Lord Sorrowstorm Questions His Life Choices

The problem with scars is, if you go that route for your evil look, you're stuck with them for life. It's one thing to get them naturally, but there's no guarantee you'll get ones that look cool, as opposed to merely unpleasant. So if you want a classic like the “down one eye,” the “half-face burn,” and the always popular “claw marks,” you have to either get them inflicted yourself, or spend a good hour every morning getting the makeup done.

Lord Sorrowstorm chose that last option, which would be one of his many regrets. He was just about to put the finishing touches on the eye scar (including the milky white contact lens) when he just couldn't be bothered. He sighed. He used to love Scar Time. The skin-dying to give him his trademark blue pallor was automatic, and the purple and white hair just needed to be touched up every week or so. The scars were where he could be an artist. A touch of blood there? Would bringing it up to his forehead make him more or less fearsome? He would even practice the supervillain cackle, or the smirk he used when taunting the world's leaders. Maybe even practice the speech he would give captured heroes. It was a fantastic way to boost the confidence before bursting out of his master-chamber, greeting his minions, and enacting his latest scheme against the world. Oh yes, he used to think, he'd show them. He'd show them all.

These days, he can't even get started on a doomsday device without at least three cups of coffee. And even his lair had gotten stale. Same fanatics willing to kill and die in his name, same walls of a semi-dormant volcano, same giants robots. And the heroes? Same things EVERY time! It was Captain Jet and Redfern the Mystical over and over again. It didn't seem fair. Heroes get massive rogue's galleries. Why couldn't the rogues get hero’s galleries?

He looked back at how it all started, almost twelve years ago now, back when he was Lazarus Soros, brilliant but unpopular high school nerd. Ah, that Career Day. No, Career Day didn't feature supervillain as an option, that would be stupid. It was, however, the last day he at least considered an honest job. He had his plan ready to go, his very first doomship set to vaporize the gym at the press of a button. But he hadn't quite worked up the nerve. And so he wandered the booths, ignoring the usual taunts from his so-called “peers,” trying to talk himself into every job they offered. Surely a job as a non-mad scientist wouldn't be so bad? He would only have to go through four years of college (which he thought would basically be just like high school with more drinking,) then probably a Masters and a PHD, when work as a lab assistant for who knows how long, and then … nope. He couldn't even get through the fantasy without wanting to blow something up. Probably a lot of somethings. Maybe an engineer? Using to his incredible mind and skills to … update music players. Or create a new operating system that would be obsolete in six months. Just another cog in a mundane machine.

And so, on that fateful day, Lazarus Soros died (ironically,) and Dr. Sorrowstorm had been born. A quarterlifetime of desperation and loneliness fueled a spree of chaos like the world had never seen. From light gags like pouring Jello into the rivers of Venice to the more sinister plan to turn Disney world’s animatronic presidents on their masters, he had done it all. The world trembled before him. Everyone he know in his past life cursed his name. Especially that jock Vinny Esperanto. Though to be fair, Sorrowstorm did inject him with chicken DNA, so he had more reason than most to do so.

That was the problem, Sorrowstorm reasoned. He was a victim of his own success. There was nowhere else to go. Well, he could make a serious attempt to conquer the world, but honestly, he didn't need that kind of headache. But now he was respected. They may hate or fear him, but nobody looked down on Sorrowstorm. And he was, in an evil kind of way, popular. The rest of the Axiom Nefarious cheered his schemes on. His minions saw him as a lesser god. And then, of course, there was Viceroy Vixen.

On paper, VV was just Sorrowstorm's chief officer, his number 2, the dragon to his final boss. And that's all she had been to him at first, just another lost soul who refused to let the status quo exist. Sorrowstorm gave her the chance to shine, and shine she did. Sorrowstorm made the plans, but VV was all about the action. Whether she was firing experimental rays at the accursed dogooders or laughing maniacally as she bounded across a city seeding mind-control spores, her enthusiasm was infectious. Just like the mind-control spores. She brought out the best of his worst, and he always worked harder to surprise her. Sorrowstorm may have the core of pain needed to fuel a life of supervillainy, but VV showed that there could be joy in hatred, and that love was just evil spelled backwards. And with one letter changed, fine.

Of course, the leather outfit didn't hurt either. Even if he knew she was lying when she claimed it was made of puppies. He knew it was at least 85% weasel.

Hell, one of his favorite recent days had been when he had to cancel his plans when a pinkeye epidemic hit the minions. The two of them spent most of the day on the couch, catching up on Netflix. And just talking whenever the screen went dark. He learned more about her in one day than he did in the last decade (he never even knew her real name was Judy Vixon.)

