For the D&D crowd: How to determine your alignment, with one simple question:
DO YOU SPEED?
(a) "Never, unless it is a literal matter of life and death." You're Lawful Good.
(b) "Sure, the law is just a bit too restrictive sometimes, but I always drive safely." You're Chaotic Good.
(c) "Not usually, unless there's an emergency of some sort." You're Neutral Good.
(d) "Of course not, although I will persuade someone else to speed while they are behind the wheel. It's not my ticket." You're Lawful Evil.
(e) "Sure, I drive whatever speed I need to, I don't care about the consequences as long as it works out for me." You're Neutral Evil.
(f) "Sure, I drive whatever speed I want to, I don't care about the consequences at all." You're Chaotic Evil.
(g) "Sometimes I speed, sometimes I do half the speed limit, sometimes I drive in reverse. I don't actually know what the 'rules of the road' are. Don't care, either." You're Chaotic Neutral.
(h) "Never. No matter what." You're Lawful Neutral.
(i) "Sometimes. A bit. If I'm running late, and I think I can get away with it. Or if a lot of other cars are. I usually try not to, though, because tickets cost money." You're Neutral.
Tuesday, November 01, 2016
Thursday, August 04, 2016
Stumbling into Paradise?
Not my characters, just my shuffling of words for my own entertainment.
* * * * *
"Alright then, let's take a look-see and figure out what we're dealing with, eh?" said the man in the trenchcoat. He spoke with a British accent and his tone was relaxed, as if *this* was no big deal. He placed a hand on the forehead of the little girl(his left hand, a lit cigarette dangled from his right). She was lying on the bed, well, technically, she was tied to the bed, a network of bungee cords crisscrossed her torso and legs. A little thing, couldn't have been more than seven or eight, dressed in pink Hello Kitty pajamas. The bungee cords would have seemed a gross sadism, except for the flickering red flames that were her eyes and the green drool at the corner of her mouth.
The man, Constantine was what he had called himself when he had showed up at the door earlier, looked into those flaming eyes. "I am addressing the entity within. Identify yourself."
The girl's head shifted slightly, as if her "eyes" were noticing Constantine for the first time. She coughed, and a glob of the green drool flew out of her mouth and landed on the cords across her chest. Her parents, who were cowered in the corner behind him, were still as statues. "I know you" came a deep gravely voice that could not possibly have come from the little girl.
"Then you know not to piss me off. So tell me, who are you?"
"My name doesn't matter, gutter mage."
"Oh, and why no--" and then he noticed movement under the cords. Through the gaps in the cords he could just make out the girl's tiny hands pulling the pin out of a grenade. Before he could respond, there was an indescribable amount of sound and a fleeting moment of a thousand points of pain followed by nothing.
* * * * *
When Constantine opened his eyes, he was laying down. Surprisingly, he felt fine. He looked at his hands, felt his face. Nothing. Not even the scar that Maria had given him. He sat up. That was when he realized that he was no longer in his own clothes. He was cad in a white, sleeveless tunic that stopped just below his knees. A quick check and he realized that he was wearing nothing but the tunic. He looked around. He had been lying on a plain wooden table, just long enough and wide enough to accommodate him. The room was smallish and white: white floors, white walls, white ceiling. No visible lights, but clearly he could see. No visible doors either. He got up and made a quick circuit of the room. No hidden doors either. But he could hear a bit of sound. He put his ear against one of the walls and listened. After a moment, a look of disgust crossed his face and he pulled back, shaking his head. Reflexively, he patted where he would normally have pockets, at least one of which would normally have a packet of Silk Cuts. He put his ear to the wall again, and pulled back more slowly. Sure enough, he could just make out a muzak version of "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." He sat back down on the table, "Where the hell am I?" he whispered.
"A singularly inappropriate question." The voice was kind-hearted, despite the admonition, as if a kindly uncle was trying to scold a nephew while simultaneously trying not to laugh at the youth's mischievousness.
"Is that so? Care to enlighten me then?"
"What do you remember, John?" The question seemed genuine, full of concern.
