"You write to change the world, knowing perfectly well that you probably can’t, but also knowing that literature is indispensable to the world. The world changes according to the way people see it, and if you alter even by a millimeter the way people look at reality, then you can change it."
A message to all of the people that are considered "Geeks", "Nerds", or otherwise known as the upopular:
Stop fretting over not being like everyone else. Stop worring that the things you like or love are frowned upon as Faux-paus by everyone around you. Stop letting the people around you make you feel wrong or even ashamed for being different.
Like the bands that you like. Love the Comics that you Love. Watch the shows that you want to watch. Draw what you want to draw. Write what no one else will write. Be that different person that They don't want you to be, because in the end it is the different people who change the world.
It is still coming. I even have the first draft "done". Enphasis on air quotes. It still has a long way to go, but in the mean time, here's I little side project I've started:
Click for a LARGE veiw!
The plan is to make a "Case File" for each of the major charactors. Dean, Mal, and some others who I know are important, but are insignificat to anyone that might be reading this because I haven't written anything on them on here. Hopefully this will tide you over though.
When Things Get Really Bad, I try to keep myself busy. I pace. Or clean, or go run or train. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to keep the loneliness or whatever flavor of pain I had to deal with at bay for a little longer. Tonight I sat cross-legged on the cold, concrete floor of my dingy apartment arguing with myself of how to not think about what needed to be done. I settled on pulling out my battle-scarred single action Colt .45 out of the cheap cigar box I kept under my rusty bed. I checked the cylinder to make sure it was empty then laid it down on the floor in front of me, convinced that it wouldn't go off unless I wanted it to.
Next came out the little cleaning kit I had put together over the years. All it had was some Ronsonal, a small shammy, and assorted rods and cotton swabs stuffed into a nylon toiletries bag, but it had worked well enough so far. From what I had seen, the "official" cleaning kits were little more than that anyway. I took each piece out individually and set it near the revolver, each item finding its own place on the ground.
I picked the handgun back up, the heft of the steel and the sweat soaked wood grip comfortable and familiar. Even though it had been months since I'd had to fire a shot some part of me welcomed back the sturdy weight. It disturbed me a little just how used to using the weapon I had gotten. There was a time when I would have curled my lip in disgust at the though of using the things. I couldn't understand why someone would use them, the cruel machines that only served one purpose, but those feelings were an innocence that I didn't have the luxury of keeping. I knew know that even things such as guns-things that were only used for death-had their place in the world I had to live in. That even though they held dangers and consequences, the price of not using them was too high. Much like my own knowledge and abilities, whatever risks there were I'd face if it meant the safety of another or myself.
So I picked up the oil and some cotton swabs and settled into the silent, meticulous routine of cleaning my dangerous tool, hoping like I always did that I wouldn't have to use it.
So, in a move completely out of character and totally forced by a writing assignment, I'm actually in the process of writing a short story featuring--you guessed it-- Dean. (I mean seriously, did you expect something else?) That's right! A complete story arc and everything. It'll basically be a prelude, set before any thematic elements enter the young detective's life. Before the bullets, the Slayers. Before Mal and all the extra-natural things in the world. Just Dean Archer, sans jaded sarcasm.
Well some of it anyway.
Here's the first few paragraphs in the typical Dean Archer style, a kind of forward with an extensional look at things. If you've ever read any of my other Archer sinppits you shouldn't be surprised. Anyway, I'll stop rambling and just get to the (not really) good stuff.
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You never forget the first time you smell blood.
It's a harsh smell that spins around your mouth, sharp and coppery. As it shifts up your nose though, it turns musky, and something in your head tells you that the odor is just...wrong. That there is something dangerous near, because if everything was as it should be, that smell would never be diffusing in the air near you. Some primal force, the same that makes us fear the dark when we are young, cringes away, wanting to run as far from the smell as possible. Though at the same time some sick part of us wants to find out where the smell is coming from. Like spectators at the site of a car wreck or crime scene we search the morbid and disturbing out, unsure if what we’ll find, but curious all the same.
I guess it tells a great deal about us as a race; the fascination we seem to have with death and all that surrounds it. I mean, we are so scared by it that when we figure out that someday we will die that we convince ourselves that we’re invincible for about a decade afterward. In yet we sometimes seek it out, whether in knowledge or experience.
The first time that I smelled blood was in a dark warehouse in Tanic, Texas.