Frankly, he would be happy retiring, but he knew he wouldn't dare making the attempt. Oh, it would be easy enough to be Lazarus Soros again. A few erased records, some bribes, maybe make up a “true villain” that he could team up with the heroes to fight in exchange for a pardon. But what would his friends think? Would all of his evil buddies turn their backs on him, rejecting him as a sell-out? Or worse, would they turn on him, picking on him the same way the bullies in high school did? And what of his minions? They don't have any appreciable job skills! They would just cling to some other crazy death cult, or worse, Scientology.

But he could live without them, he admitted. It was Judy … err, Viceroy Vixen that he couldn't stand to lose. Could she learn to love Lazarus as he was, without the plans and terror? Maybe. But if she couldn't, she'd just drop him to fixate on some other villain. She already looks a bit too fondly at Dapper Dirk, Gentlemen Thief and Sky Pirate. He couldn't risk her hooking up with that steam-punk poser.

No, Sorrowstorm sighed. Better to keep things as they are. More Scar Time. More standoffs with the UN, more ranting about the hated Jet Squad. Wasn't that always how life was, anyway? Putting on the role that others expect of you to live the life you think you want? At least this route didn't require student loans.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Judy Vixon grunted in her Abode of Vice, also known as her bedroom. The leather outfit seemed harder to put on every morning. Well, you get what you pay for. Weasel just doesn't hold up to regular use.

As she stumbled out for another day of evil, she cast a glance at Sorrowstorm's door. He was taking forever this morning, too. What if this was finally the day, she hoped? The day he FINALLY took all the hints and announced he was quitting the evil business, or at minimum going on a long vacation? But she knew it wouldn't happen. Sorrowstorm was a consummate pro, the villain's villain. He wouldn't ever give up on his quest to conquer the world; it was just who he was. Still, she would keep on trying. Unleashing pinkeye on the minions didn't do it. But maybe a plague of dysentery would keep him home and within her grasp.

Dreamleaks 5: Challenging Film

Phyllis sighed and checked the time again. Yup, as she feared, barely a minute since the last time she checked. That makes the the third time she checked in this scene alone. If she could even call this a scene.

She glanced around, and nearly everybody in the theatre was as restless as she was. Everyone except Avi, her date, who looked ready to burst into tears. She didn't want to interrupt whatever moment he was having. But five minutes later, she couldn't stand it. “What exactly is going on?” she whispered to him.

Avi just glared baack. “Don't talk during the movie,” he muttered.

Phyllis insisted she wasn't the kind of person to do something that. Normally. However, it's not like there was any dialogue to interrupt. Or action. Seriously, they'd been watching a tree grow in fast-motion for the past ten minutes now. It was a very nice tree, with certainly expensive 3D effects on the branches and whatnot. But still, just a tree.

“It' just … I don't have any idea what's going on?” she persisted. “I was into the movie at first, but then it got … weird.”

Avi was about to shush her again, but even he had noticed the whispered conversations throughout the theater. “Looks, what's not to get? This is supposed to be the world as it would be without the characters, or anyone else. It's supposed to be a serene contrast.”

It almost serened Phyllis into a nap at that point. But no! Finally, the interminable scene ended and they could go back to the actual characters … as animals. Animals dressed up like the characters from the first part of the movie, just milling about in silly characters.

“Okay, so what does THIS mean?” Phyllis asked, just as the movie theater's staff burst in as a massive swarm. For a moment, Phyllis panicked, certain that the ushers were going to throw her and the other chatting viewers out. But no, instead they started to act out a dramatic battle, right between the rows of seats! This might make the slightest semblance of sense, if not for the fact that half of the staff were dressed like 1920's gangsters, and the others as giant cats.

Before Phyllis could ask, Avi beat her to it. “Obviously, this is supposed to represent the battle between authority as a form of corruption and tyranny versus the amoral freedom of primitivism. Cats versus gangsters is as blatant a metaphor as you can get!”

“Okay, fine, but what does it have to do with the movie that we're ostenably supposed to be watching?” Phyllis argued back. “And just think how much it must have cost to get costumes for every theater in the world.” She shuddered to imagine what the home version of the movie would be like. Maybe the Blueray would come with hand puppets.

Avi refused to answer. He was too entranced with the best acting a bunch of projectionists and ticket-takers could offer contrasted with the actual movie going on, which had switched from animals dressed in costumes to babies dressed in costumes. After an eternity at at least 15 more time-checks, the staff finally went away and the lights came on.

“Oh, thank God, it's finally over?” Phyllis shouted. The actually plot of the movie hadn't been resolved, or even addressed for an hour now, but she didn't care.

