So I'm a bad person.

I have, in the past month or so, gone through the worst period of writing block that I've had in a long time. It's awful. I think part of the problem was that I actually wanted to finish one writing project (Of Livestock and Mercenaries) before hopping into a new one. I just can't seem to write under that kind of rule, which stinks, because if I only write what I feel like, you readers will get a bunch of half finished stories and no closure. On a side note, my pleasure reading has also not been at it's all time high, and reading is part of what makes me want to write. It's a lot easier to get in a writing mood after having read an exciting adventure story than it is after having read Federalists and AntiFederalists. (Which I will one day burn in effigy. Seriously, it may have governmental value, but just the way they write is so... yea.)

Because of this, I've decided to force myself to finish up Of Livestock and Mercenaries. I've read a few psychological type articles that say you can get galvanized into finishing something by creating a risk or a theoretical punishment. (E.G. Nicholas finishes the latest draft of Nicholas Thornton’s Treatise on every conceivable way to set a table when one is serving fish, because his uncle threatens to throw him out of the house at the end of the month if he doesn't see a book deal or an unrelated job.)

I'm not sure if that's a good idea. So we will scientifically try it out. Yay! Science! I will have the final draft for Of Livestock and Mercenaries live on this site at the end of the month or else, um... not sure... what do I really not like? Oh, I know. I'll post all two chapters of Serving Fish, a terrible story I wrote a long time ago. And I won't explain it, so that everyone who reads that story when they first unwittingly fall into this site will receive a bad impression of me and never return.

Sound fair?

This is a Shout-out.

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014, hundreds of thousands of people every age, size, race, religion, and worldview, witnessed to the belief that the human person is endowed with rights and equality from the moment of fertilization to natural death. 

I wanted to be there. Snow got in the way. A lot of snow. :( 

So I figured I'd do a double shout-out instead(not quite as impressive, but hey.) First, a shout-out to the March for Life. (As it is called.) 

Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, mainstream media coverage is pretty much nonexistent. Pro-life activism, despite the amount of support and people who have endorsed it, still seems to be considered a fringe right-wing activity. 

Oh well. 

I don't want to get into slamming, whether it is warranted or not, because one of the most problematic part of this to me is the fact that in the pro-life movement, there are hundreds of resources for people considering abortion, as well as post-abortive healing for both women and men.

That means that it's just that much harder to show people that there are other options, and people and organizations dedicated to helping them when they are in a bind of that sort. And that can be isolating. 

I'm not going to get into arguments about abortion here. I won't say that I never will, but this specific post isn't about that. I will say that if there is a choice about something, why are the majority of non-abortion options obscured? 

The March for Life is one of many ways people are saying "Hey look. This is a problem. We need to talk." 

Right now, not many seem to be listening. A lot of people don't even know. Perhaps this rally is news to you, and you're interested in the pro-life movement. Maybe you'll consider joining us next year, if need be. (And yes, we have a west coast one if you are closer to that side of the country.)

The other shout-out is in a similar vein. Check out this awesome pro-life picture by Olaf Tollefsen in Arabic Calligraphy. I've mentioned a few times that Olaf has been the awesome person behind the quirky and funny illustrations on some of the stories, and Unleavened Ministries is where he and a few other cool people put their talents to good use. 

I've tried to help some by writing, he by writing and drawing, and many people by simply marching. You don't need to be any special kind of person to be pro-life. Helping a cause can mean putting your particular talents to use.

How can you help those around you?

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries)

Of Livestock. (And Mercenaries)

Part One of Two

Of Explosives and Used Cars

"This is not going to work."

"You mean the donkeys or the gunpowder?"

"I mean both. There is no way that we can pull this off. It'd be pretty bad if we mess up. We'd have to leave the Galaxial Union and hightail it to the asteroid fields, and that's assuming that the cops are the only ones who find out it was us behind it."

Dobs glanced around warily. While Gem tended to think things out long-term like being exiled to the Asteroid Colonies, he would forget about what was going on right now. Which, incidentally, was that they were standing in front of a giant pile of gunpowder flakes, about to blow a hole in the wall of an official Galaxial livestock food development facility.

It made him jumpy. He was being jumpy right now.

Dobs carefully placed his drill against the wall, according to the diagram, ignoring Gem's jumpiness.

The facility loomed over them, and over much of the city. The donkeys could be kept anywhere in such a monster of a building, but fortunately, Gem had managed to snag a copy of the layout. 

And someone had placed a livestock pen right up against the outer wall.

They crouched at the end of the narrow alleyway, its sole inhabitants. The featureless grey platewall lining either side of the alley did pose a bit of a problem. The sound of the explosion might reverberate across the metallic walls back to the road. 
Couldn't be helped though. At least there weren't many passers-by at five in the morning.