"I remember being called in by Father Tommy. A girl in his parish was possessed, and he knows better than to wait in line for his lot to bring in one of theirs. He rung me up and I went to have a look. I had just asked the entity to name itself, when..." He looked up, but of course, there was no one in the room to look at. "There was a grenade. The possession was bait." He snapped his fingers. "This is some kind of bloody hospital, innit?"
A tinkling sound, like a spring breeze tickling wind chimes, filled the air. "Oh, John! A hospital? Without doors and windows and machines that go beep and doctors and nurses and IVs? Come now, you're more clever than that."
"Well, I certainly don't feel dead. And I do have some experience there."
"Ah, that you do. But do you have experience with the Final Death? The death that leads to one's eternal destiny?"
"I assume that most of my trips to hell have been a sneak peek at my coming attractions. Are you trying to tell me that it wasn't?"
The tinkling again. "I am not telling you anything, John. I am merely asking you questions."
"Questions. I believe I started this conversation asking a question. Where am I?"
"And, again, I reply, what do you remember?"
"And I already answered that one, mate: possession, grenade, explosion, and waking up here. Which just brings us right back to, where the hell is here?"
"Oh, John, as I said, that is an inappropriate way to ask the question."
"Well, I'm not exactly the most appropriate man you'll ever meet."
"Oh, well do I know that, John Constantine. You are, in your own words, 'a nasty piece of work.' But despite that, you have done a lot of good in the world. You've fought against hell your entire life. Saved lives, and even souls, on countless occasions."
Constantine grinned. "If you're trying to tell me I'm in heaven, mate, I'm not buying it. I've done things..."
The voice was silent. Waiting.
"I've done things that I ain't exactly proud of. There's a string of bodies and a whole legion of ghosts that will testify to that. And I've done some things that I am unrepentantly proud of that would put make the angels blush. I might have fought hell, but I never served heaven."
"A couple of aphorisms may be appropriate here. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' and 'sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.'"
"Meaning what? That all along I was heaven's pawn in the war against hell? That all of the crap I went through, that I inflicted on others, was all... what? Part of some bloody divine plan? Bollocks! Identify yourself, or bugger off and let me nap." He laid back down and closed his eyes.
There was total silence for a beat, and then--
"I am the Metatron" boomed the voice all around him, startling Constantine to sit up and look around. "Although maybe you would prefer me like this." The latter voice was British and came from one spot in front of him. Alan Rickman stood before him, looking just like he had come off the set of Dogma back in '99.
Constantine grinned and clapped slowly.
"You like?" The Metatron gave a slight bow. "This is actually one of my favorite bits of iconography. God likes it, as well. Used to make me assume this form all the time, until Rickman joined the celestial chorus. I rather miss being him."
* * * * *
"Alright then, let's take a look-see and figure out what we're dealing with, eh?" said the man in the trenchcoat. He spoke with a British accent and his tone was relaxed, as if *this* was no big deal. He placed a hand on the forehead of the little girl(his left hand, a lit cigarette dangled from his right). She was lying on the bed, well, technically, she was tied to the bed, a network of bungee cords crisscrossed her torso and legs. A little thing, couldn't have been more than seven or eight, dressed in pink Hello Kitty pajamas. The bungee cords would have seemed a gross sadism, except for the flickering red flames that were her eyes and the green drool at the corner of her mouth.
The man, Constantine was what he had called himself when he had showed up at the door earlier, looked into those flaming eyes. "I am addressing the entity within. Identify yourself."
The girl's head shifted slightly, as if her "eyes" were noticing Constantine for the first time. She coughed, and a glob of the green drool flew out of her mouth and landed on the cords across her chest. Her parents, who were cowered in the corner behind him, were still as statues. "I know you" came a deep gravely voice that could not possibly have come from the little girl.
"Then you know not to piss me off. So tell me, who are you?"
"My name doesn't matter, gutter mage."
