Ace Of Clubs

Sunday, December 18, 2016

Late At Night

PREVIOUS: Part 2 here.

Darkness lingered and mustered in pools of shadow around the soft golden light that faintly illuminated the room and the stuttering icy radiance of the TV that perched above a wooden cabinet at the far end of the lounge. Behind their blinds the windows beheld nothing but the inky abyss of midnight. On a sturdy, ornate wooden couch with cushions of red velvet lay a half-empty plastic tray of crumbs and Toffee-Pops, all sweet chocolate, simple biscuit and smooth honeyed caramel. Just the kind of thing for late night TV watching, especially under the familiar aegis of a blanket. On a shelf stood a glass that had once contained deep red nectar, but had since been depleted (why was the drink always empty?). Somewhere in another room a clock ticked with the undying percussive march of a metronome, only audible when the noise from the TV allowed it to be. Flashing upon the brilliant screen was the weekly episode of Scrubs, or at least one of the two that played consecutively. The Blogger had only recently discovered the show for himself after hearing much about it, but while he had come to find great humour in the hospital staff's bizarre antics, at present he was lost in a maelstrom of dire thoughts and non-digetic background scores.

For it was late, and it was at late hours like these that The Blogger pondered most deeply.

At the moment there was only one thing that the swirling winter darkness of The Blogger's innermost self was focused on utterly, and that was Her. Of course it was, it was always Her. Ever since they had first crossed paths he had been incapable of escaping the memory of her that echoed across his dreams like starlight. Everything about her had been extraordinary, down to the very nature of their meeting, a story which The Blogger would not have imagined even himself capturing - to find what he had been looking for, yet what had always been maddeningly distant, just by a magnificent chance after all these years, right when he wasn't looking, and to then find her again not once but twice, after being separated by gulfs of centuries and worlds, by ways that were so thematically intrinsic to him... the entire narrative fit together with a level of intricacy found only in truly memorable works.

The Blogger was loosing his mind. He had witnessed titanic clashes, strange and terrible creatures, epic quests, valiant heroes, terrifying villains and countless thousands of worlds, and yet in all his travels and adventures he had never encountered anything like her. The first time he ever saw her she had looked at him in a way that no-one else ever had before in his existence. He doubted he would ever forget the sly hint of a cautious smile he swore he could see her wearing.

From the moment he first beheld her he sensed great might and some tremendous significance about her, but that was to be only the beginning, a mere glimpse at what was to come. As soon as he had crossed paths with her again he started to encounter the phenomenal power about her, an immense energy the likes of which he had never known. Simply being near her set his nerves on fire and made something ancient deep inside him sing. Feelings that normally took months or even years to gestate in him she had managed to ignite in mere hours, and they only grew exponentially from there. By the time The Blogger was most recently in her company it was as if every molecule in his being was magnetised towards her, an unstoppable pull as irresistible as gravity, and it was all he could to to preserve him from taking flight then and there. For days afterwards he was unable to do almost anything other than sit and think of her, and his waking dreams were utterly consumed by visions of them together. when he was around her the music that permeated the universe swelled to a roaring crescendo until it was deafening.

And when she smiled at him, something ancient and deep inside him soared.

In just the short while he had known her The Blogger already knew she was an incredible person. In talking with her he had seen a person who was clever, wise, independent, kind, witty, and a litany of other attributes that could fill a book with their praises. He listened to her as she spoke of the daring adventures and arduous trials of her youth and marvelled at her elan and prowess. And in her he saw, perhaps, himself - the best aspects that he had (or thought he might have, at any rate), reflected and exemplified. He saw the kindred spirit he had always longed for, and he yearned to venture with her on all manner of mighty quests and adventures - for there was no doubt that she would be the finest of allies to fight by his side.

But perhaps what was most astonishing of all was how The Blogger responded to such forces. For almost an eternity now The Blogger had, in the end, been a broken soul, Long ago he had been trapped in the most agonising reaches of Hell, which had reduced him to a tortured, feral state from which he had never really fully recovered. While he had certainly made progress in restoring his humanity, he still often found great difficulty in engaging with... well, almost anyone really. This was not helped by his unique ways, values and methods, which only further distanced him from most others. But there was none of that with her. He did not know why, but whenever she was near him things were suddenly simple. There were no doubts, no hesitance, no overthinking. It was as if the sun shone through him and everything was suddenly clear, and despite being simultaneously reduced to a wrecked mass of fried nerves and exoneration The Blogger found he was more coherent, confident and calm than he had felt in aeons. He was more comfortable around her than he had ever really known with anyone in living memory. There was no fear, no horror, just two souls connecting over common ground and enjoying themselves.

Yet none of these things was deliberate on the part of The Blogger. All the reactions, all the thoughts, all of the feelings were happening entirely outside of his control. They were as immediate and automatic as the fusion in a star.

And it was this that horrified The Blogger most of all. From virtually the start of his sad, sorry history of relations romantic in nature he had been told several consistent messages from the wider world, and not least among them was the rightful order of how such feelings should come about - as a gradual process formed by great stretches of repeated contact with the object of one's affections. To form anything even resembling those infamous four letters and the nuclear reaction they caused when properly arranged after anything less than a full rotation around the sun was unnatural and wrong. Given his current predicament, The Blogger could reach only one logical conclusion - that he was truly even more of an abomination than even he had imagined, a wretched cancer and diseased failure for harbouring such weakness. After all, to the best of his knowledge none of the lasting couples he had known had arisen from such circumstances.

Not that it mattered now, of course. Before he was able to tell her anything of how he really felt it had ended the way it always did with The Blogger - she had said she lacked the time for anything of the sort. He could not think of any reason she might have to lie, but it would be far from the first time such a justification had been used as a pretext for unrequited feelings. Either way it left him with a strange and troubling mystery, for it had come entirely without warning or omen - until the dire message came she had shown what seemed to be nothing but interest in him, conveyed in nearly everything from what she said to how she acted. According to all he knew, every sign pointed towards a positive end, and he had taken tremendous pains to do as much right as he could. He had been certain that at long last he had found someone who might understand him, who might actually want him for what he was (perhaps that was his great mistake), and every indication he had seen had led the same way. Of course, The Blogger was no stranger to such things misleading him - indeed, as he had been sure to remind himself for years now, no matter how sure he was that he was right, he was still wrong. He was always wrong.

But then he had heard of a similar happening, and another possibility had occurred to him.He recalled how people could sometimes be afraid, and wondered if perhaps that might have happened here. Maybe when she had more time free he would see more of her. And that was the most damming agony of all, not knowing. Maybe she did like him, maybe she didn't. Maybe he would see her again, maybe she had already been swept away by someone else. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he was right. Maybe she was just frightened, maybe he had read everything wrong. It was this black, nightmarish, venomous splinter in his mind that was driving him ever further towards total insanity: maybe.

Maybe Maybe Maybe Maybe...

