Archive for November, 2009

God is Taunting Me

So. My blog’s already at 300 pageviews today. Problem is, it’s not this blog, my “real” blug, but my other one with Courtney.

One of the ‘subjects’ of our vitriol there took exception to our treatment, and voiced her concern on our realm forums. This doesn’t bother me, because I welcome all points of view – it’s the same reason I’ve approved every single negative comment on that blog. Let people speak.

The funny thing is that her complaint has lead to a more than 600% increase in pageviews compared to the norm. The Streisand effect is well-documented, but it never ceases to amaze me.

I’m hoping hat many of the pageviews on that blog lead back here. In fact, I’m thinking that I may provide the linkz back to this blog whenever I do post a new piece of (WoW) fiction. That’s not a terrible abuse of power, is it? I do feel proud of my output of stories, and I think that people that see what I write on that blog will be interested in my fiction – either due to my style, or so they can try to tear me apart for similar crimes against the written word. To them, I post this link, remind them that no one’s perfect, and go on my way.

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Flagrant Self-Promotion

Considering this blog is all about pimping me and my writings, I feel no guilt doing just that right now.

Lanuria and I have a blog where we make fun of mediocre and worse roleplayers that don’t really deserve it. It’s located here, and is called The Roleplayer’s Lament.

If you like the things I write here, you should definitely check it out.

Blasted Reality

So. Vacation’s over, and normalcy has broken out. In fact, I’ve jumped right back into the swing of my normal silent Modern Warfare 2 binges.

Not a whole lot else to report, but if you’re interested in my girlfriend, me potentially writing, or my inspirations, do click the ‘Continue Reading’ link.

Continue reading ‘Blasted Reality’

Site Write: Varendil’s Day Off

I like site writes. I used to think they were a bad idea, writing without any sort of attempt to insert meaning, but now I like the idea of it. Oftentimes it’s not until you RP with someone that your character takes shape, and writing, like roleplay, can help illuminate a character. Of course, the one I cranked out today feels more like an illustration of something we knew than an illumination, but that’s still okay.

Presenting, from the Moon Guard forums, Varendil’s Day Off.

Lanuria was lounging on a bed, munching on an apple and reading her typical romantic fare when the door to the apartment swung open and Varendil entered, dropping one backpack off at the door and hauling the other over to the bed they shared. From the second bag he pulled a cupcake, presenting it to his wife with a bit of flourish. “Apples are gross,” he said.

Her eyes lit up at the sugary treat and she pounced on it, leaving the fruit behind and happily gnawing at the confection. “Fankth, honey,” she said as she chewed.

The husband set the other sack down, pulling a few vegetables free and arranging them in their small, makeshift pantry. From the bottom of the bag he pulled his own treat, a small jar of pickled cucumbers. While his wife was distracted, he quickly popped the lid and–

The lid didn’t move. He grabbed it and twisted again. Nothing. Grumbling, he pulled a glove off and gripped the metal lid. He wrapped his arm around the base of the jar and began wrenching at it. He tugged and tugged, but no response.

He pulled a hand towel from the cabinet, setting it on the countertop and setting the jar atop it, making sure the towel gripped the jar properly. He then tightly gripped the lid and twisted hard with a “Hnnng!”

Something touched Varendil’s waist and he yelped, tossing the jar into the air, where a hand darted over his shoulder to grab it. He turned around to see Lanuria, who’d finished her cupcake and come to investigate. She smirked at her husband’s shock, then looked down at the jar, popping the lid open to look inside. “What are these?”

He stared for a moment, slumping so hard it made his neck sore. “But… I… and then you…”

She looked up at him. “You couldn’t get this open? My husband couldn’t open a pickle jar?!”

He snatched the cucumbers from her. “The thing is, the reason I couldn’t is because ashnk nakth munf shk mirky.”

He took one of the cucumbers, chomping down on the end and pushing it into his munching teeth with one finger as he spoke.

Lanuria slumped and stared at him coolly.

“Besides,” he said after swallowing the first pickle and pulling a second from the jar, “I wakng thr brunk rathw pkak.”

My So-Called Life

I’ve been quiet. Truth be told, all that time spent not writing after my mom died sorta took. I need to get back in the habit. Thankfully, the grays and muted blues of this composition page are comforting to me by now, and I can feel the gears creaking and the machine coming back to life.

I really, really, really want to talk about the story in Modern Warfare 2. However, I’m saving that for my friends. I don’t have much experience in action movies, or first-person shooters, so I feel like my comments would be without the degree of authority I’m usually so good at faking. I guess I’ll write a couple of lines.

Some people have said the story in MW2 is over the top, or too far, or ‘crash the moon into the earth crazy.’ They may be right. Nukes were involved in MW1 and this ratchets up the scale significantly. I’m trying to avoid spoilers, which means I can’t really say anything at all. However, I can say that whatever one says about the writing, the presentation is impeccable and gripping. Whatever the gaming equivalents are of cinematography, art direction, all those things – these are executed flawlessly. The game is one big series of Holy Shit moments. This is what I want from a single player experience. And the heroin-like nature of MW1 and 2’s multiplayer doesn’t need explanation from me. The fact that my loved ones will see nothing of me for weeks is testament to that.

The other big – bigger, truthfully, even bigger than MW2, which is apparently bigger than God – is that Lanuria‘s coming to visit on Tuesday.