“What, no!” Avi admonished her. “The best part's coming up.”

Sure enough, the theater staff burst in, still adorned in their goofy costumes. But instead of acting out another scene, they came bearing pens and paper for the entire audience.

“The best part is a quiz?” Phyllis asked as she stared at the page dumped on her lap.

“It's the interactive part of the movie!” Avi explained. “It lets you reflect on the movie as it has presented itself and how your nature filtered that experience.

Now Phyllis was excited, eager to have an immediate way of venting her frustrations, until she saw the questions. “What exactly does my relationship with my mother have to do with a movie?”

“Ah, the real question is, doesn't your relationship with your mother have to do with everything you experience, INCLUDING the movie?” Avi said. After seeing his date's blank expression, he just grumbled, “I don't even know why agreed to come if you were going to be so critical. The art of cinema is meant to challenge you like this.”

“Well, I certainly didn't expect it from this movie,” Phyllis said. “I can appreciate being challenged by some weird indie film, but this is a big summer blockbuster! I can't help but feel they let their success get to their heads. I was looking forward to this movie for years, but a movie like Avengers 2 needs more superheroes fighting robots and less still images of trees and psych evalutions.”

“But,” she relented, “the puppy dressed like Iron Man was pretty adorable.”

Out of Retirement

There's a saying that heroes never die; they just fade away. That's blatantly true, of course, at least the last part. Heroes can't fade away any more than the stories the inhabit do. They're remembered, discussed, remade, re-imagined, and honored long after “the end.” Oh, they're forgotten sometimes, but inevitably they're returned to, either from fresh eyes and mind or when an old fan longs for the tales of their past.

But if heroes never fade away, what do they do when their stories aren't being told. Well, like the people who listen, observer, or participate in the stories, they remember their past and reminisce. So it goes at places like the Onion Knight Home for Semi-Retired Heroes. Well, semi-retired heroes and villains, technically, but they don't put that part in the sign. Not that the heroes particularly care. The battles were fought once and they will be fought again, but in between, there's no point in holding a grudge. Besides, worthy arch-nemeses are one in a million; the other “villains” exist to do little more than get in the hero's way for a few minutes.

“Minutes?” laughed Cyclonic Antipathy, who managed to save the world some 237 times by his last count, but now was content to rest on a park bench in the in the home's park. “Try seconds. Not even that long, if my Ultra-Slay power was active.”

Goblin # 1,620, who once felt the sting of death as often as most people breathed, harrumphed in his chair next to his best friend/regular murderer. “Not all the time,” he pointed out. “We had our moments. Not many, of course. But that time you were returning home from a dungeon, barely alive, and we got the chance to hit first. Oh, I lived for those days. Died for them, too.”

“That didn't count,” Cyclonic grumbled. “We had 90 healing potions to spare, but NOOOO, our storyteller was in such a hurry. I swear that even across the rift between our reality and his, I could hear him uttering the most unpleasant oaths. Considering our adventure was rated everyone 10 and older, so it was highly inappropriate.”

Goblin # 1,620 laughed and added, “Oh, speaking of bad words, remember that time when the storyteller's friend borrowed our story ...”

“Don't you dare,” Cyclonic growled, but the goblin ignored him.

“And when they entered your name, they called you ASSBUTT?” the goblin burst out laughing. “Thirty hours of a destined hero named ASSBUTT saving the world from pure evil. Hell, I bet you won a lot of fights just because we couldn't keep a straight face when fighting you.”

Cyclonic complained, “Storytellers have no respect nowadays. And did they have to put it in all caps? Our story has the lower-case letters for a reason. Anyway, you seem pretty smug for somebody who lost so often.”

Goblin # 1,620 waved a finger at Cyclonic. “Oh, I wouldn't say that. We did the math on that once. Sure, you thwarted our dark lord a bunch of times. But if you compare it to the times you died on the way, we still have a 20:1 win rate over the forces of good.”

“That stupid lava dragon,” Cyclonic muttered.

“Yeah, that was a ridiculously overpowered part of the story,” the goblin agreed. “But enough about that. You up for a game of checkers?”

But it would not be a day for checkers. Somewhere in the reality of the storytellers, perhaps while cleaning the home or just while bored, idle hands find a game, and childhood memories of their adventures with Cyclonic (and decidedly not ASSBUTT,) flooded back. A game system is dusted off, and an afternoon spent telling the story once again. And Goblin # 1,620 didn't even mind when Cyclonic sliced him in half and moved on without a second glance. With enough time, any memories become fond memories.