Seriously, this is the twenty-fifth century. Why don't we have some kind of silencing bubble or something. On second thought, we probably do, and Galaxial just doesn't want anyone to be able to use it. 

"And if we nail one of those donkeys by accident, E.S. will have our heads, which is even worse." Gem added.

"We don't have much of a choice. Let's hope that this works out somewhat O.K."

Dobs carefully finished drilling another hole in the platewall.

Gem started nervously again, glancing around. Times were tight, and trained mercenaries took whatever jobs they could, especially since the non-violence crackdown of '78. Even if it was working for the E.S. Gem probably thought that E.S. jobs were more dangerous than any pre-peace era assignments had ever been.

At least E.S. jobs paid well.

Dobs completed the pattern of holes. According to the diagram, this would weaken the platewall enough to blow a sizable chunk, but not enough to turn any donkeys into Thanksgiving dinner. He wasn't a hundred percent sure. The hefty mercenary sighed. He remembered the times when you could pick up some plastic explosive or super-acid to get a predictable result. Now they were reduced to using cannibalized toy noisemakers.

It had taken a lot of covert purchasing of pop rocks to get this much gunpowder.

That clerk at the fireworks store definitely didn't believe the story about a surprise birthday party for the niece.

Gem seemed intent on making himself as unnoticeable as possible, though Dobs couldn't fathom why. There was no reason anyone would come down the alley. It was just one of those many pointless dead-end roads that bureaucrats had subsidized into existence.

 Dobs wiped a single bead of sweat from his forehead. The only thing worse than having to use gunpowder cannibalized from noisemakers was the "borrowed" maintenance man jumpsuit he had forced himself into. Once-size-fits-all doesn't work on both a broad six foot four frame and a skinny four foot six frame, no matter how many times the manufacturers guaranteed the "patented elasticity."  They had opted for being able to suit up the shorter guys.

He had already burst three stitches, and had no idea what held the rest of the stupid get-up together.

Dobs scraped away the rough metal filings.

"Done," he said. Looks like supply in the donkey steak market is gonna take a serious cut. 

Gem shot out of the alley like a cannonball as soon as he heard Dobs' announcement- or would have if the bigger mercenary hadn't grabbed the back of his collar and stopped him. Fortunately, Gem didn't fit into his suit as badly, and the fabric held firm despite his legs pounding rapidly in one direction, and Dobs firmly anchoring him the in other.

"Don't lose it!" Dobs whispered fiercely. "Anybody seeing you bolt outta here 'll know somethin's up real quick. Focus!"

Gem had been like that for months now. Something had completely broken his cool under stress. It hadn't had any serious effects yet on the jobs-like getting them killed- but it was getting worse and worse. At least he did always snap out of it.

His partner shook himself once, and began to breath normally again. His heartbeat probably went from jackrabbit to near-normal human.

Dobs released his hold on Gem, and pulled out the matchbox, just the faintest sour aroma of sulfur escaping into the air.

Both slowly moved about halfway down the alley. They came to a stop where the fuse ended. It was just a faint trail of gunpowder leading up to the big pile.

Dobs remembered when he had been able to input a voice pattern into his com and release a series of flares to ignite an explosion. A powder fuse seemed so crude in comparison.

But you took what you could get.

"Gem," he said quietly. "Send the Panic."

"The Donkey Whistle?"

Dobs sighed. The guy was so intent on using his own terminology.

"Yes. The Donkey Whistle."

Gem pulled out his com and tapped in the sequence. You couldn't trigger explosives anymore, not with Galaxial proxies in place.

But you could still play a ringtone.

And if you knew the right sound engineers, you could synthesize something that would be undetectable by human ears.

And very, very, annoying to certain animals.

One of the holes that Dobs had drilled into the wall went all the way through to the enclosure on the other side. While the others were angled to affect the stability of the wall, that one was just to let their soundwave in.

Gem played the ringtone.

Faint sounds of distressed animals quickly echoed back towards them. It didn't seem exactly what Dobs had expected an annoyed donkey to sound like, but he had honestly not spent all that much time around animals.

Dobs lit the fuse.

Flames sputtered and hissed, dancing through the trail of powder towards the pile right next to the platewall.

Both men backed away and ducked behind a trash can, a safe distance from the blast.

Or what would have been a safe distance, a lifetime ago when explosives had been predictable.

The roar was unexpected.

The huge jet of flame was unexpected.

The torrent of metal chunks flying towards them was quite unexpected.

Dobs dove, bringing Gem to the ground.

They put stuff with this kind of power into party noisemakers?!