It was late now, very late. Infomercials played on the TV, before The Blogger silenced them. The plastic tray was now empty.

At once, the clock ceased, and the noise went out.

Friday, December 2, 2016

What Happened The Other Week On A Walk

PREVIOUS: Part 1 here

The afternoon sun raged and stormed as it drifted down towards the horizon, leisurely inching over hours down to earth. As it drifted across the heavens the world below was blanketed in a warm golden-amber light, which painted the surrounding scenery in friendly, saturated tones of colour. This left the environment reminiscent of long summer afternoons, ice cream from corner stores, childhood memories and better days long past.

Meadows of Heaven.

It was Autumn now, and so despite the glowing warmth of the sunlight the air was permeated with a sharp growing cold, driven at times by a chilling wind that scattered leaves the colours of fire and blood across the forlorn grey footpath, past lines of shops with quaint, comely storefronts lined with chained nests of flowers. There was something tragically reassuring about the sight of those flower-nests, suspended from the overhanging roofs like spiders on silk, for they only ever seemed to grow away from the relentless grind of existence, in places that seemed possessed of charm and authenticity, grass-roots places that grew out from the wild expanse of the beyond. Where the grass grew green and the trees yielded to the untamed wind beneath the unbound skies of sea grey or robin red, where the roads stretched ever onward away from the great hives of humanity, where homes grew small and quiet and intimate, there they flourished in front of humble shops with genuine signs that sang with the hum of drink cabinets and smelled of hot frying batters to steel the soul against the cold night.

It was in places like these that he could hear the strings and the pipes and the hurdy-gurdy at the end of the world.

Along this path of sun and cold and memory walked The Blogger, relentlessly striding forward as wandered along the footpath. Behind him was the sea and before him was the road to the city. And beyond that lay the endless all-encompassing insane web of the universe. Though initially a mundane activity purely done out of practical need - for there was little other choice for transportation - The Blogger had long begun to discover that walking held a substantially more intrinsically endemic aspect for himself. As he walked across the wilderness of the world and the wilderness of humanity, he found his mind began to collate and organise itself far more sharply. visions, revelations, ideas and dreams all began to tessellate, fitting together like pieces of a mechanical puzzle. In an hours' walk he could plan an entire campaign, explore whole worlds, craft every turn of a sprawling epic or map out the dire, looming sword of Damocles that was the future.

As he roamed along his adventure, The Blogger began to become unstuck in time and space. As a storyteller he was able to traverse the boundaries between worlds and universes, amongst other strange gifts. There were limits of course - to cross over between worlds was no small matter, despite how easy it might appear, and to do it required finding a suitable crossing point, but The Blogger always seemed to find them in abundance on such walks as he roamed the endless infinity both within and without. Once an appropriate point was reached, and if the individual was gifted (or cursed, from another point of view) in the right way, crossing over seemed and felt as simple as entering a dream; there was no memory of how you got there, or what had come before, and yet you somehow instinctively knew that this was where you were meant to be, and what needed to come next. At one moment you were stepping in one place.

And the next moment you were stepping somewhere else entirely.

The Blogger wandered across all manner of places among the yawning abyss of eternity. He walked across past, present and future. He strode through the battlefields of old, when he had commanded vast armies in titanic clashes against all manner of horrors. Demons, machines, invaders from beyond this earth, all had perished in defeat by his hand. He had led his legions to victory after victory, and the cheers of triumph still roared in his ears. He saw his warriors, comrades and friends hurl themselves forwards to certain death, and emerge from the other side. He saw himself direct them in fiendish defences he had planned against which unstoppable waves had dashed themselves over and over until the sun finally rose. As he went he would at times make slight adjustments to things - shifting a person here, moving a bullet there - so that they were more as he remembered them. It felt like the right thing to do. And throughout it all he saw these people, the mightiest of his warriors, fighting through fire and fury and Armageddon, all because they believed in him.

He broke apart inside knowing where that had led.

The Blogger walked through the foundries of today, where empires were built, where events were crafted and from which all potential outcomes stemmed. He witnessed the ignition of things to come, the first flickering chances that would set into motion tremendous calamities. He pierced the veil and saw around the corner to the production of his own escapades - nightmarish horrors to face, darkened days to come, moments in time where cataclysmic forces would pivot on his actions, the rage and agony of gods, a young woman in a jacket with a taste for music. He saw the formation of endless new worlds to explore, and the plots that would unfurl on them. He walked past memories of joy and pain. He walked into dreams where he adventured and sat laughed and wandered in infinite utter bliss with the brightest star in the night sky.

With Her.

And the Blogger walked towards the empty darkness of tomorrow. He beheld the incomprehensibly vast all-consuming gaping maw of the future, devouring everything that inevitably reached it. He saw the end of time and crumbling towers. He saw the withering of comfort and felt the sand inside his hourglass trickling into nothingness. He saw himself die, over and over and over again - murder, disease, mercy at the end of his time, the quest from which he would never return. He saw through scrying how he would one day come to be no more than an empty shell, drifting through motions until he could finally rest forever, and how the others would be left - at once in pain, at twice with the indifference of never having known of him. He saw this and a thousand other myriad possible futures, and the bright ones were few and far between.

The Blogger walked through flames and darkness. He walked in the void between stars, and the shadows behind the universe. He walked through love and death, darkness and light, and emerged at a quiet suburban street corner, with trees lining the footpath.

At the end of the horizon, lost among the sands of an ancient forgotten desert stood the store that was The Blogger's current destination. In truth this was not the full building, but rather the one aspect of it that was closest to The Blogger at the time. The shop itself had fronts in multiple dimensions, situated as it was upon a nexus between realities, very hard to reach - which was only fitting given its name. It was a whimsical place, a simple looking two-story building of painted wood with a front door at the bottom flanked by two wide windows. Inside there was a small counter cornered in by the towering shelves and piles of books that filled the remainder of its interior.

As he entered the Blogger was greeted by a tall, slender young lady with an expression that was at once both kind and wise, with the hint of secret knowledge. Her hair was short and light, a contrast to the night-black nails that tipped her fingers and the dark loose-fitting garments she wore draped between a white shirt and a grey scarf. The Blogger did not recognise her, and could only assume that she must be new to the staff, but he already liked her - she radiated dark metal, black magic and arcane wisdom. Only the total delectability of Berry and Biscuit Whittaker's was missing. The Blogger had long since learnt that there was nothing that could not be made better with Berry and Biscuit Whittaker's.