I stood thereas the silence and the rain pressed harder all around me.
Then all hell broke loose.
I anticipated the first wave of Slayers, pulling at the rock and asphalt that covered the roof of the convention center with a push of will and a harsh breath. The held energy rushed out of my fingertips, and a wall of compressed concrete shot up into the air out from the ceiling, just as five Slayers jetted near my right flank. Their skeletal, tarry bodies slapped brutally against the hard rock, but I didn’t stay turned to them long enough to see if they were still in the fight. I had already repositioned myself, reassessing and moving on to the next threat. The rest of the surrounding horde had begun swarming in like ants on picnic, the fifty or sixty unearthly beings melting into one dark, muddy maelstrom of bladed fingers, inhuman screeches, and featureless faces.
Lightning flashed violently across the clouded night sky as the creatures swirled nearer, wordless voices taunting and challenging. They thought they had me beat, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. The fight hadn’t even begun.
I closed my eyes, and focused all of my mind, body, soul, and sprit to draw upon the life around me.
There is energy all around us, even if you don’t know what it is. It’s like a pulse that beats through everything, or a steady stream that flows through and around, binding the world as one. The energy is everywhere; in the crowd of a concert, in the laugh of a friend, the embrace of a lover, even in something as simple as the simple routine of life. It permeates skin, rock, steel, and soul, like an invisible thread. Some people call it magic, or the force, but it’s all the same thing at the end of the day. Whatever you call it, you can feel it if you’re quiet enough, and you know how to listen. There is a kind of power in it, and if you know how to tap into it, to link yourself with it, you can manipulate it and reshape it to whatever uses you can think of. That’s what the “Wizards” were, just people who knew how to work within the flow of life, and use it to their advantage. It was that knowledge that I drew on, and as we all know: knowledge is power. I set my jaw, spaced my feet apart in a standard fighter’s stance, and spread my hands out to my sides, palms to the ground. I took a measured breath in, and the wind swirled towards me in kind. I thought of the storm raging above me, and the torrents of atmosphere shifting with the clouds and thunder. My fingers began to close, a little at first, deliberately slow, as if to grasp the air around me. I had done the motion thousands of times before in my training, but I had never attempted to move this much energy around, and definitely not against this many enemies. It was dangerous, not to mention reckless, and it would almost surely get me killed. I glanced down at the tarred ceiling I was standing on, and thought of the hundreds of teenage prom-goers underneath me, unaware of the eminent danger overhead. If someone didn’t stop the army of bred murderers from doing what they did best, they wouldn’t have a prayer. It would be a massacre.
I couldn’t just step aside. One way or another, I was in this for all the marbles.
The Slayers started to twirl faster, closing the distance with every second that passed. They would take their time, hitting me all at once so they could savor ripping me apart. They inched ever the closer until one of the things reached out to take a swipe at my legs with its bladed hands, but I was waiting for it. I released the energy I was holding in my bones, pushing my arms out. My will flowed out of me in a rush, leaving goose-bumps from the nearly electric sense of power coursing through me. My will touched the world around me, and it expanded, snatching the air with it as it left. A cyclone of air as big around as a Volkswagen tornadoed out with me as the epicenter, and struck the vaguely humanoid Slayers closing in around me with all the intensity that mother nature had to offer.
The fuckers weren’t grounded and were completely exposed out on the roof, which coupled with all of them rushing at me in a mob made for a great cacophony of flying nasties. Some toppled over the edge of the some-twenty-story convention center; others were simply shot high into the clouds and out of sight to be swallowed up by the storm. The rest though almost instantly recovered, scampering over their fellow assassins to rejoin the fight. They moved fast, too fast for the naked eye, and definitely too fast for me to out run, but I had accomplished what I had wanted: I had bought me the seconds I needed to reach into my pocket and pull out my battle-scarred Zippo.
As the remaining Slayers scurried swiftly to me, I flicked the rounded top, leveled the wick at the rushing horde, and struck the flint, snarling, “Let’s see you bounce back from this.”
The first rule of manipulating energy is simple: You can’t use what isn’t there. You can’t make lemonade without lemons. All I had in my immediate surroundings were rain, wind, and rock. With the lighter though, I had a fourth option:
Fire.
