Monthly Archives: August 2008

Describe the burial of Helen of Troy with dreams of an erotic afterlife. A frightened girl prays to the gods, the people fill their mouths with good bread, and bombs can be heard in the distance.

The body lay in state in a satin lined coffin, the scent of formaldehyde and death clinging everywhere, in spite of the usual attempts to cover it. She was beautiful. You could barely see the bruising. It was simple to see how she could be responsible for the destruction of entire civilizations.

It would have been better, had she lived. Now she was a martyr, a martyr for two sides fighting each other to gain control over what was left. And there was nothing left but a shell, dressed in a somber navy dress with a small rosebud pinned to the lapel.

She would have wanted lilies.

The sole mourner, a young girl, shivered each time the loud boom of the rockets went off, but didn’t cease in her prayers. Everyone else was too busy fighting their wars, she, at least, would see to it that the woman who was the reason for them would be buried properly, with the right rituals and symbolism and dogma, as befit a goddess in human form. She crumbled a cracker in sacrifice. The looters had already destroyed or eaten all of the good food, there would soon be nothing left, and the fields were burned or salted….barren, now.

The girl knelt at the altar, and prayed, for herself as much as Helen, and with occasional wary glances at the ceiling each time a bomb burst, as if she’d somehow be able to see the rockets coming for her through the plaster and frame of the building.

Ever so often, she caught flashes, the woman in the casket writhing naked in a bed, the two most powerful men in the world on each side of her, and Helen teasing them, manipulating them, tugging on all of their jealousies, turning them against each other.

Who knew how many would die, as a result of this? How many innocents would fall victim to what was nothing more than a tryst? Helen, perhaps, locked as she is in perpetual love-making, while her body lies cold.

Would her spirit ever realize what she had done? The girl prayed that it would, but did not expect the gods to answer, the gods never did. Someone would win the war, one side or the other. They would gain control over her body, but they would have nothing else left. There was nothing there to be victorious over.

The girl stood, crossed herself, and moved over to the casket, closing it, even as she heard the rocket whistling on its final descent.

What happens in a war, she wondered as the timbers began to crack, when you destroy the very thing you are fighting for?

It’s a week to DragonCon, and I’m hurriedly getting together my costume for the Shindig, nothing less than Kaylee’s fluffy pink dress from the Firefly episode of the same name. I’m taking a lot of shortcuts, necessarily, partially because hoop-skirts are ridiculously difficult to find here, considering that this is the heart of the Deep South. (Honestly, where are all the wannabe Scarlets?)

I seriously doubt I’ll manage a hoop skirt quite as large as the original, but it should look nice, all the same. I’m sort of recycling a renfaire gown I made a while back, but covering most of it with…ruffles. Lots and Lots of ruffles.

I’m still a bit disappointed that Adam Baldwin cancelled again, for the second year in a row. Jewel Staite, Nathan Fillion, Morena Baccarin, and Alan Tudyk are going to be there, though, so there’s still a lot of Browncoat love from the con this year. Thanks to that, I’m a good bit more excited about going this year than last. (Have I raved quite enough about how Firefly/Serenity is the best sci-fi show ever to hit the screen?)

Also close to my Joss Fangirl heart, there will be a big-screen viewing of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog and a preview of his new tv show, Dollhouse.

There are a lot of other things I want to see, of course. (Heroes cast, the ever beloved Brobdingnagian Bards, Abney Park). Should be an exciting Con this year!

In the hopes of being able to have a bit more freedom with my layout and the ability to make a bit of cash off of my blog, I have decided to move it to Blogger, at least until I am in a position to buy dedicated web hosting. Please forgive the moving pains, I’m gradually consolidating everything over here.

Once I do so, expect to see a post at least once a week to this and to my Warcraft blog, as well as the daily free-writes and other entries on my writing blog.

The big change you’ll see is the ads…yes, I know, they’re a nuisance, but right now I need the money, so bear with me.

In the meantime, welcome to my new home, have a look around!

You’re a stand-up comedian having a good night on stage except for one loudmouth in the back of the crowd who keeps heckling you. As your set ends, you storm off stage to confront this person, only to discover it’s (fill in the blank). Write this scene.

For the first time, he managed to hit all of his cues, to deliver every punchline, to make them laugh. The dream wasn’t as easy to achieve as he’d thought, when he’d quit his job and put his life on the line to pursue it. Everyone told him he was funny, but a conversation around the water cooler wasn’t the stage.

He grinned at the audience and struggled to refrain from pumping his fist in the air each time his monologue resulted in laughter. They were drunks, and this was just a cheap dive, but he had to start somewhere, and every success meant a step in the right direction.

Then the boos started. While everyone else was laughing, loud boos and cursing echoed from a dark corner towards the back. The idiot didn’t even bother to turn around, all he could see was the back of his head as he sat in his booth, a half-gone pitcher of beer sweating a ring on the table in front of the man, the lone tea-light candle in front of him flickering a shadow on the wall. He had grey hair, that was all the comedian could tell.

It un-nerved the comedian, made him stutter, made him stall in his delivery, which only elicited more cursing and boos, getting louder now. A couple of other drunkards joined in, and he started to shuffle through his cards, dropping a few, losing his place.

He performed the same joke twice. That didn’t go well at all. The mob mentality began to take over, and though a few were still laughing, the number of voices shouting insults began to grow. Someone threw a half-eaten chicken wing at him. He ducked, stammering apologies, and shakily tried to finish his set, but failed, leaving the stage with slumped shoulders.

One of the regulars, a middle-aged woman with the leathery skin of a tanning-bed addict and far too much make-up, patted him on the back.

“It’s alright, you’ll do better next time,” she said.

The comedian just shook his head and stalked away, toward the booth where the man who had interrupted him still sat, smoking, the red tip of the cigarette flaring as he drew on it. He tapped the ashes into his empty beer mug, ignoring the ash-tray that sat on the table for that purpose. The comedian stopped at the table, fists clenched, his jaw set. He opened his mouth to give the heckler a piece of his mind.

And then he closed it as the man looked up.

“You….but why? You’ve been up there, you know what it’s like, you’re one of the best….I always wanted to be like you,” the comedian said, all in one gasp. “Why would you do that to someone else?”

The old man grinned at him and waved to the seat before him. “There’s always one, son, always one person in the audience who will turn them all against you. You’ve got to fight it, got to learn to ignore them and go on.”

He took a draw on his cigarette, and winked at the comedian. “You were doing well, until you thought you weren’t, and then you failed. You gotta go up there and give them your best, even when they hate you for it.”

The young man sat down and put his chin in his hands. “So it was a test?”

“Naw,” the old man chuckled, sitting back and stretching. “Think of it as advice.”