He stared in disbelief. A massive hole, ten feet across gaped where the wall had been. Dense smoke obscured the inside of the building. Everything smelled of molten metal and burned... something. Almost like an aquarium for some odd reason.

"Gem. Gem," he whispered urgently, shaking his friend. "You OK?"

Gem bobbed his head. A couple of cuts oozed. It looked nasty, but they had both gone through worse. He'd survive.

 Gem grinned feebly. "Good to go."

First aid was second priority right now.

"Time for part two."

Part two was the other ringtone. Dobs wasn't exactly sure what that one did. Either the donkeys would get really, really angry, or decide that the mercenaries were their pals, but the end result was the same. They would stampede back towards the mercenaries, and into freedom.

Well, freedom of an ES type.

It was better than the alternative at least. The ES didn't believe in donkey-loaf. They didn't actually eat donkeys at all.

"Dobs. Problem."

The big mercenary tore his eyes from the aftermath of the blast and glanced at Gem's problem. The com had been smashed in two by the combined weight of the two grown men dog-piling it. Wasn't going to play anymore tunes for a while.

"At least I backed up all the data onto the cloud. Knew I shoulda invested in the protective sleeve."

"Focus Gem. We still got plan C."

"Oh yes. Plan C. This is gonna be... fun."

Fun. Dobs shook his head ruefully.

Gem carefully drew three small plastic tubes out of his jacket. One was cracked, but fortunately the orange powder hadn't leaked out. "Now was it green and orange, or the blue and orange?"

"We don't have time Gem."

Gem made an executive decision, and smashed all three on the ground together. The resulting flare easily eclipsed the first. Fortunately, it was just light. Not heat and shockwaves of death blowing them to bits.

"Gem."

"Yeah?"

"Next time, we have time."

"Gotcha."

The smoke began to clear, and Dobs peered into the hole. Something moved inside.

"That is not a donkey."

The creatures that began to crawl into the open were small, round, and green.

The first one blinked a couple of times against the smoke, and noticed the duo.

The tortoise made a coughing sound, and began waddling towards them, quickly followed by its brethren. Some of the others were considerably larger.

"Somebody put the reptiles in the mammal section." Gem muttered.

"Turtles work. We just needed some kind of animal, right?"

"I don't remember. You're the one who pays attention at the debriefings. And those are tortoises, for the record."

"I don't care if they're kangaroos Gem."

Dobs began to back away slowly. They had just combined several chemicals that released a smell donkeys would chase after like carrots on sticks.

Apparently, tortoises liked that smell even better.

And the chemical now completely saturated their clothes.

"Time to go."

From the entry to the alleyway the two darted forth, followed by the cavalcade of rampaging tortoises, even as delayed alarms began to wail.

"This way!"

Fortunately, Dobs' com was still working, and he had the GPS route running. It was a winding and elongated trek through various circular streets and dead ends, but that was the city's fault. They just couldn't build straight roads. Politics.

Helicopters began to circle overhead, and something cold touched Dobs' back. He knew that feeling well. Glue gloves, called so for their hand-like shapes, had been implemented as a response to the violence crackdown. They had no harmful side effects, technically. They just stuck to you for several hours and rapidly sucked in compressed air until they effectively anchored you to the ground with the weight. Law enforcement liked the fact that they were compact enough that you could toss them from anywhere.

When you managed to blow something very important up, they would just try to immobilize everybody nearby for interrogation, so they hadn't necessarily blown their cover yet.

Fortunately, when they hit clothing instead of skin, you could twist really quickly...

With a snapping noise, the weight of the glove disappeared, and Dobs didn't stop to look around. Feeling free already, he doubled his pace. Gem had either avoided getting hit, or covered his suit in cooking spray beforehand, as he often claimed that it was an effective method of circumventing gloves. Dobs would have to grill him on that later.

Dobs pulled his flare-gun out of its holster. Or what would have been a flare-gun, a long time ago. This was a glorified flashlight.

Flare-guns wouldn't be that difficult to scrap together, but the comparative fifty years incarceration wasn't worth the trouble if you got caught. Just like a lot of stuff. That, and how most homemade ones blew up in your face.

Dobs clicked the flashlight on and off at the sky a few times.

Should work.

"Let's hope your sister hasn't gotten fed up with you and left for good this time," he muttered back to Gem.

The smaller mercenary just humphed and sprinted ahead.

Who knew tortoises could run so fast?

Lungs heaving and hearts pounding, the two made another left... left... right.... straight for a few blocks-

Dobs skittered to a stop fifteen feet away from creaming himself against a cargo van.

The thing was old. Old enough that it consisted of rusted steel and duct tape instead of platewall and still ran on some derivative of gasoline.