My will lashed out, just as the tiniest spark flicked out of the Zippo, but that was more than enough. The small flickering of heat caught all the same, and with my will and the energy from the storm as the fuel, it expanded in only the way flame could: wickedly and unforgiving. I held the one arm out, the other shielding my face from the heat. The blaze shot forward with vigor, igniting any Slayers that it touched. I twisted quickly around, leveling my weapon and striking the flint again, with near the same results. One Slayer got to my back, and I had to duck quickly to avoid losing my neck. I rolled with the dodge, popping up a few feet away, and shooting another half-second stream of fire out at the attacker.
Another jumped over a air conditioner, flying at me at neck breaking speed. I was barely able to bring my arm up in time to shoot him down. The flame arched wildly at the sloppy shot though, and flame splashed over the large commercial air conditioner.
Only, it wasn’t an air conditioner.
The brief light from the fire showed a large red diamond painted on the metal siding. I couldn’t make out any words, but there were large licks of drawn flame inside the diamond. My eyes widened just as the propane tank exploded, sending me into the air, and caving the roof underneath me.
I fell. There was nothing coordinated or pretty about it. I was lost in a fiery cloud of rubble, too black body parts, and rain turned to steam. I somehow found my head, and slapped my hands together, forming a sphere of air around me. I would still die all the same if I hit the ground, but at least I would be able to see which way was up. The fire dissipated, leaving solid black smoke above me, but I could see again. I plummeted down to lights, streamers, and balloons; the prom. I released the air surrounding me, and redirected my attention down. I called upon the same energy, focusing this time on a long cylinder. The air rushed to fill where I had directed it, and I began to slow, but the ground was rushing up to fast, and I was already falling too hard. I pushed harder, and I slowed a little more, enough for the rubble to pass me. Some nicked me, and even at he reduced rate I was falling I was able to pass unscathed. The people below wouldn’t get that lucky though.
Most had fled at the sound of the explosion, but it had happened so quick and teenagers weren’t noted for their intelligence. A few just stood, paralyzed by fear or intrigue, I don’t know. I was certain though that they would be killed instantly in the three seconds it took for the debris to hit.
So I took one hand off of my lifeline and reached out at the hardwood dance floor and the foundation below. I couldn’t stop the rubble, but I could shield the party-goers.
I yanked up with my outstretched hand as hard as I could, pulling just enough earth and rock up to glace off the falling rubble. Not enough to protect the idiots below, but they would survive. I hit the a heartbeat later, falling hard on my shoulder with enough force to break bone. I heard more than felt the crack, and I rolled down a slope of raised wood. I lay there as the fire sprinklers kicked in, and that’s when the murmurs started.
I looked up into the eyes of hundreds of teenagers, all of which witnessing everything that had just happened.
When my Sun and Stars are gone, all that is left is the black. Empty and vast, it stretches out far past My eyesight and further than the horizon can hold. With no light in My world I am forced to adapt once more, the cool robe of night slipping over my shoulders like a beaten old coat, one that I hoped I would never have to wear again.
But here I am regardless, alone in the darkness, echoes and sounds disoriented and strange. Tastes are either sharp and stinging or dull and lifeless, food not withholding any of its worth. Smells are null, if not for a slight breeze sifting through this space there would be none to speak of. As for Touch and feeling, there are few of which to tell. The cold is always near, never far out of reach as it waits to seep into My skin. Hollowness gapes inside, void and as dark as the world around Me. But the strongest of sensations is the lack there of- The all encompassing numbness that threatens to overwhelm Me.
Sight. That is the cruelest of jokes- the sickest perversion that the empty night plays on me. What use is there to see in the black? What is there left to look on? The only use for eyes in this cavernous place is to remind Me of what is not here. To stab icy fingers into My heart and twist at every stray thought of what was lost.
I once thought this world would be all that I would be allowed to know- All that I could know. But I was shown wrong. I was given stars to guide by and a sun to follow, but they were just fleeting twinklings and bursts of flame. False faces of light that was never mine to have. A flash of a bright paradise that was not for me.
No, I was always meant to belong to the black. I know it’s true face, as it knows mine. It lends me its strength and helps me to live and walk were people do not dare- do not want to dare. It welcomes me as a friend, enveloping me completely and easing my pain. That which it can’t take away it numbs, or echoes, or empties, or blots out. The darkness overwhelms me-
It was raining by the time I found my way back to the highway, a light drizzle falling down in slow waves through the night sky. Cars and the occasional sixteen wheeler splashed pass me, headlights illuminating a ragged street sign as they went. After some squinting and blinking I was barely able to make out reflective letters that spelled: Tanic, 4 miles.