"Oh, and why no--" and then he noticed movement under the cords. Through the gaps in the cords he could just make out the girl's tiny hands pulling the pin out of a grenade. Before he could respond, there was an indescribable amount of sound and a fleeting moment of a thousand points of pain followed by nothing.
* * * * *
When Constantine opened his eyes, he was laying down. Surprisingly, he felt fine. He looked at his hands, felt his face. Nothing. Not even the scar that Maria had given him. He sat up. That was when he realized that he was no longer in his own clothes. He was cad in a white, sleeveless tunic that stopped just below his knees. A quick check and he realized that he was wearing nothing but the tunic. He looked around. He had been lying on a plain wooden table, just long enough and wide enough to accommodate him. The room was smallish and white: white floors, white walls, white ceiling. No visible lights, but clearly he could see. No visible doors either. He got up and made a quick circuit of the room. No hidden doors either. But he could hear a bit of sound. He put his ear against one of the walls and listened. After a moment, a look of disgust crossed his face and he pulled back, shaking his head. Reflexively, he patted where he would normally have pockets, at least one of which would normally have a packet of Silk Cuts. He put his ear to the wall again, and pulled back more slowly. Sure enough, he could just make out a muzak version of "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." He sat back down on the table, "Where the hell am I?" he whispered.
"A singularly inappropriate question." The voice was kind-hearted, despite the admonition, as if a kindly uncle was trying to scold a nephew while simultaneously trying not to laugh at the youth's mischievousness.
"Is that so? Care to enlighten me then?"
"What do you remember, John?" The question seemed genuine, full of concern.
"I remember being called in by Father Tommy. A girl in his parish was possessed, and he knows better than to wait in line for his lot to bring in one of theirs. He rung me up and I went to have a look. I had just asked the entity to name itself, when..." He looked up, but of course, there was no one in the room to look at. "There was a grenade. The possession was bait." He snapped his fingers. "This is some kind of bloody hospital, innit?"
A tinkling sound, like a spring breeze tickling wind chimes, filled the air. "Oh, John! A hospital? Without doors and windows and machines that go beep and doctors and nurses and IVs? Come now, you're more clever than that."
"Well, I certainly don't feel dead. And I do have some experience there."
"Ah, that you do. But do you have experience with the Final Death? The death that leads to one's eternal destiny?"
"I assume that most of my trips to hell have been a sneak peek at my coming attractions. Are you trying to tell me that it wasn't?"
The tinkling again. "I am not telling you anything, John. I am merely asking you questions."
"Questions. I believe I started this conversation asking a question. Where am I?"
"And, again, I reply, what do you remember?"
"And I already answered that one, mate: possession, grenade, explosion, and waking up here. Which just brings us right back to, where the hell is here?"
"Oh, John, as I said, that is an inappropriate way to ask the question."
"Well, I'm not exactly the most appropriate man you'll ever meet."
"Oh, well do I know that, John Constantine. You are, in your own words, 'a nasty piece of work.' But despite that, you have done a lot of good in the world. You've fought against hell your entire life. Saved lives, and even souls, on countless occasions."
Constantine grinned. "If you're trying to tell me I'm in heaven, mate, I'm not buying it. I've done things..."
The voice was silent. Waiting.
"I've done things that I ain't exactly proud of. There's a string of bodies and a whole legion of ghosts that will testify to that. And I've done some things that I am unrepentantly proud of that would put make the angels blush. I might have fought hell, but I never served heaven."
"A couple of aphorisms may be appropriate here. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend' and 'sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.'"
"Meaning what? That all along I was heaven's pawn in the war against hell? That all of the crap I went through, that I inflicted on others, was all... what? Part of some bloody divine plan? Bollocks! Identify yourself, or bugger off and let me nap." He laid back down and closed his eyes.
There was total silence for a beat, and then--
"I am the Metatron" boomed the voice all around him, startling Constantine to sit up and look around. "Although maybe you would prefer me like this." The latter voice was British and came from one spot in front of him. Alan Rickman stood before him, looking just like he had come off the set of Dogma back in '99.
Constantine grinned and clapped slowly.
