. The song was softer, quieter than the warped droning that had permeated the carnival, but the pure tones were there. And they were his.

Ania alternated between watching Violent Clay emerge from a mangled corpse like some kind of butterfly from Hell, and watching the greater Celestine. Every so often, headlights from the distant road would flash over him, and when they did, she could swear she could make out the shape of wings...

Suddenly, Violent Clay reached up and siezed the silently burning blade of Celestine's cane. He sat up, looking into his master's eyes with an empty, placid expression. G.A. didn't need the vampiress to tell him to get back. He'd seen Clay with that same look before. It meant he was prepared to do something he shouldn't. It meant he was going to act, not think. He suspected Violent Clay had that expression a lot.

Celestine raised his other hand, clenched into a tight fist, and now they could all hear the music. Pure, untainted, bedecked with the sounds of laughing children, it was a thing of sublime beauty. The blade's flames seemed to flicker in time with it, and Violent Clay's hand, smoldering and smoking from where he held the blade, clenched all the tighter.

"He's empowering the clown," G.A. whispered. Ania turned to him at last, and slipped her sunglasses down to peer at him over the lenses with eyes like glowing hot coals.

"Duh. Who are you, anyway?"

"G.A. Tagget."

She sighed, and tried again. "What are you, anyway?"

G.A. took in the sight of Celestine, resplendent in his power, a thing of primal wonder and joy and terror and elemental fury...and wondered what the hell he'd been thinking of. He should have taken to writing children's books. Travel brochures. Anything but this.

"I think I'm...his creator..."

Ah, Ania thought. That explains that. He's nuts. Ania had a deep mistrust of the mentally unbalanced.

Abruptly the music changed. The discordant, warped calliope song drowned out Celestine's, and Clay was suddenly on his feet, shaking with rage and power...he still had several large wounds, but they didn't seem to bother him so much. The Hell Clown stared down at G.A. Tagget, and the mortal saw purple and gold flames dancing in the clown's black eyes. A crimson lip curled up in a sneer as they saw each other, and G.A. took note of the exceptionally sharp teeth Violent Clay had.

Celestine lowered his hand. "James is in danger."

"James?" G.A. repeated, feeling another twinge in his chest at this news.

"As is Marci. As is Mr. James."

"Where?" Ania demanded, standing in one fluid motion. Violent Clay remained glaring at G.A., despite the fact that G.A. dearly wished he wouldn't, but he was listening to Celestine.

"Denny's. By the highway."

The Lady of Skill actually managed to keep up with Violent Clay as they ran. In the back of her head, she could still make out the clear, pure notes of Celestine's power, and they sustained her as she and the clown ran...faster...faster...

"This can't be safe, you know," she said, making conversation with the demented VC as they ran. For all the good it did. The sound of her words simply couldn't keep up with them, and so they ran in silence.

The Carnival Saga: Take me out to the fair...

2001-08-06T20:07:09Z

"A Carnival?"

"Yeah, sort of a circus thing," Marci said. "Like that one you've been writing about online."

There was a long silence, while Jim stared at the phone. He made himself put it back against his ear and replied, in cool, even tones, "Oh? I didn't know you've been reading that."

"Oh, you know how much time I spend online." Was it Jim's imagination, or was there a hard edge to her words? "And I chat with all kinds of folks. One of them gave me the website where your journal is." Another pause. "It's good. Powerful stuff."

"More a writing exercise than anything else." Shit. "Look, you know Jacklyn and I work weekends. I don't think we'll be able to make it."

"I already checked with her boss, and she's opening Sunday. You always work mornings. You could be at Tagget's Corner by five. And you both have Monday off."

"We do?"

"Yup. I checked. Come on, I already got your tickets!"

Shit! "Really. Are they..."

"They're gold, yes. Just like in your 'story.' Neat, huh?" There was an edge to her words. She was enjoying this. Jim was not.

"Marci, I..."

"Great. See you there!" and she hung up on him.