After leaving his bag with the counter, The Blogger travelled up a forlorn wooden staircase to the shop's upper floor. It was this part that he usually had the most interest in during his visits to the store, for it was here that the items most valuable to him were contained. As a storyteller, The Blogger maintained a keen interest in strange and ancient knowledge, and had over the ages amassed a sizeable collection of dark grimoires and eldritch tomes of forbidden lore. Stored safely in secret caches and repositories among The Blogger's many places of refuge that were scattered across existence, these mystic volumes held immense power - True Names, the dark arts of scrying and necromancy, spellcraft and words of power, rituals for summoning and binding any manner of creature, forgotten languages, guerilla warfare, sigils of warding, astral projection, thaumaturgy, the very deepest workings of reality and much, much more were all able to be unlocked from them. This arsenal was vast, but The Blogger was always looking to add to it, either to prevent such items from falling into the wrong hands, or to use for his own purposes. To this end The Blogger would visit the shop from time to time, for all books passed through it sooner or later and it would often accumulate such tomes of eldritch lore. What The Blogger was about to find, however, was beyond what he would ever anticipate.

He felt it more than he saw it, at first. It lay buried behind a pile of other publications in a large cardboard box, so that only the barest hint of colour peeked through to the light of day. It was just a tiny sliver of deep moss green and rich blood red, but to one with second sight like The Blogger it was more than enough to identify its true form. In the recesses of the box, where shadows pooled, its colours glowed in the darkness, the radiance pulsing at the pace of a fading heart. Light touching the upper parts seemed to prism as if through stained glass, and if The Blogger focused enough on it, with his hearing attuned as it was to non-diegetic sounds inaudible to most, he could faintly hear music coming from it. It sounded distant, but unmistakably loud, dramatic and dark. And he sensed a presence that he had not felt since...

The Blogger swiftly flicked through what lay in front of it, dexterously parting the many publications that were lined out upright, and pried it out for a closer examination. It was a bound volume, roughly A4 in size. He felt its cover, hard and glossy and cold to the touch, dark red and ivory green, with thorned roses and fallen angels, with a woman in leather and a peek-a-boo, skulls adorning her clothing and tears trailing in anguish across her face. It resonated dark rock and old Vampire gamebooks. It was pure crystallised underground 90s. He turned it over in his hands. The back was entirely in shades of blood and horror, patterned in yet more roses. On the spine was an etched sigil, a stylised eye crying three tears. Below that was the volume's title, concerning none other than the Devil, and something of crucial importance to it. He looked over at the blurb. Below it was etched in scratchy lettering a publisher, the name of a star. The Blogger keenly scanned the blurb's text. It was a codex of life roles, angels and demons, goddesses and New York. Now for the real test. He turned the volume over and opened it. Immediately inside were chains and more crimson flowers, beneath a macabre drawing and an inscription - EVERY TIME I DIED I THOUGHT OF YOU. The Blogger could not help but relate to that statement. As he flicked further through the volume, the non-digetic score that permeated the world soared, and he beheld a fantastically bizarre world - light, darkness, magic and beauty (though with some perhaps regrettable costume choices). He knew now that what he was holding was ancient, and very, very powerful.

The Blogger collected his bag and left the shop with haste. He travelled back homewards and made all speed to all the information centres that he knew of. He arrived at vast gleaming silver archives, decrepit dust-filled crypts, colossal shining temples and incomprehensible libraries, and scoured every one of them for any information there might be about this mysterious volume. To his pleasant surprise he did not need to search far, and began to learn more about it. He learnt that it was not the only one of its kind - there were at least two other companion volumes, which themselves were derived from earlier writings, as well as numerous related artefacts floating within the ether. He also learnt more about what was contained within - secrets to planar travel, summoning gods, the cycle of life and death, and the nature of heaven and hell.

Clearly, The Blogger thought, this volume could be of some use...

NEXT: Part 3 here.

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Special Edition Post: Election Response - An Essay

Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Among The Ruins

Bubbles drifted in the massive thick glass of ice-chilled, frosty, foaming liquid, rising up in sporadic twos and fives and dozens to break free to the surface and burst in minute pops that tickled the lip and gave an ambient cool moisture to that space that existed between the surface of the drink and the top of the glass, like a raging sea on a winter's evening, cold and harsh but nonetheless with a forlorn and wild beauty to its crisp purity. As they ran upwards in the drink, so too did drops of condensation run down the outer edge of the glass to pool on the coaster below in a swollen moat over the quaint little painting that rested below the glass. The Blogger looked down into the refreshing sea of colour and faint pleasant fruity aroma, lost as he often was in deep contemplation somewhere far, far away...

"You know, some folks might find it strange to go to a bar and order a non-alcoholic drink," Commented a taverngoer next to him, "This must be the only place for how long that serves that stuff?"

"It's Chi," said The Blogger, "And the next place isn't for... a long, long way actually."

A long, long way was a drastic understatement. The Blogger had yet to find another venue in this entire plane of existence that sold Chi. But then you only needed one...

"Well, I guess you're lucky to have this place then." the taverngoer replied.

"Yes... lucky. Let's... let's go with that."

There were things that were common in The Blogger's life, but luck was not one of them. For the last three years he had been lost in a brutal gruelling quagmire from which there had been no escape. He had been led there under false pretences, told that it would be a time of magic and fun, the best years of his life. He had been told he would find countless other like-minded people there, that it would be something he remembered forever... but it was all a lie. The truth was, as he had always known, that the sun had set on the best years of his life some time ago, and they would forever be confined to the dark dust-filled crypt of history where they had now lain for decades. Where he really belonged. And so when he had set out for this new chapter he instead found a merciless regime of isolation and misery, where not a day went past where he was not told repeatedly that he was wrong, where souls that truly understood him were fleeting and where the one real friend he could say he made was driven out by the same relentless grind that had worn him down to the bone.

"You don't sound very convinced." said the taverngoer.

"I take it then you've watched The Simpsons before," The Blogger said, "I don't think I'd call anyone who went through what I just did lucky."

"Who hasn't seen The Simpsons? The real trick is picking up the conventions," the taverngoer remarked, toying with a glazed cherry in her mouth, "So what happened to you then? You make it sound like you just literally went through hell."

"You'd be surprised," The Blogger said before taking another gulp of Chi, "But in fairness it's probably not as bad as I'm making it out to be. I guess the real problem was a conflict of natures."

"What do you mean?"

"Well I suppose one way of looking at it is like water and fire. On the one hand you have water, a big blob of hydrogen and oxygen compound molecules in a liquid state. It has structure, order, even if it's not readily apparent on the surface. It's clean, cold, logical, it flows naturally from one point to the next in a steady orderly stream. It gives life and sustenance, and can be useful for other things as well, but it will drown you if you give it the chance."

"Right, OK, I'm with you so far."

"Now, on the other hand," The Blogger continued, "You have fire - pure energy. Fire is the opposite of water, it doesn't have mass or any real structure, it's just heat and light, just energy. It's chaotic, wild, irrational, it burns out in any direction it can with no real order. People aren't often as fond of fire as they are water, after all fire is dangerous. It's destructive and it burns you if you try to touch it-"

"But it also gives warmth and light," the taverngoer said.

"Exactly. It also does some other good stuff, like give inspiration for stories and whatnot, but you get the idea. Where I've been for the last three years, that was water, but I'm fire. Now really the universe needs both water and fire in it to work well, but if you put the two together, they destroy each other. Metaphorically speaking of course."