"You like?" The Metatron gave a slight bow. "This is actually one of my favorite bits of iconography. God likes it, as well. Used to make me assume this form all the time, until Rickman joined the celestial chorus. I rather miss being him."
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
On the Passing of an Artist
a sketch on paper
seems so fragile,
so ephemeral,
and yet,
the art can go on
into forever,
but the artist...
now there's a gossamer thread for you;
the strong hand and
brilliant eye
grow weak and dim,
life's brief flame
dances madly in the winds of time,
until,
inevitably,
the wind blows *just* so,
and the flame is just...
gone
the who will always pass,
while the what may yet remain;
we mourn the artist's passing,
while treasuring the art,
and holding fast to the hope
that there is a place
beyond the winds of time
where all the flames that once were
will yet dance again
For Darwyn Cooke, 1962-2016
seems so fragile,
so ephemeral,
and yet,
the art can go on
into forever,
but the artist...
now there's a gossamer thread for you;
the strong hand and
brilliant eye
grow weak and dim,
life's brief flame
dances madly in the winds of time,
until,
inevitably,
the wind blows *just* so,
and the flame is just...
gone
the who will always pass,
while the what may yet remain;
we mourn the artist's passing,
while treasuring the art,
and holding fast to the hope
that there is a place
beyond the winds of time
where all the flames that once were
will yet dance again
For Darwyn Cooke, 1962-2016
Wednesday, September 02, 2015
On the Things I Have Lost
My heart I lost to a bonnie lass,
Red hair and fair of face
My liver I lost to an old shot glass,
Weekends at Johnny's Place
My mind I lost in the halls of math,
Numbers filling my head
My soul I lost to the devil's wrath,
Damned before I lie dead
Red hair and fair of face
My liver I lost to an old shot glass,
Weekends at Johnny's Place
My mind I lost in the halls of math,
Numbers filling my head
My soul I lost to the devil's wrath,
Damned before I lie dead
Monday, August 31, 2015
The Couple That Slays Together
"THIS! This is why we can't have nice things!" my wife screamed as she used her broadsword to lop off the head of the zombie that was reaching for her throat.
That was three she had taken down, and I had only decapitated two. She was winning, but there were three more in our living room, so I still had a chance. Loser has to go to ValuStuff and buy the replacements. Sure, all the money came from the same account, but it just gets embarrassing to have to buy a new coffee table every week. Not to mention lamps and occasionally the couch. I'm sure the staff of VS think we're into some weird stuff. And they're right, but they really have no idea.
I took off a zombie's head with my hand scythe (yeah, yeah, but I hate the word "sickle"), and then used my twelve gauge to blow another one's head away. I just needed to take the third one out...
...but she stood there, smiling, her broadsword hanging loosely at her side and a seriously ugly zombie head swinging in her other hand.
I mock grimaced, and then grinned. "We go together?"
She grinned back. "I'll get the keys."
That was three she had taken down, and I had only decapitated two. She was winning, but there were three more in our living room, so I still had a chance. Loser has to go to ValuStuff and buy the replacements. Sure, all the money came from the same account, but it just gets embarrassing to have to buy a new coffee table every week. Not to mention lamps and occasionally the couch. I'm sure the staff of VS think we're into some weird stuff. And they're right, but they really have no idea.
I took off a zombie's head with my hand scythe (yeah, yeah, but I hate the word "sickle"), and then used my twelve gauge to blow another one's head away. I just needed to take the third one out...
...but she stood there, smiling, her broadsword hanging loosely at her side and a seriously ugly zombie head swinging in her other hand.
I mock grimaced, and then grinned. "We go together?"
She grinned back. "I'll get the keys."