It was ninety seven degrees outside, with a heat index of one hundred and eight. Jim sat in his kitchen in the sweltering heat, and felt the beginnings of a cold sweat.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. The last email from Mr. James had detailed the exodus of Bloody Mary and her Freaks. Shortly thereafter, he'd noticed Marci looking more haggard, more weary than she'd looked since just before she escaped Dewayne. It was clear to Jim that once she'd returned to the real world, she'd begun to notice how drear it all was. She wanted back in, didn't she?

Now he was shivering. She'd found the Carnival again, remembered it somehow...or someone really had sent her the address of the Carnival of Souls story snippets...but who would...?

Mr. James. Nobody else would be so petty and cruel, and so murderously efficient at the same time. Well, Jim thought, I suppose it's what I would do. Not a particularly reassuring thought, that.

He'd heavily edited the missives he'd recieved from Mr. James before posting any of them. There had been...things...that he didn't want floating around the internet. Things children might find. Things his friends and family might read. Marci knew Jim pretty well, didn't she? Or if she remembered Mr. James at all, she knew enough about Jim and how he thought, didn't she? Enough to know that there were things that never showed up on that Journal, things that might bite her in the ass if she wasn't careful.

Jim thought hard about Marci. About what he'd learned via Mr. James about the Freak Show. She wouldn't look at it like that, would she? She'd read the journals, roll it around in her head for a while, and march in like she was the only actor in the play who'd had a chance to read the script first. Shit!

Jim got up and poured himself a healthy dose of brandy. Whiskey would have been better, but brandy was what he had. He paced the kitchen and began taking deep steady sips.

She found the Carnival again. She was going back. If not to rejoin it, than to cause some damage. Jim paused, wondering which would be worse. Then he shrugged, because both approaches had merit. She was bringing along the group. Himself, Dave, Steve, Mike, all of them.

The brandy had chased away the shivers, and he moved into the living room again. Kira and Hillary were playing tug-of-war with the plastic ring from a gallon of milk. He stooped to pat the cats, and to whisper a few hints to Hillary since she was the littlest cat in the house and needed all the advice she could get. He whispered loud enough for Kira to hear, though, because fair was fair.

Paradox.

That was the word bouncing around in his head since he'd hung up the phone. Going back in time and killing your grandfather. Portable holes inside bags of holding. Sincere republicans. And the Carnival of Souls. For some reason, he and his friends had...reflected somehow onto this entity. Jim suspected G.A. was responsible, but he couldn't figure out how. Those reflections were separate, unique...real. Did that mean that G.A., Marci, Dave, Vince, Big Dav and the rest of them were any less real?

The scary thing was that it might. Jim didn't want to meet Mr. James, shake hands with him, and find out which one of them disappeared in a puff of logic and natural universal laws. There was too good a chance it might be him.

Lighting up a smoke with hands that shook, he dashed into his office and booted up the doddering PC on his desk. He sought out the journals, and focused on the BloodyMary journal. It was active again. Jim smoked and read for a while.

When he was done, he sat back and moaned. So many snippets of information that Mr. James had sent him...and those only a fraction of what he knew. And only a fraction of those had Jim posted in the journal...and Marci hadn't had time to absorb more than a fraction of that...

"Dear God..." he whispered. "Marci thinks she was Bloody Mary Black!"

And a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind...

The voice was quiet, for Jim. He'd spent his lifetime listening to that side of himself, and more often than not, ignoring it. But Mr. James had spent several lifetimes cultivating it. Because while it was cruel and petty, it was murderously efficient. It was speaking to Jim now, and saying Now of course, I have to decide. Do I tell her who she really was? Or do I let her go on thinking that...because, true believers, it is a thought with merit. Because isn't that what it's all about? Wouldn't it be grand if she could change things with her misconceptions? And should I tell her that B.B. isn't a werewolf? Or should I let him show her?

Jim didn't like that part of himself very much. He suspected that because thoughts like that could percolate in his mind like that, it meant he wasn't a very nice person. Of course he'd tell her! She was his friend, and she needed to know...

Eventually.