It was also their ultimate getaway vehicle.

Gem scooted past him and flung open the side door. Or he would have, except that one of the few extra bits that still worked on the van was the power door. So he just pulled on the handle and waited for it to work. He hopped up and down a bit as it groaned and slid open. As soon as the entrance was wide enough for him, Gem jumped inside.

"C'mon Dobs, we gotta go!"

Dobs hesitated for just a second as he glanced at the person sitting in the driver's seat. Then he glanced back behind him and remembered where he was.

Dobs jumped in the back seat also and started shutting the door. The driver didn't care to wait for it to shut. As soon as Dobs was inside the vehicle, it lurched forward with a sickly groan. The alarm for "door ajar began to whine."

"Don't worry." Gem assured him. "Takes a bit to get going, but once you're up to speed, we're home free."

"Yea," muttered Dobs.

"Also, I call shotgun." Gem casually crawled into the front seat, banging his head against the glovebox as they went over a bump.

Gem adjusted himself, unfazed, and turned towards the driver. "Thanks sis."

"You idiots," she snapped back. "Thought that it was donkeys this time?"

"It was supposed to be, but-"

"You can't tell the difference between a donkey and a tortoise?"

"Gemma, that's not-"

"Know what Gemini? Just shut it. I don't even want to know."

The engine coughed and spluttered in agreement.

Gem clammed up and sulked. He did that when you called him by his full name.

"Dobs," said Gemma presently. "Why are ya in your long-johns?"

Dobs looked down, and saw that he indeed was wearing nothing over the long wool underwear he had put on that morning... So that was what that ripping sound had been. In the heat of the moment, he had completely missed that the glue glove had kept the jumpsuit, even if it had lost the Dobs.

Dobs muttered vulgar idioms under his breath.

"What did you just say, in my car?"

"'Said 'Good riddance, that suit was crushin' the life outta me anyway."

"Vehicle Glue Glove," Gem added thoughtfully.

The mentioned object anchored itself to the car, and with a horrible sucking noise, began dragging them to a halt.

Dobs winced as the van seemed to sink into the ground from the rapidly increasing weight. Gemma managed to turn one corner into a side road before the motor sputtered one last time and the back tires popped.

"How dare they," she muttered, staring at the sky darkly. "This is an antique!"

"Come on sis," said Gem, popping out his side of the door after quickly looking up to make sure no more glue gloves were headed in their direction.

The power doors were now completely shot, so Dobs had to scramble through the driver side after Gemma had exited.

Gem surveyed the damage. Even a Vehicle Glue Glove wouldn't have been able to get heavy enough to crush a modern platestrut framed vehicle, but the van was not a modern platestrut framed vehicle. The entire rear was nearly flattened, both wheels squashed, and the whole thing much too heavy for the ancient engine to haul two feet.

"Was fun while it lasted," Gem sighed.

"I don't even have an insurance policy that covers that," fumed Gemma.

"We're still on the run, remember?"

"Oh yes. Pardon me, I forgot. A plan, Dobs?"

"Well, no, not really-"

Dobs cut himself off as he noticed the street sign. No way. 

But it was the same street.

Is it even still there?

"One shot. A long shot."

Helicopters hummed ominously overhead.

"We'll take it."

A left, straight for a block... he remembered despite a fifteen year absence. That kind of thing happened when you walked somewhere every day for a decade.

It's still there. And the lights are on. He always did get up early to polish everything up. He’s still here.

"In there," Dobs said, almost whispering.

"That," said Gem flatly, "is a church."

"A Cathedral actually."

“You gone religious in your old age?"

"An old friend."

"You were friends with God once?"

"Ack. Not what I was trying to say. I have an old friend in there, probably." Dobs grunted and started opening the door. It was locked. Side entrance, on the left. Forgot about that. 

Moving across the steps, Dobs grasped the handle of the smaller door that he had always used before. The hinges squeaked with rust that hadn't been there fifteen years ago, but it still opened.

"Don't they bring like, the inquisition down on you if you go inside without asking?" Gem was still avoiding the door.

Dobs sighed. "Just trust me."

Gem opened his mouth again, but a glue glove landed next to his shoe, and he darted into the building. Gemma moved up against the building and away from the open street, raising an eyebrow at Dobs.

He ignored the unspoken question and walked inside. She followed cautiously. 

Dobs wrinkled his forehead as he entered. It even smelled the same.

He probably won’t kick us back onto the street.

Probably.

End of Part One

Read part two!