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
The Moment of Judgment
the emerald-clad Wrath of God looms above me,
his pale finger,
a lightning bolt of judgment frozen in this moment,
hovers a heartbeat away from from my own heart's last beat;
his cold eyes,
pure white fire blazing from a bone-colored face,
hold no pity,
no mercy,
no compassion,
and in those eyes i see
that no reasonable argument,
no heartfelt remorse,
no desperate pleading
would stay this divine executioner's hand,
and so, with closed eyes and bowed head,
i await my final earthly punishment,
my last experience in this life
before my new birth
as eternally living food
for the poison-fanged, burning worms of perdition's dung pits.
my heart beats,
the bolt strikes my head,
and I begin to scream
forever
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Of Course You Know What I Did Last Summer, You Were There (Part 1)
The ghost only came around when I was eating Cheetos. Weird, I know, and it took me a while to realize it.
The first time I saw it was about a month ago. I was sitting in the back of the auditorium eating my lunch. Normally I ate on the stage, with the rest of the geeks, but Trent was still mad that I had told Joannie how he felt about her (even though, let's be honest, everybody knows how he feels about her).
I had decided to forgo the awkward drama and eat my PB&J with HP Lovecraft. No, HPL wasn't the ghost, I was merely reading Charles Dexter Ward during this first encounter. I know, a teenage Lovecraft fan sees a ghost, that seems totally plausible. Trust me, I wondered if it was a case of the power of suggestion. But after over three weeks of encounters with it, I am 100% certain this is the real deal.
So, anyway, I had finished my yummy sandwich and ripped open my bag of Cheetos when, cliche though it is, the temperature dropped. Not a lot, but noticeably, like someone opened a door to the outside on a winter day. For the record, the auditorium has no doors that open directly to the outside, and a month ago was mid-September, hardly winter in the Midwest.
I looked up and there it was. I should say "she," I suppose, since I've come to realize the ghost is the spirit of--, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. And besides, during that first appearance the ghost was little more than a translucent oval, an it. An it that was about 5 feet tall, 2 feet wide and hanging in the air about a yard in front of me. I looked around the room, but no one else was looking back here. I looked back at where the ghost was. It was still there.
I suddenly realized I should be screaming or running or something. Maybe all of the horror novels and role-playing games had prepared me for this encounter. Maybe the ghost gave off a peaceful vibe. Maybe there's something wrong with me. But I wasn't afraid. After the initial shock, I felt curious and, weirdly, honored, that this ghost was appearing to me.
I sat there and just stared at it, the bag of Cheetos I was holding was all but forgotten. The background noise of the other two dozen or so students receded to a dull buzz. I just stared. It just hovered. After a few minutes, it just faded away, the temperature rising back to normal as it disappeared. I was pretty sure I was going crazy.
The first time I saw it was about a month ago. I was sitting in the back of the auditorium eating my lunch. Normally I ate on the stage, with the rest of the geeks, but Trent was still mad that I had told Joannie how he felt about her (even though, let's be honest, everybody knows how he feels about her).
I had decided to forgo the awkward drama and eat my PB&J with HP Lovecraft. No, HPL wasn't the ghost, I was merely reading Charles Dexter Ward during this first encounter. I know, a teenage Lovecraft fan sees a ghost, that seems totally plausible. Trust me, I wondered if it was a case of the power of suggestion. But after over three weeks of encounters with it, I am 100% certain this is the real deal.
So, anyway, I had finished my yummy sandwich and ripped open my bag of Cheetos when, cliche though it is, the temperature dropped. Not a lot, but noticeably, like someone opened a door to the outside on a winter day. For the record, the auditorium has no doors that open directly to the outside, and a month ago was mid-September, hardly winter in the Midwest.
I looked up and there it was. I should say "she," I suppose, since I've come to realize the ghost is the spirit of--, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. And besides, during that first appearance the ghost was little more than a translucent oval, an it. An it that was about 5 feet tall, 2 feet wide and hanging in the air about a yard in front of me. I looked around the room, but no one else was looking back here. I looked back at where the ghost was. It was still there.
I suddenly realized I should be screaming or running or something. Maybe all of the horror novels and role-playing games had prepared me for this encounter. Maybe the ghost gave off a peaceful vibe. Maybe there's something wrong with me. But I wasn't afraid. After the initial shock, I felt curious and, weirdly, honored, that this ghost was appearing to me.