"So if I get you right, what you're saying is that this place was, like, the opposite of who you are?"

"Pretty much. Hey what's your name anywhich?"

"It's Sharon."

"Well Sharon," The Blogger said, "You don't know me very well, but I'm pretty far from a rational person. I'm sensitive, I'm erratic, I imagine a lot, I'm a dreamer. What I'm saying is I generally feel rather than think. But that place wanted people to think rather than feel. One time I will never forget, we're all sitting down in the room, and the instructor is explaining what we have to do. And this one guy, making sure he's understood right, comes up and says 'argue don't preach', which turned out to be spot on. But the trouble is, I can't argue without preaching. I am a preacher. That is what I do, that's how I convey things. I am incapable of not preaching when I argue something, because I'm an inherently emotional person, so I naturally appeal to other people's feelings. That's just how I make a case. It's part of who I am."

"Geez, that must be rough," said Sharon, "I bet you must get a lot of assholes telling you you're gay or to grow a pair or man up or stop being a crybaby or something."

"You have no idea," said The Blogger, "This other time they told us that with this one assignment where we had to write this giant essay that they wanted to see how we thought, how our minds worked. Which was all well and good, except that an accurate depiction of how my brain works would nor be an essay. It wouldn't even be remotely like an essay. If you wanted to see how my thought process looked, you'd get a short story, maybe two characters sitting down and having a conversation about the subject, like this one we're having right now, or maybe you'd get a little etched cartoon with crudely drawn parrot caricatures, or literally anything except a fucking essay. Because I just don't work that way, that's not how I think."

"Ouch."

"You can say that again. Every time I had to write one I'd basically end up spending all day, if not all week, banging my head against the keyboard trying to get enough words out. If it had been X amount of dialogue between some characters, I'd have nailed it effortlessly, it'd be hard to stop at just the maximum wordcount. But as an essay? Needing respected sources? It was torture just to get to half the required wordcount."

"Damn. Was there any upside to it?"

The Blogger thought about this. He thought about the good things from the last three years - few though they were. He recalled his friend from there, the gamer who battled demons and approached him when it seemed that no-one else would, who held an inner fire and ferocity that could turn aside any antagonist that beset her and who he was sure would do great things in this life. He recalled charging across the night, riding over hill and dale to the aid of a beleaguered ally in need of support, just like the heroes of old. Once he had a dream, and on a scant handful of days on the third year, while it never truly came to pass he did at least come to hold a glimpse of it from the other side of slumber. And then there was Her - Eyes that held heaven and the future, and a smile like sunlight...

"There were a couple, but not many," said The Blogger.

"Well at least it wasn't a total waste then."

"I suppose. The worst part of all though, even more than all the other stuff, is the... the.. the block I have around it. I don't know why, but for some unfathomable reason I can never seem to be able to articulate what was wrong there. I try to, but whenever I do something suddenly locks up and I can't find a way to put it into words or say it in a way that doesn't make me sound totally insane, so then when I try to people just don't seem to get it and I end up looking like I'm mad."

"It's OK," Sharon said, "We're all mad here."

"... I like you," said the Blogger, before taking another gulp of refreshingly fruity Chi.

"So, lemme guess," Sharon said, narrowing in on The Blogger with her eyes as she sought to read him, "You're some kind of writer right? Like a blog or something?"

Deep inside, The Blogger crumbled. He remembered when he had first started writing the blog, in a long bygone age of revolution and beginnings. He remembered the drive he had, the ambitious dreams to turn it into a rallying point and meeting place of discussion and fun, the bold new regime he would build to turn it into something great, something that would be looked on fondly by all. He had been entrusted with the blog in its infancy, and he would make it into his own corner of the internet, where everyone could share in his ideas and where he could reach out to those he rarely could otherwise. But like all revolutions it ended all too soon in tatters. The relentless grind of the last three years had grown worse and worse, and eventually he had been forced to sacrifice almost everything in order to survive. He always meant to come back and update the blog, every other week or so he would be possessed of an idea for a brilliant blog post, but there was always one more assignment, one more problem, one more thing to do, and so he had to let it fall by the wayside. When he finally had time again, it was too late, and he found all that remained of it were faded ruins, visited only by what he presumed was the occasional porn robot.

The Blogger took a deep sip of his Chi, letting the herbal goodness and subtle flavours of kiwifruit and honey wash through him. "I had a blog once," He said, "A long, long time ago. It was for this group of friends. I was supposed to talk about books on it, but I ended up posting other stuff instead. I suppose that was a bad omen of what was to come. The last three years I had to cut out a lot to get through, and that included the blog. I've been getting everything else back up and running again, but that still hasn't left much time for it. I feel awful about not getting around to it you know. I feel like all these people I care about were counting on me, especially the ones that gave it to me in the first place. The main reason they did was because I had more time for it than they did, but since I couldn't find time for it anymore, I feel like I've let them down."

"You should update it," said Sharon, "Go back to it and give it a reboot. You could start with a crazy story or something."

"Maybe I will Sharon," The Blogger said, "Maybe I will. Enough crazy stuff has happened for me to write on it for a while."

"Oh yeah?" asked Sharon, "Like what? Now you've got to tell me more."

"Well," said The Blogger before finishing his glass of Chi, "I've got some time before the person I'm waiting for gets here. Tell you what, you get me another Chi, and I'll tell you what happened the other week when I was out for a walk."

"Getting a woman to buy you drinks? My my sir, what kind of man are you."

"The kind that believes in gender equality and that either of two mature adults can provide for the other. I'd offer to get you something as well, but that could be taken the wrong way and I'm assuming you're not really looking for that kind of thing with me."

Sharon nodded in consideration, and after a moment's conversation another glass of delicious Chi made it's way to The Blogger...

NEXT: Part 2 here

Monday, February 16, 2015

At long last

You know what I could really do with? Better time management.

I had actually meant to update this way way way back in October, but couldn't find the time anywhere. Now I've finally got a break in.

This year has started rather slowly, since the Powers that Be forgot that there's a librarything in January (it's usually when the big game of Risk happens). Personally I blame the lack of a Halloweenthing in October. Without that there was no way to conduct the traditional Hallow's Eve ritual sacrifice to the Ancient Gods, and now we are without their protection (well you all are anyway - I managed to snag an unsuspecting trick-or-treater who happened to be a firstborn child, and sold them off to the Shide to guarantee no bad blood). At least the Wild Hunt hasn't shown up... yet...

And I've gotten around to actually reading something! The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson. 'Tis an epic tale of Elves and Trolls and Viking-age mythology. If you like Fantasy works then definitely read it. Read it now!

The next librarything will be on the 12th of March, if my calculations are correct. The last one was about covering trees with poppies, and then got hijacked by a card game, so I cannot begin to fathom what March's one will be like. There'll probably be sugar of some kind though....