Re-fried Tortillas

My eating habits are terrible when I'm sick. Because of being sick, I usually just lie around all day. Because of lying around all day, I don't pay attention to normal breakfast/lunch/dinner times. Because of this, I eat the wrong things at the wrong times, and regret it because my metabolism also is kind of broken when I am sick.
The last time I was sick, I managed to change what should have taken five minutes to eat into three hours and a brick.
 I found myself making a cheese quesadilla. (That is pronounced with a y sound for those two 11's by the way. Don't even go there.)
Someone had already made a gigantic pot of soup. I think at one point earlier in the day I may have said something along the lines of wanting soup, and it was interpreted as "let's make a gigantic pot of soup."
I did not want the soup then.
I wanted a cheese quesadilla.
I arrogantly spurned the soup, and heated up a pan to cook a tortilla. (Two technically, if we are going to go by the actual composition of a quesadilla.)
After I went through the arduous task of shredding the cheese, melting it into the tortilla, and then cutting it into quarters, (It's like cutting the grilled cheese diagonally, you can't just bite into that thing) I slapped it ceremoniously(I am very ceremonious about food, and it is definitely a bad thing,) onto a plate, and then got distracted.
Over the course of the day, though I had not done anything productive in terms of school-work, I had certainly gotten a lot done in regards to my blog. I made it actually look kind of nice, and added some quality content.(Sure.)
I was satisfied as I looked over my work and made a few last minute edits. It was looking great.
I took a bite of my tortilla.
I quickly looked at my plate to make sure that I hadn't had it switched with a piece of cardboard.
It took only a few seconds to realize that I had gotten lost in edits and revisions of literary masterpieces(yeah right), allowing the heat from the culinary masterpiece(yeah right here too) to mischievously escape into the great unknown.
Grudgingly I detached my rear end from the comfort of its seat, and returned to the kitchen to reheat my tortilla.
I went through the arduous process of modifying the state of matter in which the cheese was held, and when it had returned to satisfying temperatures and runnyness, I sat back down to continue writing awful limericks.
I picked at my tortilla, and wondered how it had so quickly increased its Mohs scale rating, until I comprehended that the same phenomena had struck.
Again I visited the kitchen, said hi to the sink for no reason whatsoever, and returned my lunch to the pan. The pan and the food were by now of course very good friends, and they chatted about life while I broodingly nibbled unsalted peanuts.
Now there is a funny thing about reheated food. I don't know the science behind it, but it is not the same as the first time you cooked it.
Ever.
Sometimes it is better. Or so my parents claim on leftover nights. I have yet to experience a positive turning of the event. At any rate, there comes a time when your cheddar has been heated and cooled so much that it refuses to drop its viscosity, no matter what you do. And flour has no laws against becoming granite, no matter how many times they tell you that alchemy does not work.
The third time I returned the food to my mouth, I quit. I was not going to heat it up again, only to forget and let it try to be the first object to hit absolute zero.
Now that isn't to say that I was going to waste it. That would be bad for the environment. And by that I mean that it would go in the garbage, and those dang squirrels would attack it and break their teeth.
I smothered it in hot sauce and began chewing away.
Like a proverbial beaver with a log I battled, except that I have human teeth, not beaver teeth, and I can't ignore splinters, even if they are from re-fried tortillas instead of willow trees. I don't actually know what kind of trees beavers chew, and am pretty sure that they don't swallow them. Or add hot sauce. They just make houses.
I probably should have made a house out of that thing which had once been food, but instead I tried to see if my stomach acid would dissolve it. I assume that it did, though I can't be a hundred percent sure.
For all intents and purposes, I ground the quesadilla into what could have been sand, or could have been flour that had been put past its breaking point. I'm no longer quite decided on whether there is actually a difference.

Book Review: The King's Gambit, by John McNichol.

Part-of-Brain-that-is-the-Editor's Note: This review was supposed to be published a long time ago, but I was lazy and never got around to it. I apologize. 

In our current world, there are not many good books for ten to twelve year-olds.