I sat there and just stared at it, the bag of Cheetos I was holding was all but forgotten. The background noise of the other two dozen or so students receded to a dull buzz. I just stared. It just hovered. After a few minutes, it just faded away, the temperature rising back to normal as it disappeared. I was pretty sure I was going crazy.
Friday, January 09, 2015
Awakening on Ysmault
red, red blood...
in my eyes,
and in my hair,
and in my ears,
and in my nose,
and in my mouth,
and in my lungs,
and in my stomach;
deep in a sea of blood,
i writhe
and thrash,
convulsing,
contorting,
while both around me
and within me
an overwhelming pounding,
a migraine of my entire body,
a booming thump, thump-thump,
thump, thump-thump,
my soul contracts to a single point,
a red hot spark
that ignites my blood,
burns my blood,
frees my blood
gives new life--
my true life--
to my blood;
i break the surface of this scarlet sea,
i breathe in the stale, heavy air of this strange world
and scream as i exhale the fiery blood;
i roar to the heavens,
i growl at the stars,
at everything that is,
i rage
in my eyes,
and in my hair,
and in my ears,
and in my nose,
and in my mouth,
and in my lungs,
and in my stomach;
deep in a sea of blood,
i writhe
and thrash,
convulsing,
contorting,
while both around me
and within me
an overwhelming pounding,
a migraine of my entire body,
a booming thump, thump-thump,
thump, thump-thump,
my soul contracts to a single point,
a red hot spark
that ignites my blood,
burns my blood,
frees my blood
gives new life--
my true life--
to my blood;
i break the surface of this scarlet sea,
i breathe in the stale, heavy air of this strange world
and scream as i exhale the fiery blood;
i roar to the heavens,
i growl at the stars,
at everything that is,
i rage
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Friday, October 17, 2014
Friday, September 05, 2014
Why Kurt Godel Couldn't Write Love Poems
"Why certainly" you say,
but how do you know it's so?
You seem to think that proof
Will guarantee what you know.
But even in a realm
As clear cut as the numbers,
Shades of uncertainty
Awaken from their slumbers.
If some of math's own truths
Float upon a proofless sea,
Then what slight hope have you
To prove your love's truth to me?
but how do you know it's so?
You seem to think that proof
Will guarantee what you know.
But even in a realm
As clear cut as the numbers,
Shades of uncertainty
Awaken from their slumbers.
If some of math's own truths
Float upon a proofless sea,
Then what slight hope have you
To prove your love's truth to me?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
happy birthday
my duties i might wish to shirk,
but here i sit, stuck at work
no chance to laugh, no time for mirth
to celebrate my day of birth
the clock seems dead, the minutes stick,
i think i might be feeling "sick"
i wonder if i could get away
to celebrate this happy day
but here i sit, stuck at work
no chance to laugh, no time for mirth
to celebrate my day of birth
the clock seems dead, the minutes stick,
i think i might be feeling "sick"
i wonder if i could get away
to celebrate this happy day
Thursday, May 01, 2014
This Geeky Week
A quick look at the current calendar (not so much a blog post as I place for me to record the schedule. You may find this post skip-worthy).
May 1: BASIC turns 50 (coincidentally, so does my ex-wife); also, on a non-geeky note, National Day of Prayer and (for the pagans) Happy Beltane
May 2: Both kids are in honor band in, then son has prom that night (hey, it's MY calendar, but if you need geeky for May 2, then remember it's E.E. "Doc" Smith's birthday).
May 3: Free Comic Book Day (heck, yeah!)
May 4: Star Wars Day
May 5: Anniversary of Alan Shepard being the first American in space (1961); also, the birthday of Lance Hendriksen; also, some kind of Cinco de Mayo celebrations occur, I think...
May 6: The birthdays of Sigmund Freud and Orson Welles (both geeky, in their own ways)
May 7: Anniversary of space shuttle Endeavor's first mission launch (1992); also, the anniversary of the deaths of Robert Kanigher (2002) and Ray Harryhausen (2013)
So... that's the first week of May for me. Hope y'all have a happy week.