And then there was this other thing. A while ago I came across this strange and somewhat disturbing document written by my late colleague, a bizarre stream of gibberish frantically typed out regarding something about shades and not being able to be stopped. I had intended to mention it earlier, but again like I said I couldn't find the time anywhere. Odd how I suddenly just remember it now, a couple of days after the 14th of February -

Wait, what's that, out in the distance? Oh my gods..... how can it..... that's impossible! No! That can't be! Gods, the horror! The horror!! THE HOR-

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

RAGE

Alright. I was going to put up a nice post about all the little goings-on recently, but that's going to have to wait now (even longer). Because right now I am FURIOUS.

Now, admittedly this heinous crime that has enraged me so was committed by a TV series, but the lessons to be learnt from it apply to books as well. So he other day I was catching up on TV shows, and in one of them a disturbing trend I have been noticing for some time came to a head. See, there's this character on it, right, who has in the recent instalments started to revert back to how they were earlier in the show. Which would be fine, especially since I did quite like them at those earlier points.... except that this has happened in contradiction to their character development in the time that has passed.

This is basic storytelling 101, you don't 180 a character arc. Because if you do, then it makes all the progression and development of that character arc pointless. In order for a story to work, in order for it to really move an audience, in order for it to be good, it has to have meaning. It has to have a purpose. And this is true for characters as well. In order for their part in a story to be memorable, in order for it to be entertaining or thrilling or good, their journey, their development has to have meaning. It has to have a purpose. And in order for it to have a purpose, to mean something, in order for it all to matter, it has to, well, mean something. It has to hold weight. And to do that, it has to stick. It has to carry. Because if you don't make it stick, if you end up erasing it, then the people watching or listening or reading are just going to start asking themselves questions like "What was the point of all that?" "Why does it matter?" and, worst of all, "Why do I care about these people?"

And if they start asking those, especially the last one, then sooner or later they're going to loose interest in the story and switch off from it.

The way to stop this from happening is not to have your characters go back. In terms of development, they have to keep moving forwards. They have to progress. You do not give them the same problems and narratives over and over again. That just gets boring. The character and the audience have both already been there, done that. Instead you develop them, you advance them forward and have them learn from their experiences, have them change and adapt, and then, when that arc, that part of their journey in the story is finished, you give them a new one. A new direction to go in, a new thing to learn, a new challenge to overcome, a new goal to achieve. That way the character advances and grows, just like people do outside the story.

Let's look at an example shall we? Let's say we have a character, a young dark haired lady who's clever and quick-witted and quite handy with a sword. We'll call her Victoria, and she can have a red bow to wear as well. It belonged to her sister, and she always carries it with her. Now when Victoria was just a child her entire family was horribly killed before her eyes when Faeries burnt down her house, and ever since then she has been on a relentless quest for vengeance by wiping the Fair Folk from the face of the world. So far so good. However, what Victoria doesn't know is that there are actually two separate factions of Faeries, the Unseelie, who are actively malevolent towards humans and were the ones responsible for destroying her home, and the Seelie, who are actually all right as long as you don't get on their bad sides, and really just want to peacefully coexist with humanity. Victoria then over the course of three or four best-selling young adult novels that make their humble blog-writing author fantastically rich undertakes an epic adventure that has twists and turns, a heartbreaking tale of woe and loss, action and suspense, maybe a pop-culture reference or two. A grand sweeping intricate narrative that takes Victoria all over Europe and eventually into a key role in the politics of the Seelie and Unseelie courts, and later full-blown conflict between them. By the end of all this, she has made peace with her past, gained new allies, made some new enemies, but most of all, has learnt that not all Faeries are bad, and come to accept the Seelie as not the villains she first made them out to be (the Unseelie are a different matter) and even maybe think of one or two of them as friends.

Now, when book 5 or 6 comes around (as it will, because my publisher forces me to), after all that time and character development, would you enjoy it if the next instalment suddenly opened with Victoria violently against ALL Faerie-kind again, and it wasn't a flashback/spell effect/similar justification? With her forgetting all of the things she learnt over the course of the last books? Hell no you probably wouldn't. You'd wonder what the point of the series was, and feel like it was a cop-out. And if it continued to have her going through all the same stuff she did in the last books all over again you'd probably get even more annoyed, and think the author had run out of ideas. Sure it might be fun for a bit to read about Vikky tearing into Faeries with cold iron again, but eventually you'd probably start to wonder why you don't just read the last books all over again. That's because her growth and development over the last 3 or 4 books hasn't stayed. She hasn't progressed. It's just the same story re-hashed again, which gets stale quickly.

Instead, the better thing to do would instead continue on with Victoria's story from where it left off, and have her carry the things she learnt with her, and face some new obstacles. Maybe now she has the resources and power of the Seelie court to play with, but now has to navigate their politics. Maybe the Seelie haven't quite forgiven her for when she killed a large number of their ilk back when she was targeting Faeries indiscriminately, and now she has to convince them to trust her. Maybe there's some other paranormal critters for her to get stuck into. Maybe she finds out that her sister was switched with a Changeling before the attack on her home, and is still alive, so she sets out to rescue her. The important thing is that this is a new part of her story, a new part of her character arc, and it's different. And above all else, that she keeps what she went through before. That now she always knows that Faeries aren't all evil, that some people can't be trusted and others can, and any other lessons gained. She remembers the characters she cared about that died, and she carries that loss. What happened before in the story sticks with her. That's how a character grows and develops.

It's the same with other stories. One of the big things that made Rowling's books work (I think) is that the characters in them didn't keep doing the same things over and over again. Alan Rickman wasn't permanently a massive git, he had a kind of sad backstory, and that carried over with him once everyone learnt that. The main characters faced new problems and learnt new things and that knowledge stuck with them, and that allowed them to grow with the readers. And would Lord of the Rings or Star Wars have been nearly as good if Legolas and Gimli had decided, right near the end of Return of the King, that really all their adventures together didn't count for squat and they still hated each other for being an Elf and a Dwarf, or if Darth Vader decided not to do what he did at the end of Return of the Jedi? I would argue not.

The moral of the story is don't suddenly reverse a character's development.

In other news the next librarything has been postponed. Instead of this Thursday, it will possibly be the one after instead. As a venerable lonely member of the Old Guard I know that this means that it will at long last be returning to the glory of it's rightful place as the third Thursday of the month, where it once reigned before being usurped by the Adult book thing. At least I think that was what took it's place. Anyway be sure to come fully prepared for epic battle as we fight to take back what was once ours. Also a gift of some sort, because it's December so it'll probably be about the Yuletide festivities, which will mean gift-exchanging.

And make sure to pester the administrator to take us all to see the latest Hobbit film. If we went to see New Moon we can see this one too damnit!

That will be all for now. I have to get started on the next book of the Victoria's Fury series. And possibly talk with studio executives about a film adaptation...

Exunt

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The End of the World

(NOTE: as this is a real, non-fictional story, it follows the common practice of keeping the identities of those involved in it hidden to ensure privacy. As such any person mentioned by name in this is not mentioned by their real name.)