The King's Gambit, is one such book.
I am something of a fan of John McNichol's other book series, a steampunk alternate-history G.K. Chesterton as a teenager battling Martians alongside H.G. Wells, (Yep) and but I have to say, I've been waiting for something like this, something directly from his own ideas, rather than a mash-up of some other authors stuff. Not that that isn't good, but Mr. McNichol is quite a good writer, and I think that he should definitely branch out to more of his own worlds. Much potential do I see. (I don't know why I worded that sentence like a small green alien in a mildly popular movie trilogy.)
Gambit is definitely a tentative step into these waters, and I wholeheartedly endorse it. It isn't a perfect book, but it's a fun read, an enjoyable read, and definitely worth the time.
There are a couple issues( an illustration depicts a revolver as the weapon of an FBI agent, which doesn't make sense,) Edward King, the main character, acts just a little bit too old for his age, (Not that I have anything against his philosophy, but sometimes it feels that he just lacks a bit of that adolescent smarty-pants-ness that intelligent kids his age have,) and dialogue can get kind of cheesy at times. But the story as a whole is unique, quirky, and a light-hearted adventure story, which is something I truly love, and so should you, because these kinds of stories benefit mankind. (Really. I'l extrapolate on that sometime.)
In relation to his earlier works, the Young Chesterton Chronicles, Gambit is appropriate for a somewhat less mature audience, which is cool, (as I noted in the beginning, 10-12 year olds get the short end of the stick often as far as literature is concerned,) though a slightly older fellow like myself can still enjoy it as well. Where Catholicism is concerned, I also think his style has improved here. Mr. McNichol has stated at least once that he doesn't want to tone down the importance of Catholicism in his books, (which I understand and can agree with) but in his latest novel, he is more successful at integrating it. Rather than Catholicism being something that seems a little tacked on to the adventure story, everything seems rather more naturally part of the world, allowing narrative to move more smoothly as a whole. It still is a bit bumpy, but it's less jarring here than it has been in YCC so far.
EDIT: Oh, the book itself. I forget this. It's about chess and philosophy and perfect grass. And it's about Edward King. I would put it half in Sc-fi, half in Fantasy, but I don't really know. Fiction works. ;) I don't want to say too much, because when a review basically gives you a play-by-play of a book, half the impetus to read just disappears.
I like this book. It's good enough that it is on my "may re-read" list, which is fairly high praise as far as I am concerned.
Don't expect too much from The King's Gambit. It isn't a masterpiece, and it is oriented towards middle-schoolers, but it's better than 39 Clues Diary of a Wimpy Kid a majority of the books floating through the mainstream right now, and considerably better at that. So what to get for your literate, thoughtful, Catholic nephew in the fifth grade? Take a Gambit.*



*I will never apologize for any puns, ever.

Wrap-up for Freeflighting Cycle 1, plus plans for the blog...

“Sandpaper” is somewhat of a misnomer actually, since sandpaper is rather nothing like sand, and in fact, is called so because it reduces other substances to sand, rather than being sand itself. It should be called “sand-making paper,” if one wanted to be completely understandable. But people get into a habit of calling things by the names that were probably given to them by individuals who weren’t thinking, and so we are stuck in a vicious cycle, with terms such as “sandpaper,” and “feather duster,” and “toilet paper.”

The above is an excerpt from something I wrote when I was very angry. I don't remember the exact details. The story was weird, and involved many monologues of this sort, but for some reason I think that it is funny, and though I plan on burning the whole thing eventually, I may release bits and pieces if I am so inclined*. 

Because.

Just Because. 

In other news, I only put that there because this entire post is something of a monologue, and I don't want to get into a habit of that. I want this blog to remain mostly just a place where I put some decent stories and poems**. So I put a little bit of a story here, and justify myself. 

I digress. 

This is mostly to explain what in the world Freeflighting is about and what I plan on doing with it, and what I have planned for SAC over the next few months.

Yes, Freeflighting is a serialized maybe-I-will-finish-this-someday kind of story. I plan on fleshing it out a lot, making sure that the whole thing makes sense, and maybe forcing my friends to give me a few illustrations before the end. I expect the final result to be 30+ chapters, but I really don't know. 

Anyways, the first cycle, which is the first draft of chapters 1-5, is now finished. However, I want every post anyone clicks on here to be a good read, and the first draft of Freeflighting (especially the first three chapters.) aren't what I consider to be a good read. There are going to be a lot of changes in the next drafts, stylistic, plot-wise and character-wise. 

 I'll leave it up for now, but eventually the first draft will be recycled over to my other blog, so that this place doesn't get cluttered. That will happen around the time that I post the next draft, which might be the third draft. (I'll probably keep 2 to myself, so that you get a decent read next time, through every chapter.) 

The system that I am working out, is that each draft I will add five chapters. So first draft= 5 chapters. 2nd draft= 10 chapters. 3rd draft=15 chapters. etc. (I am doing that way because it keeps me motivated more than anything else.)

So if I get a thirty plus chapter book in the end, that would mean I've gone through about six or seven drafts. I might make a couple more drafts after the whole story is finished, just for polish and everything. Hopefully, it will be something worth reading. If I and any sample readers who I might have by then decide that it is worth reading, I'll find some way to make it downloadable as an e-book or something. (Free of course.) 

That pretty much sums up everything about Freeflight. I don't want-right now- to talk about actual content, because it is all very subject to change so early on, but maybe I'll make some commentary or Q&A's eventually if enough people are interested. 