Here Lies Me

Gregor knelt at the grave. He didn't quite know what to expect. He thought returning here would give him closure, a meaning for all he'd gone through, maybe even the chance to escape it and move on to the next state. But instead, he just felt odd. Odd and slightly nauseous.

“Here lies Gregor Branson. 1971-2008. RIP,” he read, and sighed. “Really, mom and dad? That's the best you could come up with?” But he was more fixated at what was under the grave. Six feet down (unless they half-assed the grave, too,) was his own body, rotting away. Though after the bus hit him, he doubted it looked all the great anyway.

So much for this trip, and possibly his whole day off. Gregor shrugged and rose to his feet. At least the perpetual drizzle set the mood. He was hoping to see the sun again, though, just once. Before he had to go back.

He found Reastrom exactly where he left her, hanging out just in front of the front gates. Ah, Reastrom. His jailer, his tormentor, his greatest enemy. And, sadly enough, his only friend. Of course, she normally had the wings, horns, and talons to match her personality. Up here, she looked like just some goth girl hanging out by a cemetery.

“Are you done already?” she asked him. “Ready to go back?”

He knew she expected his eyes to widen, to tremble and beg not to go back, but he'd long since accepted it. Sure, he wasn't pleased when he died and found himself in Hell. Not many people would be. But it wasn't quite the way he expected. He assumed he would be tossed into a lake of fire, and maggots would eat his eyeballs. Something like that. But while they had a lake of fire and the eyeball maggots, they saved those for the truly evil people. Gregor wasn't evil. He was just kind of an asshole.

When the demons read the list, Gregor thought it sounded bad, but not eternal damnation bad. He cheated on his girlfriend. Well, on several girlfriends. And maybe he embezzled some money from his bosses. Big deal, like those millionaires would have even missed it. If anyone deserved to be down there, it was them. Frankly, he felt more sorry when he made fun of the fat girl in back in grade school than any of the other stuff. So he was more indignant about his fate than despairing. At least until Reastrom got to work on him. She wasn't the lashes and venom type. No she preferred the more ironic punishments. Feeling what his victims felt, escape attempts that failed due to one trivial thing. In time, he grew to accept it all. Maybe the gods or fates or whatever had a point, and he deserved what happened to him. For now.

But that was a concern for another day (and week, and month, and possibly every year until the end of time.) What the brochures about hell didn't mention was that every so often, the damned can get time off for good behavior. It's rare because well … not much good behavior down there. And even then, you only get a chance on an anniversary, like the tenth year after your death, and at the most, you get a day. Reastrom sounded as surprised as anyone when she gave him the news. And he was as surprised that he was already down there a decade as he was about getting to leave, however briefly.

“How much time do I have left?” he asked her.

Reastrom checked her watch. “About an hour. Not much time to do anything fun.”

Gregor shrugged. “I didn't expect much else. How about we just grab a burger or something before going … going back?” he asked. He almost caught himself saying “home,” and refused to think on the implication.

“Fine. Don't worry, I'm buying,” Reastrom offered. “Least I could do for the audit-torment. Some things are too low even for us. I'm just glad to get away from this awful place.”

“I was wondering about that,” Gregor said. “Why didn't you go in with me? Consecrated ground?”

She snorted. “As if. Graveyards just creep me out. I get depressed how many names I recognize from back at the office, and I hate thinking about work on these trips.”

Some time later, the two were at a booth in the closest diner they could find, munching on greasy fries and burned hamburgers dripping semi-congealed mayo. It was the best meal Gregor's ever tasted.

“So I have to ask,” Reastrom asked, her voice muffled by fry blockage, “Of all the places to go on your day off, why your own grave? Why not, I don't know, visit your parents or something? I told you they were still alive.”

“What would I have to say to them?” he said. “They're alive, they moved on, they have other children who are better than me, or at least less dead. Would I just walk up to them, offer a weak handshake, and tell them, 'so hey, about death, I have good news and bad news?'”

“So why not Vegas, a beach, a brothel, anything?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I need; the chance to add more sins to my list,” he muttered. He didn't know how that worked, but he wasn't about to risk it. “Look, we may not have always seen eye to eye about … tortures and such, but you've been more than fair to me. Even so, any chance at a normal life again was enough. I didn't need special, just this.”

“Okay, but you still didn't answer my question. Why a freaking grave?”

“I was hoping to find an answer, or some mystical whatsit. You know, the answer to life or something. Maybe learn if there were … other options, visitors from other places, I don't know. It doesn't matter. Nothing happened.”

