Rabbit Rambles

Another piece I started a while ago: Indulgence Day was coming and the city had been ready for weeks. Merchants had turned smugglers, their goods still illegal, or highly taxed, but the king was rumored to be attending a hundred parties in one night, and the feasts were all anyone could talk about. Drugs and delicacies were showing up in every corner of the city and gold was turned to butter, greasing palms. It was a night for pride, for greed, for ego, and holding back was simply not done. Never did the city truly sleep at night, its underworld coming to life in a burst of sunset, but now even those honest folk who paid their taxes and cleaned their gutters were rubbing shoulders with the seediest and most murderous of brigands. What was the point in murdering your neighbor tonight when they would be feeding you tomorrow? Even the lowest of scum wanted to be treated like a friend once in a while. Indeed, food was the most talked about, but the drugs were something to see. Nothin

 I enjoy background characters - the scene in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D after Thor came out and the characters were cleaning up debris around New York was -chef's kiss- delightful. Playing established characters is fun, but my joy is with the homebrew characters that participate in the world. I also enjoy the idea of 'Cleaners' who are called in to take care of what needs doing. You should really check out the book Hench  by Natalie Zina Walschots. I enjoyed the hell out of it. Unrelated to that, but related to the subject in general: “So then what happened?” Nathan asked as he wiped down the window with a practiced movement. “Sorry,” I said, distracted, “just trying to place this trajectory.” I squinted up from the floor at the wall, laser pointer in hand. “She told me I was a dweeb and slapped my ass as she walked away.” “Nice,” Nathan laughed, putting down his spray bottle and coming to stand by me. “Here,” I handed him my laser pointer and said, “Put that in the hole

It's been a couple of days. I'm forgiving myself for that.  With this post, I've succeeded in spelling the word 'façade' with the titles of my contributions. Ta-da! I haven't had any ideas lately. I haven't had any new world-ideas or character creations. I haven't reviewed any of my in-progress works. A lot of my writing expectations feel like they're hanging on the answer from the publishing company I submitted to this summer. I put so much time and energy into writing my trilogy that I forgot what a joy it was to throw together short scenes like I used to. Like I have always done.  I am a writer. I write. I love to write.  What happens when I stop writing? Am I still a writer?  I have written. Does that make me a wrote? At what point does your hobby no longer count as your hobby? If you play football all through school (for example) and then never play it again, do you still list 'playing football' amongst your hobbies? I read. That's l

During counseling a while ago I had the idea for a race of people who were commonly struck by lightning. I know, right? But I went down a random rabbit hole about lightning and saw some of the crazy, and in many cases beautiful, scars that a lot of survivors of lightning strikes carry after their ordeal. (You know, once all the bruises fade and they're released from the hospital with a strong distrust of... the sky...). You should look them up, honestly, if that's something that might interest you. The scars are lightning shaped, which is, you know, vein shaped because everything on this planet is the same as everything else because humans and animals and plants and everything all evolved at different times but efficiency is a thing and nature is amazing and ANYWAY. It's super cool.  So this race of people would basically be extremely durable and able to withstand lightning strikes with essentially no problem except for the basic physics of being knocked around and maybe th

Crisp air stung my cheeks and tousled my hair. I saw others smiling as they bounced through the park, coats and mittens and boots shielding them from a playful chill, but to me it felt like a bully's torments. I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder every few steps despite the daylight and crowds and I hated even the momentary fog that blew from my mouth, corrupting my vision.  I stopped at the bush where the paramedics had found me all those years ago. The blood had long since soaked into the earth; not that there had been much of it. I'd been told over and over how lucky I was that the night was so cold, that I'd had the instinct to keep pressure on my wound. Instinct. Lucky. I took a hand out of my pocket and traced a finger down the long scar from just below my ear to the middle of my esophagus. It was thin, but drew stares. My voice had mostly healed; of course I could still hear the difference. I hated the winter. It reminded me of all I'd lost despite my

 I wrote tonight. More in my Venice piece - 542 words ain't nothing to turn your nose up to. Here's what I have so far:  When you find a body in your net, it takes a moment for the panic to set in. First, there’s that fascination, curiosity, that makes you consider poking around, seeing if you know the person. If you’re smart, you don’t touch anything, leaving your net as it is, secured, and fetch the authorities. If you can hold onto that, the panic never comes and you do all the right things, perhaps earning a coin for the trouble. If you can’t hold onto it, you might dissolve into tears like my partner, Davide. He’s been working this shift with me for two years and we’ve found all sorts of fascinating things, even a silver pocket watch, but never a body. I feel the shiver of excitement flutter through my chest, giving me the energy to jump up and down, perhaps start laughing like a loon, but I hold the grin from my lips, the bubbling excitement from my voice. It wouldn’t do

This might be working. I was looking forward to writing most of the day, at least in this format. To be sure, imagining what I would say to my little audience had me thinking about what I could rant about, so I pulled out the most recent piece I've touched. It's titled Venice because titles are hard and I have to call it something. 3,052 words (almost a full five pages) once I did some small edits and... it's good. Really good. In my traditional way, I have no idea where it's going but I've certainly given myself plenty to work with. Unsurprisingly, it has an Italian flavor but it's set in a fantasy world because research is hard. My characters have fun names: Pietro, Davide, Antonello, Viola. It starts with the discovery of a murder and high emotions after I've established some setting details. At the end of what I've written I mention the 'northern continent'. There are merchant connections, a kingdom and the hint of succession (clear motive,

I love writing. I've been writing since I learned I could make my own stories, and I started an epic (I'll finish it eventually, but there's, like, research involved, don't rush me) when I was around 10 - 11. I still want to finish it even though it's basically Avatar the Last Air Bender, but I can make some changes it's fine  and I will. I finished my Seeker trilogy a few months ago and am just waiting on the publisher to get back to me. Which I'm sure they will. Eventually. That said, I haven't been writing. At all. It was a struggle to finish my trilogy, a real struggle, and since starting it I was diagnosed with depression, had a terrible psych, started counseling, got a much better psych, got medicated (hallelujah, better living through chemistry) but... I still don't want to write. Not like I used to. (In the time since starting the first book I also changed jobs four times, moved twice, started dating, got married, adopted a second dog... yeah