So I get up this morning. Like I do every morning, more or less (sometimes it's in the afternoon). The big difference this morning is that it's at half-past 8, as opposed to, say, half-past 6 or 7 when I have 'varsity classes, or 11 or 12pm if I don't.

Because today is the Saturday of Labour Weekend, and I'm going to Armageddon.

So I get up. I put on the attire I'll be wearing to it. There's some dark jeans, a black shirt and a darkish suit-jacket. I like it. It's spiffy. It's dark, just like I am on the inside. Incidentally the shirt is the same one I wore to my year 13 prom, the only prom I will probably ever go to in my lifetime. But I digress. I go out and have breakfast, and get ready to leave. I make sure to bring a bag along, since I know from experience I'll inevitably end up with a whole bunch of stuff to carry around.

It's had a couple of bright points (like discovering two new songs I really, really, REALLY like), but overall the preceeding week has been somewhat grim. There's two big high-stress assignments left for university, but most importantly of all I keep feeling like I've done something wrong. A far few of my friends seem really upset, but I can't seem to do anything to cheer them up. I feel like a failure. I'm useless, for what good is someone when they can't even make the people they care about happy? I worry I'm drifting away from all my friends. On top of all that it looks like the Halloween thing for the librarything is cancelled. Again. So I could definitely use a fun day out.

It's just around 10, opening time, when I enter Greenlane, nearing the ASB Showgrounds on the tail end of a stream of other convention-goers in a whole bunch of different costumes, most of which I don't recognise. As I approach the place, I come across a man. He's dressed as the Hatter as depicted in the Time Burton Alice in Wonderland film. I'm dressed as The Hatter as depicted in my interpretation of the woodcut illustrations in the book Alice's Adventures In Wonderland.

"Nice hat sir!" He says, displaying a gesture of courtesy as I pass him.

"And you!" I reply, taking my hat off to him.

I continue on my way imagining his screaming agonised death. I am sure he's dreaming of slaughtering everyone I care about and burning down my home before my eyes. Hatters are territorial like that.

(Aside: actually this guy seemed pretty cool, and impressed me greatly with his good gentlemanly conduct. I held and hold nothing against him whatsoever, and I consider him to be exempt from my elimination of rival Hatters. He seemed like a really good person. My point still stands about Hatters being territorial though - that's one of the reasons why you never see crossovers between the different Alice in Wonderland renditions*)

I finally get there and the entry que is proceeding along at a steady pace. It moves quite fast, and I'm pleased not to have to wait in a line (yet). Unlike the last couple of years, where I've gone in through an entry into the convention building proper, this time I'm directed through an orning and then into the outside area, where the food stalls and ASB's mobile ATM machines are set up, alongside the main building.

When I enter it's just as I remember. Massive crowds everywhere, streams of foot-traffic just like the streams of air-traffic between giant city buildings in a Space Opera. In some places you can barely move as you shuffle along inch by inch. There's a throbbing in the air. There's countless little stands for hobby stores like a pop-culture merchandise bazaar. I trace a circuit along the perimeter of the main area, around the gaming section. I notice the Vagabond stall, but pass it over - I can always get things from their store in town. I come across a poster place, and scour their product gallery for a specific set of images. Before long I find what I'm looking for - the mysterious gothic artwork that always seems to turn up in these sorts of places. Some of it's by Victoria Frances, but others, while I recognise them, are by some other artist unknown to me. I take a note of them - one of my friends quite likes them, and she might not be able to make it to Armageddon this year, and if that's the case I want to get her something so that she at least has something from it, and a Victoria Frances poster would be just the thing, especially at their very reasonable price. I also spy another poster, containing a humorous list of rules for dating vampires. I make a note of that one too, it could make a good gift for another friend I have that's a very big vampire fan.

I do a second quick orbit around the gaming area, probing it's outer fringes. I notice a section for the xbone, and a demonstration in progress consisting of someone dancing along a floor, with a digital avatar mimicking their movements on a screen, super-imposed onto footage of a football game. During my travels I come across a young lady in an amazing costume of the American Mcgee Alice. She is very cute. I would rather like to get to know her better, especially given her apparent fondness for what is easily the most awesome, badass version of Alice in mainstream media. I decide against direct interaction though - I'm far too afraid she'll take after her persona and mercilessly tear me apart where I stand.

I press on to the second section. It's largely more of the same, immense foot-traffic and long streams of stalls for various hobby merchandise. I stumble upon the celebrity area. This is normally the centrepiece for me, as the celebrity guests are the main thing I go to Armageddon for. I've met a fair few very famous people there - Michael Bein, Mark Sheppard, Ben Bowder and even the legendary Summer Glau herself. This year has an impressive lineup including The Doctor's latest comapnion. But none of the personalities are quite critically important enough to me personally to warrent an autograph. As I'm heading back to the main area, I happen upon the Arkham Comics stand. A good friend of mine, Lucy, works there, and I wonder if she's at the stand here. Sure enough she is, and I wave out at her. She instantly recognises me, exclaims "It's you!", then rushes over and hugs me. I feel warm and welcomed, and like I'm actually wanted here. It's like a blanket and hot cocoa on a long, cold night, a candle in a very dark room or the first few rays of morning. She is truly one of the best kinds of friends to have. She tells me that a renowned comic book artist, one who had a key role in the creation of my favourite comic series Transmetropolitain, She will get my copy of it's first volume signed by him and then return it to me. There's a short exchange, and then she returns to work and I continue on my way. It's getting close to 12, so I decide to look into getting some lunch.

I exit the main building back into the sun. The fresh air is cool and is utter bliss after the suffocating heat of the building's interior - it's surprising just how quickly a few thousand people in a confined space can raise the ambient temperature to enormous levels. Before setting out for food, I make my way along the steps of the ASB building, a popular place to sit down and convene. I quite often run into friends here, so I want to give it a good sweep just in case any are there. It turns out there aren't, so I proceed through the outdoor area browsing the different food vendors. A few are intriguing, but in the end I settle for the basics: chips. I have $4 in cash budgeted for food and drink. It should cover me, I reason that a serve of chips and a can or small bottle of cola can't be more than $2 each. I look at the menu. $4 for chips and $4 for drink. Damn, twice as expensive as I was anticipating. Still, I press on. I need the sustenance, and I have my credit card to fall back on - an extra $4 won't break the bank.