“I could have told you all that,” she said between sips of liquified sugar. She checked her watch again. “Well, if there's anything else you want, you better do it soon. Get some pie? Use the bathroom? I should warn you, waiting to get back to piss on the fires won't help at all.”

“There's just one thing I want from you,” Gregor told her. “You never answered my question.”

Reastrom just glared at him. He didn't expect more than that. She never answered it before, either yes or no. Just gave an annoyed grunt and then upped the torment for a few days. She couldn't do that here, though of course she would remember it when back ho … in hell. But Gregor didn't care. That was the one answer he needed, the one thing that would satisfy him for any length of torture. Well, any length but one.

“Is there a point to it?” he asked her for the hundredth time. “Is it all just punishment, or is it something more? If you learn the lessons, are truly sorry, will without a doubt try to be a better person, can you … move on?” Punishment was one thing, after all. But infinite punishment? An eternity of it? Unlimited suffering in exchange for the limited list of crimes even the most evil person could do? That he couldn't bare.

So she glared. And he waited. They had, at most, five minutes left. He figured she would just run out the clock, and maybe give him the lake of fire treatment this time. Instead, she whispered something, so soft that he couldn't understand it.

“What did you say?”

“mmmm.”

“What?”

“I said 'maybe,' okay? And that's all you're getting, so shut up and get a damn pie or something.”

“Then why keep it a secret. Why not tell people that there's a chance, however slight, they might get out?”

“Because that ruins it,” she snarled at him. “It's not about being a better person so they might get out. It's about being a better person to not being a worse one. Otherwise, how will we know when people are ready, really ready to leave, and not just faking it? Gregor, the last thing I want is repeat customers.”

Gregor took all that in, wondering if by insisting on the truth, he just damned himself. Either way, as they left (they had leftovers, but Reastrom insisted they wouldn't need a doggie bag,) he insisted on giving the waiter a really generous tip.



Reastrom knelt at the grave. Gregor never did get another day off. Reastrom figured the bosses learned that she slipped up, let a moment of sympathy get to her. She had the same worry he did, that by learned the truth, she condemned him to be down there forever. But today, she revealed just one talon and carved a little something into his still-boring grave. It would be days before anyone even noticed, and even then, they had no idea what it meant. They just assumed some vandal was having a bit of fun, though they couldn't explain why the new words looked they were made from an animal's claw. Or why they glowed bright red. Whatever the reason, they figured that the grave's new epitaph, “Here lies Gregor Branson. 1971-2008. RIP - 2008-2079” meant something to somebody.

Holy F@^#ing S#!?

I have been in some discussions about the use of swear words in writing. There are authors who love them in general, others who use them as just an extension of some of their characters’ personalities, and some authors are limited (usually by genre) as to how many and which words they can use.

Swears words are just like any other word in the English language. They have power when it is given to them. When it comes down to it, swear words are really just words that show a degree of emotion.

A swear word compared to its non-offensive counterparts operate in the same manner ‘good’ and ‘amazing’ compare to each other. If someone uses the word ‘darn’, in most cases, they aren’t usually that upset about something. Now if that person were to use ‘damn’ instead, then it would be understood that the person had a stronger connection to that thing. So there is a time and place to use them. A swear word should really be used in situations where it could actually be left out and still have the sentence make sense (when used as an adjective/adverb). If it’s used as a noun, it gets trickier to test if it was used appropriately. It’s more dependent on the context in this situation. For instance, the phrase ‘That’s bullshit’ would have to be tested by replacing ‘bullshit’ with words like ‘crap’, similar to the same test as ‘darn’. All in all, swear words should be used when they portray the appropriate emotion, with the exception of it being a characteristic of a character that does not use them at appropriate times.

There have been stories which use profanity in them that are completely clashing to the motif of the book. I have read books in which halfway through a swear word was used. While it fit the appropriate reaction to the event for the character, it created a dissonance in the book. The character was a noble of a city set in a medieval locale and he went off swearing up a storm. Up to this point, no profanity had been used in the book and even the main characters, who were assassins, didn’t use such language. So to go from no use what so ever to four f-bombs in a row was very distracting and caused me to lose my flow. The scene had such a disruptive effect that I put the book down.

Often the problem of using them for the portrayal of a character’s personality is the overuse of them. A character that drops an ‘f’ bomb every other word or tries to use it in every part of speech that is possible, can become annoying to a reader. The repeated use can, but doesn’t always, create a jarring effect and ends up ‘breaking up the illusion’ of the book. Similar to typos and plot holes, when a jarring effect happens, it can cause the reader to break their flow. If a reader’s flow is disrupted, it detracts from their reading experience. This often causes them to lower their opinion of the book and possibly go as far as to stop reading it, if it has happened on multiple occasions.