I don’t know what to say about this. Here’s a girl I developed very real feelings for based exclusively on online, 99% text based, interaction. However, the fact remains that she’s been the single biggest supporter of myself and my writings. I doubt this blog would have half of the content it does, or even be updated anymore, if not for her constant encouragement and fangirlism of my writings. It’s probably not healthy, the unconditional positive regard, but she can keep liking what I write, I’ll just have to start hating it more.

In any case, if you don’t hear from me at all next week, that’s why. I’m going to be up to my ears in Futurama, MST3K, and 4chan references.

Rough Cut: A Wilson, Wisconsin Holiday Special

Enjoy. It’s only what, six, maybe seven days late? The following’s complete in main content, meaning, et cetera. Mainly needs proofing and detail-adding. No, that’s not a word.

There was a layer of spray-webbing over the doorway, so Clarissa gently lifted it and stepped through into the darkened restaurant. Candles flickered about a foot apart down the entire length of the front counter of the store. A ghost hung on the wall, and the spray-webbing had been abused further on the interior with wispy strands hanging from nearly every corner.

In one distant corner, a pirate and a ninja stood discussing something quietly and chuckling. Clarissa waved, not remembering the names of the two nighttime-crew members. She quickly hurried past before they started talking to her and she was found out.

Next in line was Denise, standing quietly alone, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was thirty years the senior of anyone else attending the Cliff’s Halloween party. Clarissa saw that her green-clad right arm was stretched upward and prayed the old woman was wearing deodorant.

“Hello, Denise,” Clarissa said, tipping her big red hat upward show herself more clearly in the dim light.

“Clarissa! Dear, you look… stylish,” Lady Liberty said.

“You too! You’ve certainly gained a lovely patina with age, and that look never goes out of style.”

“Oh, thank you, lovely girl.” Denise smiled, her teeth standing out in the black light.

“Anytime. However, since I’m not tired, poor, or huddled, I’m going to move along. Have more people to say hi to.”

Denise nodded, and Clarissa moved deeper into the restaurant.

Turning and heading back into the staff section, she found Clarence’s drive-thru section marked off with police tape and labeled CONDEMNED, which made her smile. Sitting on the counter past the tape, however, were Rorschach and the Comedian.

“Kevin, for the love of God, close that bathrobe!” Clarissa said, quickly averting her eyes before covering them.

The Comedian blinked and pulled his legs together. “I have underwear on! God! And… Clarissa, is that you?”

Rorschach would have looked stunned if his face had been visible behind the inkblot mask. “Holy shit. It’s Carmen Sandiego.”

Clarissa grinned, striking a dashing pose and tossing the straps on her trench coat loose, but there was no breeze for them to flutter in.

“From the Red Sea to Greenland they’ll be singing the blues,” the Comedian said.

Clarissa stopped and pointed at him. “No. Dammit, I had that song stuck in my head the whole time I was making the costume. Don’t you dare get it stuck in there again.”

“Fine. Can I plunder your treasures, at least? You already stole my heart.”

The master thief slumped. “That was so clever I’m going to throw up.” She summoned her confident stance back, then tipped her hat back downward and turned her back.

Past intertwined orange and black streamers was the storage room, where a half-dozen teenaged night- and weekend-crew employees huddled in a circle. One girl, dressed in as good a Paris Hilton costume as can be made without requiring antibiotics, had a flashlight pointing up from beneath her chin.

“So the boy runs all over his school, asking everyone about this picture of the girl in the red dress holding up a peace sign. But no one’s ever seen her before. And when he gets home, he asks his mom and his dad if they’ve ever seen the girl in this picture holding up a peace sign. And they haven’t.

“So he’s sad, and he goes to bed. At midnight, he’s awakened by this… tapping. He sits up, turns on the light, and looks around, but he can’t find anything. He looks at the picture of the girl on his nightstand, but it’s just the same, of course. He shuts the lights off, and goes back to sleep. But about fifteen minutes later, it happens again. Only this time, there’s soft, feminine laughter with it. And again, he turns on the light and looks around, but finds nothing.

“He tries to go back to sleep, but the noises keep coming, and he finally gets out of the bed – grabbing his picture of the girl in the red dress holding up a peace sign – and going downstairs and outside to look for whatever’s tapping on his window. There’s nothing there, but he hears a rustle in some bushes across the street and goes to look at it. But just as he’s crossing the street, BAM! A car hits him.

“The driver gets out of the car and goes and performs CPR on the boy, but it’s too late. He’s dead. But the driver notices the picture in the boy’s hand. He picks it up and looks at it in the light from his headlights. It’s a picture of a girl in a red dress holding up three fingers.

Someone screamed, and even Matt, the stocky football player, shook in his Spartan outfit. A couple kids tried to laugh it off. Clarissa shivered a bit. The flashlight was passed to the right, taken by a yellow, cupped hand that brought it to a rectangular body, where it shone up onto a large, cylindrical head with a peg on the top.

“It’s the near future,” the face on the round plastic head said. “The year 2015. And President Palin–”

At this, each person there screamed, and all of them bolted upright and out of the confined space, leaving Clarissa alone with the storyteller.

Carmen Sandiego looked down. “Hello, Twinkie,” she said with a smile.

The Lego minifigure looked up, smirking. “Hey.”

It’s Back

Child’s Play 2009. You know what to do, internet.