It is a special kind of torment to wait in a sizeable, slow-moving que for food in the middle of the blazing springtime heat, while wearing all black, including a heavy suit-jacket, and a top hat. The sun burns on and on and on, and I quickly begin to feel as though I'm boiling alive. I'm a couple of steps out of alignment with the rest of the que, and I fear I might be accused of cutting in, but thankfully no-one presses such a claim. It is at this time, now that I am finally standing still for a notable amount of time, that I begin to feel the stress and weariness of my feet, my soles radiating intense aching pain. At long last I arrive at the merciful shade of the vendor's orning, and then at the vendor itself. I order my chips, and wait a short while before hurrying away into some more shade to feast upon them. I fear they may have been unsalted, but they turn out to be salty enough. I dispose of the empty cup and go forth in search of something to wash them down with,

There are numerous vendors selling drinks outside, but after my experience waiting in line for food I limit my choices to those inside the building rather than face another stretch under the relentless sun. After a quick search it appears my choices in beverage are limited - regular or diet coke, sprite, a couple of sorts of juices or water. I elect to go with a regular coke. The line in the cafe area is even longer than the one at the food vendor, but is at least out of the sun. To make matters worse I end up behind what appears to be a couple. As a sad lonely person, the only thing worse than waiting in a long line with sore feet is waiting in a long line with sore feet and a happy couple in front of you. I attempt to strike up a conversation with them, since the line isn't moving any quicker otherwise, but quickly abandon the project. After further contact it strikes me they could just be very good friends instead, which is considerably more bearable.

I get my drink, and begin consuming it. It's nothing special, just a good old humble cola. As I am now armed with a means of keeping cool even in total sunlight, I decide now is the time to strike and venture back out into the outdoors area. On my initial inspection of the various sellers of food and drink I stumbled upon a truly marvellous discovery, an authentic Danish ice-cream seller. I have no idea how authentic it really was, but the ice-cream treats people were carrying away from it looked delicious, so I had to try one for myself. The wait in line is again arduous, but drinking my cola helps pass the time. I reach the line's end, and the kindly lady selling these wondrous looking ice-creams asks what flavour I want. The options are Dutch chocolate, Danish strawberry or vanilla. I ask for two scoops, one Dutch chocolate and one vanilla. I saw the cream and chocolate sauce toppings on the ones being carried away, so I like the idea of dark and white. Perhaps such a preference is also in part a result of my tortured inner nature bleeding into my choices. Then again, perhaps not. The kindly lady appears to mishear and ends up giving me just one scoop of Dutch chocolate, but I don't mind. Dutch chocolate sounds delicious enough on it's own. She asks for payment and I prepare my credit card, but she informs me they only take cash. It's a setback, but I can manage. I have a spare $20 note I had reserved as a merchandise budget, and use that to pay for my cool sugary prize. I reason I can compensate by using the credit card for merchandise purchasing. I walk away with what is easily the most delicious looking ice-cream I have thus far seen in memory, more an ice-cream sundae in a waffle cone than what one would normally imagine an ice-cream to be like. I begin eating it, and it is every bit as fantastic as it looks. It is like Delain and Within Temptation performing on my tastebuds. It tastes amazing, and leaves me longing for more. It is pure sweet ice-creamy paradise.

As I return from devouring the ice-cream, I finally begin running into people I know. First I come across a girl from university. She's extremely friendly to me, which I find pleasantly surprising since most of the people there usually seem to barely tolerate me at the best of times. We have a brief exchange, before she departs to seek food with what I presume is her boyfriend. The next person I run into is another good friend, Anabelle. Again, the dialogue is brief, since we're going different ways and I notice she's with her friend. I don't want to bother them too much. I proceed to a Real Brownie stall. I noticed a number of them on my initial survey of the showgrounds, and am intrigued enough to try one. It is fantastic, rivalling the Danish ice-cream in it's splendour. After this I encounter the brother of Eva, my closest friend. I initially have a lot of difficulty recognising him in his costume, but after that share a few words. He seems confused by my exclamation that I am full of sugar, a most astute statement at this point, and we part ways.

The girl from University informed me of a most troubling development. As it transpired, the eftpos system on the showgrounds had ceased to function, rendering any credit or debit cards useless. This is a textbook scenario of why I like to use cash and analogue methods whenever possible, but this time the news was most unwelcome, as I had been banking on being able to use my credit card when purchasing things, and my current level of on-hand cash funds was woefully insufficient for the task. She had mentioned there being one ATM machine in the entire site, and so I set out to find it, as I would need some extra physical currency if I was to get everything I wanted. After some searching, I eventually found that it had been starring me in the face the whole time. On my way out for food I had noticed an enormous que leading seemingly to nowhere, and it turned out this was the cue for the ATM. By now my soles were burning, and the wait was excruciating. Eventually someone passing by the line geve news of two other ATM machines somewhere outside, that hardly anyone was using. I promptly left the vast line in search of these mythical ATMs. It occurred to me that the situation was somewhat reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic zombie story; "Hey, guys! I heard rumour of a cache of supplies and survivor enclave somewhere yonder! Shelter and supplies for everyone!".

The hunt initially proves futile, these mysterious ATM machines appear nowhere to be found. As they were said to be outside, I journey along the outside of the showgrounds, my search eventually taking me through the exit. I am sure to get my hand stamped so that I am not impeded on my re-entry. As I wander around the outside of the convention, I feel like I'm in space carefully walking along the outer surface of an orbiting station. This outer paramble allowed me to access the fourth area of the convention, which thus far has been barred from me by way of me being on the wrong side of a metal fence barricade. It turns out to be largely devoted to gaming and gaming related functions, with some Fantasy-related stalls as well. On my way out I notice a stall for a game called Ascent. I find this hilarious, because I remember a popular game series called Descent. I take a closer look, and it turns out to be about constructing a space station to save the population of the Earth, with the challenge of managing money for building the station, providing enough power for it's systems, adding enough room to hold a sizable portion of the human population and making sure there's enough food stockpiled that they can survive for a good long while (exactly why they couldn't just build hydroponic garden chambers and grow a near-unlimited supply of food I do not know). I liked it, it seemed like an excellent way to kill a few minutes waiting for something, or procrastinating during an assignment, and so I covertly stole away a card with information on it and made a note to look into it further.

All this time I have been somewhat fearful that I might run into people that I'm not on very good terms with, and that such an incident might have dire repercussions. As a countermeasure I have been playing A Day For Ghosts by Delain in my head for most of my time here, and it proved a successful deterrent, as not once did I come across any such people. Symphonic metal songs frequently blast through my head, providing a worthy soundtrack for any of my adventures.

I'm nearly ready to give up, finding these fabled ATM machines seems impossible. A cute girl catches my eye as I move along the indoor hallway outside the main area, and I flash her a smile. She smiles back. I make my way back to her and ask her if she's seen a pair of ATM machines somewhere outside. She points them out to me, and once again it turns out they've been hidden from me in plain sight all along - I had seen the trailer they were contained in when I first arrived, but at that time it was still closed up in it's transport position, so I had not seen the ATMs held inside. Alas, by this time others had caught word of them, and so there was a sizeable que in front of these ones too, but it was still a fraction of the size of the endless line of people at the inside one. Waiting in line outside for the third time allowed me to identify that the middle part of the que was the worst. Both ends of the ques at the outside vendors close to the ASB building were in shade, but the middle was fully exposed to the fury of the sun. Eventually I reached an ATM and withdrew $20. The pain from my feet was almost unbearable, so I went back to where the helpful cute girl was, looking to sit down next to her and maybe strike up a conversation. Perhaps I would make a new friend. When I got there though she was busy on her phone. I gave my feet a brief respite of a minute or so before getting up and moving on. I suppose it was for the best, she had probably had enough of being bothered by some strange man wearing a top hat.