The other consequence of overuse is the loss of meaning in a word. In an episode of a TV show several characters confronted another character about his use of the word ‘divine’. They pointed out that ‘not everything can be ‘divine’’. If people use swear words too much, they eventually degrade the meaning of the word to the level of their less obtrusive brethren. Which is, of course, simply no good. ‘Darn it’ should be used in a sense of disappointment, while ‘Damn it’ should be used when one seeks to call forth the wrath of the gods down upon their intended target to have it smitten into the nether.

I also believe that swear words are something that should not be used by children, not until they understand the word’s true meanings. Of my experiences with children who use swear words, I’ve noticed that they use the words as filler words or simply adjectives. Because it’s seen as ‘cool’ to use the words around their peers, children use them without knowing what they are actually saying, which of course leads to the misuse of the words. No person should have to suffer through that.

The use of profanity in literature has its purposes but should, above all, be used with consideration. It can be used tactfully to enhance a character or situation in a book. But if used without thoughtfulness, profanity can really deteriorate the quality of a book.

This One Might Be a Bit Autobiographical

It wasn't the long hours that bothered Steve so much. That just came with the territory. Sixteen hours on, eight off had been the expected schedule since Steve started in this field. And that's a good day. It didn't count the emergencies, the nightmares, the cram sessions, and, honestly, pretty much his workstation's entire college experience. Steve didn't even want to think about what happened when his workstation had its own kids. Assuming he ever did.

Nor was it the lack of appreciation. So humans didn't get it. What else was new? At least they still admitted their ignorance. The heart, the lungs, most of the spleen: they got all that figured out. But when it came to the brain, they still had no clue. Imagine how awkward it would be when they finally did figure it out, only to notice the tiny workstations where they figured their logic centers would be.

No, what really bothered Steve was how DUMB most workstations could be, including his own. Day in and day out, he'd make the perfect decisions, set up all the plans needed for his workstation to succeed. And what did the human do? Nothing! Just let instincts and biological impulses wreck everything again.

At least for day 11,529 of the job, Steve could punch out. His workstation had finally gone to bed, so after the usual nightly maintenance, (running the Dream-defragmenter, making sure bladder levels were low enough that he wouldn't have to rush back into the office for an emergency payload release, that sort of thing,) Steve punched out. He needed a freaking drink.

“Look, Steve, it could be worse,” Steve's friend Anna (short for Annathesiopolarious; workstation operators had weird names,) assured him back at the Beagle Tincture, the finest drinking establish you could find inside of dog. “Your human's hormonal levels are pretty decent, your sanity-bug reports are clean, and you're well within acceptable neurosis levels for a human in this setting. And you're well past puberty. You should be able to ride this person well until the warranty wears out.”

“That's not the point,” Steve (short for Oscilistevosipede, but anyway,) argued. “I don't just want to ride it out. My human's achievement to potentiality ratio is barely pushing acceptable. I know he wants to do more with his life, but he doesn't do it. And when he looks bad, I look bad.”

Anna nodded. “I had that problem before,” she said. “My human had the same barrista job for like, seven years. Every day, I beamed 'get that Master's already' to her for hours on end, and every night, she watched other people sing badly on television and then went to bed. I finally gave up and just ordered a copy of Personal Epiphany, Office Edition. Worked like a charm.”

Steve downed a shot of beagle fluids (don't ask,) and groaned. “I looked into that. It's not in the budget. I'm still in debt for Inner Peacemaster version 5.0 that I got him years ago. Turns out it worked too well. Contentment levels went through the roof, so he wouldn't do anything. Just wander around, thinking how awesome everything was. But humans can't eat awesome thoughts. God knows we tried that.

Sighing, Steve pulled out a brochure. “The best we can afford right now is a Willpro update. Hopefully it will at least give him the motivation to keep a sleep schedule, maybe avoid the random napping habit.”

“Is that really the best you can expect?” Anna asked. “I mean, there has to be some step in the right direction.”

Steve looked at the list of plans he had for his human and went all the way to the top of the list. “Well, let's see if I can at least get him to make a blog post or something. We can go from there.”

Dreamleaks 1: Let's Play Hockey

This is the first of a series of stories I call Dreamleaks. A dreamleak comes, appropriately enough, from a dream I recently had, one memorable and weird enough to justify recording. I then attempt to make a semi-coherent narrative out of the dream logic at play. In this case, the originating dream came just last week and demanded my attention. I could even see a video game around the concept, but for now, it will have to to this tale, a little something I call Let's Play Hockey.