In between now and the next draft I release, I have a bunch of short stories and stuff in mind. Current ideas and early writing include something I mentioned on Facebook (Refried Tortillas) which is in the same vein as my older stories (complaining about how food is out get me. Yes, I know that it is very First World Problem-y. That is why it is funny to me at least,) as well as a tentative war story about a few rugged and battle hardened specialized shock troops. Kind of. ;) 

I also plan adding in a book review that is very long overdue, (I wrote it a long time ago and should have released it,) and may or may not have an essay or two on literary criticism, plus at least one more fun story. 

A lot yeah, but I don't have to get it all done in a month. (Unlike school.) I have as long as I want, though I do plan on increasing the amount of stuff I put up. Two or three posts a month maybe, as long as I am able to juggle my other responsibilities. 

 That's pretty much all I have. Thanks for reading this far, because it shows that you are actually interested in what happens here. That in itself is a pretty awesome thing. The biggest motivation I have for writing is that people other than myself want to read what I put out. Thanks again, to everybody (all four or five of you :D ) who have continued to read my stuff, because what is a story without a reader? Just ink on a page. (or random pixels.)

EDIT: P.S. I should mention the awesome artwork that has been given me by the one and only Olaf Tollefsen, who blogs about Christianity and stuff at Unleavened Ministries with a few other gents. New cover photo here on the blog, and a different one over at the Facebook page. Much thanks to this guy, who always says yes when I ask for drawings(or anything really, he was even willing to try to get me a sword.)

*I will concede that sandpaper and sand both have something of a gritty feel, but otherwise I stand by the statement. 

**Yea right. You aren't getting any poems unless I am feeling very mean someday. 

Epic in Brico

Author's Note: I myself am no artist. I would like to thank the Incredible Olaf Tollefsen for his amazing illustrations, which are probably better than the story itself. Please enjoy the story. 




There was once a small can of root beer.

The root beer lived quietly on the shelf, avoiding being sold like all the others, for it was a wise can of root beer, and knew well that it's fate would be one of sadness, of consumption by the humans, then of being mashed up and recycled into some baseball bat or modernistic underpants after it had been sucked dry. The can of root beer did its best to stay in the back shelf, where it accumulated a thin layer of frost, but it was determined to stick out until the bitter, carbonated end. It saw generations of cokes, cream soda, other root beer, and even diet coke, disappear like so many potato chips among college students. But its determination was unshaken.
The can of root beer saw a new era, as the shopkeeper began to shift his stock, moving the other sodas to a far side of the store, and putting ricotta cheese in their place. The can stayed hidden in the back, and watched as the cheeses were quickly snatched up by the customers, while it still hid behind the cartons, out of sight. It saw the lactose intolerant pass the aisle with slight annoyance, the cheese addicts grab massive armfuls of the cheese containers, and every night, it saw the shopkeeper smile as he looked over his stock, lock up, and then prepare for the next day.
Then, one day, as the root beer sat there, it suddenly saw a pudgy hand looming over, and before it had time to react, it was snatched up by a naughty looking toddler.
 "Wook Mommy!" said the little fellow, shaking our protagonist around until it's internal carbon dioxide threatened to no longer be internal. "Woot Beew!" The mother, a woman known in her own circles for her health conscious attitude, shook her head in disappointment at her prodigy. "Buford," she said sternly, then continued in an increasingly high pitched voice. "You know that carbonated beverages are not conducive to your physical health!" As she said this, she shook her head very slowly and waved her finger, while attempting to pry the little one's fingers from the can, which was no easy matter, since the minerals that accumulate on the fingers of a small child tend to be of the sort that allow them to chemically bind with whatever substance said child's parents are attempting to separate from them.
"Want Wooot Beew!" wailed her offspring, desperately attempting to detach himself from the grasp of his mother.

After a shortly prolonged duel, the child emerged defeated. His mother glared at the can as if it had purposefully left itself on the shelf to ensnare the good opinion of her darling child.
Young master Buford chose to sulk rather than scream, much to the benefit of the ears of the worthy patrons employed in visiting the grocery store. His mother deposited the can of root beer carelessly in another cart, and then sauntered off with her prodigy held firmly under her arm.
The cart that she had deposited the root beer into was, coincidentally the cart of a very health conscious young man of no relation, who noticed the can immediately when he returned from a slight sojourn, holding several gallons of distilled water and some flax seed. His immediate problem being how to remove the can from the cart without allowing any of the possibly harmful substances that might dissipate off of the surface of the cheap metal used to package it absorb themselves into his skin, he paused for a moment in thought.
The can itself which had landed on its side and possessed now a dent that had not previously existed, remained stolid, as it would to the bitter end.
The young man finally came upon a solution, surreptitiously taking two largish stalks of asparagus, and using them like chopsticks, after he made sure that none of the other worthy patrons were employed in watching his actions of dubious morality, he took the can and successfully set it upon the floor without letting it come in contact with his epidermis. After deposing of the now contaminated asparagus, the health-conscious young man fled the premises carefully, though not without paying for his groceries, as he was not the sort to shoplift.