I stood there in the rain, which--in true Texas fashion--had started to fall harder, and stared at the words, expecting to feel something. I wasn't sure what. Relief maybe. Or some sort of nostalgia. Maybe regret, or heartache. But as I stood there in the now heavy rain, I felt only Cold.
I swept my hands through my hair, damp strands slipping out of my face, looking away from the sign. I wasn't going to get home by standing there, and I had a long hike ahead of me. Not to mention the fact that there might be people watching the roads for me. I tried to shrug off the uneasy feeling I had from my lack of feeling at the sight of such a simple symbol, but it still nagged from the back of my mind. There was just so much that I had left unresolved when I left. Most of it was just simple closure stuff that I had thought I had gotten over through the years, but truth be told, I wasn't sure what awaited me in Tanic. Even more unsettling--
I wasn't sure if I wanted to know.
The horn from a passing Ford Focus brought me out of my memories and doubts. I shook my head at myself, managing not to start a conversation with my subconscious as was my usual cure to introspection. After a thought I realized that I probably looked like Lassie after a shower, shaking my shaggy water-logged head. That thought cheered me up a little. Lassie always made it back home safe.
Finding no other reason to stand there like an idiot there in the open were I would either get arrested or hit by a vehicle, I set my eyes forward into the drizzling darkness. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets before they could fill with water, put one soggy Converse in front of the other and began the walk back to the place I shouldn't have been returning to.
After all, dead men don't typically return to their graves.
It would figure that the first thing I saw was the stupid High School Auditorium. Well, what was left of it anyway. The framework was up, reaching up at the sky in a skeletal grasp. Judging by the sheen I got in my vision from the more and more frequent lightning, it looked like the school district had opted for steel girders instead of wooden planks. Third times' the charm I guess. I thought I could still see smoke flitting around in the air, but it was probably just my imagination. I adjusted my coat, rolling some trapped water out of the collar, and kept walking.
I came into Tanic proper down Wall Street, walking along the curb until I got to the intersection at Main Street. The city seemed so much more smaller than I remembered it. Maybe it was because the storm clouds had wrapped themselves tightly around the dinky buildings and street-corners, the rain hammering hard so the winds didn't blow them away. Even with all of that though, it was all still here. The cars were a little more used, although the rain had seen to it that the layers of dust that were typically on West Texan cars were washed clean. I always liked the rain in Tanic. I liked the rain just about anywhere, but in Tanic it just seemed more...natural. Everything shone. even the cracked asphalt. It was as if the sky wanted to wash all of the dust and dirt that had gathered in the small town over the years and polish it clean. I suppose I felt that way because in my time here, the rain had wash away just as much blood.
I walked down the sidewalk; half relived, half amazed that everything was still here. The used bookstore, the run down hardware store that I used to buy supplies from, even the hole-in-the-wall burger joint were me and my first Love had our first date. Painful flashes of nights long past played behind my eyes at the thought of Lea. Of evenings sitting on the rooftop of a now burnt down church. Long, seemingly meaningless walks overt the fields that surrounded the town, filled with talk of the most obscure things. Of our first night together, and the promise I made her after.
I jerked my head to the other side of the street before that thought could ferment in my brain for too long, and shoved the memories far, far away from me. I focused on the twenty four hour diner on the corner instead, the only patrons stepping out the door.
If I had hesitated for a few more seconds, I would have missed her.
God help me, I had forgotten how lovely she was. She was wearing a simple white skirt with black flats, making her seem smaller than she was. A darker black blouse hugged her back and chest, defiantly absent of a coat. Her smooth raven hair hung around her like a parted curtain, framing her heart-shaped face. She was smiling, and it did wonders to her brown eyes. The second person, a tall man in a tweed hat and dark coat, opened up a large umbrella, holding it out for her to get under.
Instead of stepping under the shelter alone, Lea slipped her hand around the man's waist and pulled herself close. He moved his head down, and she went onto the tips of her toes and--
I looked away.
I turned my back to the couple, and the light that shone out from the diner, and slipped back in to the dark and the rain, the thunder rolling all the more wilder overhead. A stiff breeze curled around my legs, but I didn't shiver.