Aaron Jacobksy knew he should be excited. After all, this was the moment he dreamed of all his life. The years in high school and the minor league, the countless hours spent practicing or recovering from injuries instead of spending time with his friends, and most importantly, the absolute obsession with learning even the tiniest details about the sport. All of it would be worth it, because now, he was in the big leagues. In just a few minutes, he would be starting the first game of the first season of the 2006 season.

But despite all this, he mostly felt scared. What if he really wasn't good enough to play at this level? What if he made an ass of himself, humiliating his family and even worse, letting down the fellow players he once idolized. His peers now, he realized.

Coach Roberts looked back at his newest rookie and seemed to understand. “Kid, I know what you're going through. I've seen it a thousand times. Hell, I felt the same way when I started. But you're gonna do great, kid. Nothing can really prepare you for the big leagues. If you have the heart to get here, then you've got all you need. Now, I won't say it won't leave you with a few scars,” he pointed at the gash across his face, one that left his eye permanently blind, “But the good will make up for the bad.

“Besides, kid, if you ever need me, any time at all, you just call, and I'll be there to help you out. We're in this together kid, as a team. You me, Erik, all the boys, and everything else besides. Now get out there and make me proud.”

As he spoke, the opening buzzer rang, and Aaron joined his teammates on the ice. The rink looked so different from this perspective, he thought. He watched it on TV and even as a spectator feet away, but neither truly captured the experience in its entirety, the sheer weight of the building itself. It almost felt mythic, its presence so overwhelming that Aaron nearly missed the start of the game.

But as the puck dropped, Aaron's hesitation vanished, replaced with the energy of the game. Aaron felt himself as a part of something bigger, his instincts override any doubt he had, and he had become one with the game – for about three minutes. Then he got his first trip to the penalty box. Aaron didn't even know why; nothing serious, like getting into a fight. Probably just some technical rule he briefly forgot.

Except as he left the ice, he wasn't directed to the penalty box. No, he was sent out of the arena entirely. Instead, he found himself in a perfectly normal bar. Formally dressed men and woman flirted and drank, oblivious or indifferent to the man in full hockey gear standing there with a confused look on his face. If these people were aware of the hockey game, they didn't show it. Light music played in the background, and for lack of anything better to do, Aaron took a seat. “Coach?” he mused to himself. “What just happened?”

Suddenly, the phone rang, catching Aaron by surprise, especially since he didn't even notice the bar had a phone until now. “You doing okay down there, kid?” Coach's raspy voice asked Aaron.

“I guess so, Coach, but what am I doing here?” Aaron asked. “And what's happening in the game?” It suddenly dawned on him that he didn't even know what the score was.

“It's close, kid, but don't you worry about that now. You got to just ride out this penalty,” Coach explained, or rather failed to explain.

“Okay, but why aren't I in the penalty box?” Aaron asked. “I never saw someone just go to the bar before.”

“It's like I said, kid, nothing can prepare you for the real thing,” Coach said. “Once you're playing, it's a whole different game.”

“So when can I get back in?” Aaron asked. He also realized he had no idea how long he was down here, or the time in general.

“Sorry, but we're not putting you back in right away. We need you to go to the dungeon first.”

The dungeon! Wow, they really must be cracking down on players this season. “What dungeon, Coach?”

“It's just to the right of the bar,” Coach explained. “And watch out down there, kid. The monsters are fresh at the start of the season, and they added damage squares this year. So make sure you watch your step, and for God's sake, kid, take off the skates first.”

Monsters? DAMAGE SQUARES. “Coach, this doesn't sound like hockey to me,” Aaron admitted. “I don't think the NHL rules ever mentioned any of this.”

“Of course not, kid, who said anything about the NHL? You're in the big leagues now, the secret games. And we've got more than winning a cup here, believe me. Now, don't worry kid, I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you could handle it. Now, here's what you're gonna do. Once you're in the dungeon, look to see if any of the monsters can be tamed. We can really use an electric type in this match, and maybe a few ghost monsters. Once you defeat and tame them, bring them back here, and we can enchant the puck with them. It always helps to have a few monsters ready to summon when you get the last quarter.”

There can only be one explanation, Aaron reasoned. Coach Roberts had gone completely insane. That scar must have brought about some brain damage. Aaron grabbed the phone and took off, looking for some proper authorities to call, or at the very least a bathroom. As he took a right out of the bar, he opened the door – to find a stone labyrinth waiting for him. Strange figures lurked in the shadow, and as he cautiously made his way inside, Aaron narrowly avoided stepping into a pool of some sizzling gray fluid. Ah, right. Damage squares.