Now I had the means to get what I wanted to get. My first stop was back at the poster place, where I picked out a Victoria Frances poster and bought it for my friend - even if she did go to Armageddon later on it would still make a fine Christmas gift. I was going to get the vampire dating one for the other friend too, but decided against it, reasoning that it was likely she already had one. My next goal was to find something to get a third friend of mine that was again unable to make it to the convention. My initial plan was to get her a plush sea creature, as I knew she liked the ocean, but when I went to get one the only ones still available were out of my price range. I desperately scoured the entire convention for something to get her, something special, something that could only come from there, but everywhere I looked all the items on offer were too expensive. At last I happened upon a small boutique stand selling small pieces of jewellery. One was something called a cameo, and was emblazoned with a character from a cartoon series I know she liked. It's price was $20, exactly how much I still had budgeted for gifts. I knew it had to be that, and bought it after a brief consideration. Purchasing it also put me into a raffle prize draw, and I laughed hysterically when I received my ticket. The ticket number? 042. How delightfully improbable.

With my friends seen to, now was the time to treat myself. Unfortunately I was once again critically short on funds, and so I had to endure another trek to an ATM. The line for the indoors one was much shorter now, so I decided to take my chances with that one again. While waiting in line a mother introduced her child to the idea of the Hatter and Alice in Wonderland after said child noticed me. When I reached the ATM however, I found it had all been in vain, for this one had a minimum withdrawal amount of $100, far in excess of what I wanted to take out. So I left the ATM behind and went back to the outdoor ones. They were miraculously deserted, and so I quickly took out another $20 with which to indulge myself.

My first target was the United Sweets stand, and the wealth of exotic Armuracean sugar products. I struggled up to the display and hunted down a packet of Pop-Tarts. I had wanted to try some ever since buying a couple of packets for a friend's birthday gift. I had originally planned to only get this for myself, but as I was completing one last, final sweep of the main area to make sure I hadn't missed anything, I happened upon a hobby vendor selling something entirely captivating - dice. There were two bowls of assorted dice, but what caught my attention was the small boxes of D6s next to them. It struck me that one of these D6 sets would make a fine memento from this Armageddon; they were special enough in that they came from a supplier that would otherwise be unavailable to me directly, and at the same time had a real practical use for me as a tabletop wargamer, after all a tabletop wargamer can never have too many D6s. After some short pondering I decided to get a set, but there was a problem. The D6 sets came in three different colours: black, red and white, and I couldn't decide between them. My first thought had been red, since they would complement the green D6s that I already owned and a number of rulesets I had had mentioned using red dice for certain in-game effects and actions, But then as I thought more about it the black ones looked like they would go equally well with the green ones, and fit with the handful of black D6s that I also owned. Even the white ones began to appeal to me. Eventually I settled on the only proper solution to such a conundrum: determine the right choice with a dice roll! I sifted through one of the bowls of dice to find a D6 that wasn't red, black or white - I wanted to make sure it would be totally impartial - found one, and rolled it, deciding that a 1 or 2 would mean a white set, a 3 or 4 a red set, and a 5 or 6 a black set. It landed on a 3, a red set it was. I then went and gave the last remaining gold coin I had on me to the anti-cancer charity that the 501st Stormtrooper legion was running. I wanted to give it to R2-D2 or Vader or even the Rebel pilot, but by the time I went to do it there was only one Stormtrooper left still fully in costume and actually holding a charity bucket, so I donated it to them instead.

After that I had a short wander, where I discovered that there was in fact an area for the Auckland Library. There were a few books around, but at this point my main focus was on the comfy seats there, as my feet were now excruciating. I had a quick rest before continuing on my way. I also ran into another friend, Katherine. We briefly swapped stories of loot, foot pains and inflated prices before parting company.

I then had one very genuinely last look around, before performing my final activity for the day, indulging my inner child and having a round at the Nerf shooting gallery. I mused while waiting in line about how colour-marketing for girls seemed to have moved away from pink to purple. I suppose it's marginally less stigmatised, but still contrasts sharply with the oranges used in the other Nerf products, and still looks feminine, and how it's a sign of rampant commercialism and hegemonic domination forcing children to conform to stereotypes. University messes you up like that. When I was let into the shooting area, the lovely young lady picked up on my adopted persona of The Hatter, and we had a quick conversation about souvenirs that could be gotten at Armageddon. I had never handled a modern Nerf gun before, so this was exciting new territory for me. I was initially drawn to the new assault rifle model they had put out, but decided to have a go at the bow too. My archery proved as terrible as it was in Year 7, utterly failing to hit anything - I am indeed glad that none of my Elven warriors were around to witness my abysmal performance, otherwise I would have never heard the end of it. I proved more successful with the assault rifle however, I ended up proving to be a poor shooter, missing any of the targets set out (not that I was really putting much effort into aiming anyway, my plan from the start was to revel in the Nerf gun's automatic fire capability and wildly spray nerf darts about while bellowing out "DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA" at the top of my lungs), but turned out to be a capable artilleryman, squarely hitting a Nerf logo with the grenade launcher function. After emptying the magazine, I handed the Nerf gun back, left the shooting gallery, and made my way out of Armageddon.

The walk home was made gruelling by the immense pain of my feet, but aside from that was pleasant enough. Shortly after beginning it the thought crossed my mind that the young lady at the Nerf shooting gallery might have been attempting to court me. I quickly dismissed the notion as utterly insane, as such an occurrence has been long since ruled as fundamentally impossible. Much more likely she simply made friendly conversation with all the people waiting to shoot foam darts. The path home was as adventurous as I remembered it, taking me from bustling upper Royal Oak to familiar Onehunga to the windswept Old Bridge. On the way I ran into Rebecca, the last friend I would encounter in my outing. She was having a meal with a couple of family members, so I left her be after a quick greeting in passing. It was the first time in quite a while that I have communicated with her. I miss seeing and hearing from her. She's one of the few friends I can talk to about a lot of things, and was part of my new dream of one day having a circle of friends to call my own. I sometimes worry that she might be upset about something, but if so I can't seem to do anything about it. I wish I see or hear from her again soon.

By the time I got home, my soles were pure agony. Even hours later it still hurt to walk. I took off my hat and coat, put on one of the two new songs I had come to adore - The Call of the Mountains by Eluveitie - and gave my feet a well-deserved rest. It will take some time for them to recover, but all in all I'd say it was well worthwhile.

Exunt

*The other reason of course being that if the American Mcgee Alice rendition was to ever be included then it would proceed to brutally massacre all the others without any remorse. Seriously, the American Mcgee Alice is hardcore.

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