The can sat on the floor until a few rambunctious toddlers upset it and caused it to fall on its side, from whence it proceeded to do a large number of barrel rolls, eventually resting itself against the bottom of a shelf of pizza sauce.
There it lay, stolid as ever, until the end of the day, when it was found by the shopkeeper, sweeping the floors. Unaware of how it had reached that aisle, which was several dozen feet from the current aisle for carbonated beverages, he bemusedly returned it, not paying enough attention to realize that it was of a brand that he had not stocked in years.
Although the dent had caused perhaps a blow to the can's beauty, it had done much for its survival prospects. Few of the worthy patrons who frequented the grocery store were of the sort to eagerly snatch up what they saw as damaged goods, and as a result the can slowly was pushed and shoved and edged to the back of the shelf, as before, where it accumulated a new layer of frost to make up for the one destroyed by its past escapades.
Years passed by, as the can sat, watching stolidly as always. It saw the switch from tungsten to florescent lighting, the passing on of the ownership of the shop from one man to the next, and the slow evolution of food containers.
And still, it sat there, gathering frost, and watching the progression of age in the worthy patrons frequenting the grocery store. It saw the children of one generation become the parents of another. It saw a child, toddling around one day, toddling his own offspring what seemed like the next.
Then, one day an older man came into the store. He walked with a slow but sure gait, and the carelessly happy air he let out seemed to increase the wattage of the lights. He looked aimlessly over this shelf and that, not looking for anything in particular.
He noticed the carbonated beverages and smiled, as if recalling an old and dear memory. He ambled over and glanced at the different sodas. His pupils seemed to dilate when he noticed something that most others ignored... A definitely expired can of Root Beer, covered in frost, dented, and sitting stolidly in the farthest back part of the shelf.
The old man carefully moved cola and ginger ale out of the way, and reached back to pick up the can. He smiled and rubbed frost off of the can, staring intently at the label.

At length, he nodded and set off to the register, where he payed with a fifty, counted his change, and bid the clerk farewell.
The root beer sat clamped in the man's fist, stolidly awaiting its fate as ever it had.
The man clambered into his truck, and setting the can down in the drink holder, he whistled to an old tune as he shifted into gear.
He drove out of the developed bubble of land that the town was, into the sprawling acres of green that stretched in every direction. Along a very old road, they bounced merrily, suffering only few potholes, and being uninhibited by any annoying weather based phenomena. At length, they turned into a very long, and rather unpaved driveway, the result of which was that the ride changed very little.
After what could have been either a very long time, or not much more than a minute, the driveway terminated next to a smallish mansion, or a largish house. The old man picked up a few bags out of the back, then disappeared through the front door.
After he had presumably taken care of their ingredients, he returned to the truck and took the can into the house.
As always, the can awaited its likely imminent demise with philosophy and stolidly sat, doing no more than waiting.
The old man did not take the can of root beer into his kitchen or dining room, to devour with a slice of pizza as a slight repast, but instead went deeper into the house. Though large, it was rather cluttered with boxes of unknown objects, as well as being somewhat dusty. Nevertheless, excellent lighting as well as a large assortment of pictures of various small children- -the old man's extended family, warded off any cheerlessness that could have formed in the house.
Finally, the old man made one last turn, and stopped in a room unlike the others. Not only was there a conspicuous lack of boxes and dust, but the far wall, which was quite long, was covered entirely in a plethora of... soda cans.
There was everything from cola and dark colored sodas, to the lighter, more fruit based colors. The only characteristic that each can had in common was the old fashioned designs. The old man was a collector, albeit one with an odd collection.
There was but one empty spot, a spot in the middle of a group of familiar flavors. It was a spot for root beer.
"The only collection like it in the world... and it all goes to a particularly prominent museum when I take the final trip," the old man murmured to himself. "And now it is finally complete."
Carefully, almost reverently, the old man placed the can into the final empty slot, fitting it in perfectly. The collection was complete. He took a few steps back to examine the work of a lifetime, his eyes wandering from one end of the wall to the other.
"I'm something of a silly old man," he said softly, more to his collection than to himself. "But it's the silly little things that always seem to matter most in the end."
Then his gaze turned to the final piece of the puzzle. His creased face broke into a smile.
"A fitting end to a rather strange story, eh Woot Beew?" said the man.