“Hey, Coach, can I talk to you?” Aaron heard one of his players on the phone.

“Can it wait, Erik?” Coach asked. “I'm guiding Aaron through his first trip through the Nether-rink.”

“It's kind of important, Coach,” Erik insisted. “You see, I had a confession to make. Between seasons, I sort of – became a wizard.”

A long silence passed, before Coach got back on the line. “I gotta let you go, Aaron. It turns out that Erik's a wizard now. Don't worry, that's probably good news. A lot of All-Stars were wizards. Hell, Gretzky could turn somebody into a newt like you wouldn't believe. But it's got its risks, too. And frankly, I can't afford to lose another eye.” Just as the phone went dead, a horror loomed over Aaron, black lightning crackling about it. Aaron sighed, raised his stick, and kicked off his skates. This was going to be a long season.

Date Is In Past

This is a short story I came up with after one too many customers at work gave me a delivery date for 2013.

Date is in Past

Sandra awakened to the dulcet sounds of someone pounding on her door. Not the best way to start a Saturday, she thought to herself as she struggled into consciousness. She had no idea who could possibly want to bother her this early on the weekend, and her imagination went to all sorts of bad places before a chipper voice behind the door announced, “Package for Ms. Drescoe!”

“A package,” Sandra moaned. “I didn't order anything.” She certain didn't order anything to be delivered on a Saturday, nor would she unless, say, a life was a stake. A life she happened to be fond of. Still, she reasoned, deliveryfolks are paid not to look mortified at a grown woman wearing pajamas and bunny slippers, so she might as well get it over with.

“Tachyon Shipping!” the eager young man, who clearly somehow missed out on the memo that people should be sleeping at this hour, said as she opened the door. “Here you are, ma'am!”

Sandra took the package and peered at it suspiciously. “Tachyon shipping?” she said. “I never heard of you.”

“Nor would you, ma'am,” the deliveryman said. “We haven't been created yet.”

“I'm sorry, what?” Sandra asked. She was tired, but not that tired. “That doesn't make any sense. How could you deliver a package if your company doesn't exist?”

“Doesn't exist YET, ma'am,” he clarified. “We are around when you placed this order. In fact, we were the only company able to place your order on the requested date.” At this, he handed Sandra the order sheet.

After looking it over, Sandra recognized her signature, but the dates seemed odd. “Delivery date: January 11th, 2014. Order placed, January 7, 2015. Huh?”

“That's correct, ma'am. About a year from now, you will place this order to deliver to your past self. Or your present self, as you understand it,” he explained. “Don't worry, a lot of our customers are confused about this, what with them not having placed their orders yet.”

“But why ...” Sandra began, before it dawned on her. Oh, of course. Her future self (she was still way too tired to question that statement,) must have meant to place it for January 11th, 2015. Sandra did this all the time. Every time a new year came along, it would take her at least a month before she remembered to fix that on dates. “Come on, surely you must have thought it was a typo.”

The deliveryman shook his head. “Ma'am, we don't ask questions, we just deliver the orders,” he said.

Sandra gave up on arguing. Reason should never be applied on the weekend before noon, anyway. She opened the package to reveal a copy of a movie. One that wouldn't come out for another ten months.

Now, Sandra's mind got coffeed up. “Do you realize the possibilities I could do with this?” she asked herself. “I could send myself winning lottery numbers, stock tips, anything. Or at least bootleg a copy of this movie before it even comes out.”

The deliveryman took a few cautious steps back. “I wouldn't recommend it, ma'am,” he insisted. “Profit-based time travel is made illegal in 2085, and the time regulators have been given retroactive authority. Besides, most people find it difficult to pay the delivery fees and still come out ahead.”

“What delivery fees?” Sandra asked, but he just held up a bill. One with more zeroes than Sandra had ever seen in life. To be paid upon delivery. Not even seeing her (she assumed) new favorite movie a year in advance would be worth that. She tossed the package back at the deliveryman, slammed the door shut, and immediately made two new years resolutions. First, she would be much more careful when ordering packages from now on. Secondly, she would somehow find a way to punch her future self in the face.

Meanwhile, the deliveryman sighed. Yet another deadbeat. Eh, well. They always paid eventually, or at least their great to the nth power descendents did, though by then, inflation made the bill little more than pocket change. But that would be a problem for the billing department. He had to worry about his next delivery.

“Let's see, deliver to Mr. Chester Jenkins, or his closest previous of kin, January 11th, 15.” 15? Maybe the customer just shortened the date, but as an employee of Tachyon Shipping, he couldn't take that chance. Great. The ancient Romans made for the most demanding customers. And they were really lousy tippers.