May 1: BASIC turns 50 (coincidentally, so does my ex-wife); also, on a non-geeky note, National Day of Prayer and (for the pagans) Happy Beltane
May 2: Both kids are in honor band in
May 3: Free Comic Book Day (heck, yeah!)
May 4: Star Wars Day
May 5: Anniversary of Alan Shepard being the first American in space (1961); also, the birthday of Lance Hendriksen; also, some kind of Cinco de Mayo celebrations occur, I think...
May 6: The birthdays of Sigmund Freud and Orson Welles (both geeky, in their own ways)
May 7: Anniversary of space shuttle Endeavor's first mission launch (1992); also, the anniversary of the deaths of Robert Kanigher (2002) and Ray Harryhausen (2013)
So... that's the first week of May for me. Hope y'all have a happy week.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Super Star Trek
Super Star Trek is the name of an old-school ASCII computer game. You can google it. This post has nothing to do with that game, except that both this post and that game involve intellectual property from the Star Trek universe.
* * * * *
"Super-heroes, Mr. Spock? Isn't that... unlikely?"
Spock nodded in agreement with his captain's assessment. "Nevertheless, Captain, it appears to be the case. Three humanoid beings are floating in space 50 meters in front of the Enterprise, without the benefit of pressure suits or oxygen. Instead, they are clothed in primary colors and sport capes and masks."
McCoy was grinning from ear to ear. "Put it on the view screen, Jim. Hey, maybe Superman is out there. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?"
"It would, indeed, Doctor McCoy," the captain replied. "Mr. Chekhov, pull up visual on the main view screen."
"Aye, Keptin."
Hovering in front of the dark, star-speckled vastness of space were, in fact, three humanoid-looking forms. One was a brown-haired man in a half-mask clad in a a green and black single piece uniform. One was a green-skinned bald man in a blue cape. The third was a large, dark-haired man in a blue suit, red cape and boots, and a big red S on his chest.
"I'll be..." said McCoy, "It is Superman, and Green Lantern, too! But I don't recognize that green-skinned one. If his ears were pointed, I'd think maybe some kind of Vulcan super-hero."
"Vulcans do not have super-heroes, Doctor. We believe in admiring actual people rather than stories and legends."
"They look pretty real to me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "And the green-skinned one is the Martian Manhunter."
Spock arched an eyebrow at the captain.
Kirk grinned, "There wasn't a whole lot to do during the long winters growing up in Iowa. I read... a lot."
Kirk pressed a button on his chair, activating the comm. "Transporter room, lock on to the 3 life forms in front of the ship and beam them aboard."
* * * * *
"I don't believe it," thought Hal Jordan through the telepathic link the Martian Manhunter had established between the three of them.
"Believe it," J'onn thought back. "I detect hundreds of minds on board."
"And I can see them with my X-ray vision," Superman thought. "They're all dressed just like in the original series. And, Hal, Kirk looks just like William Shatner."
Hal smiled. "We need to get inside that ship. Maybe we can--" his thought was cut off as the three of them were caught in the Enterprise's transporter beam.
* * * * *
"--wave and get their attention."
"It appears," said Superman, out loud, "that we already have." He looked down from the transporter pad into the inquiring gazes of Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Scotty: all of whom were characters in a cancelled television show, not real flesh and blood people. But here they were, looking exactly like the actors who portrayed them looked 50 years ago. And in an actual working starship Enterprise.
* * * * *
Despite the delight he had expressed earlier, McCoy was skeptical that these beings were actual 20th century comic book characters come to life. More likely another god-like alien picking up images from the crew's minds and choosing to assume a form that fit the heroic ideal. He scanned the three men on the transporter pad with his tricorder. Sure enough, two were alien, different from each other, and like no alien race on file. The third one, the "Green Lantern" was... "Human, Jim. The man in the mask is from Earth. Chemical analysis of his body's cells would be consistent with someone living in the late 20th, early 21st century in the industrial West."
At that moment, a green light shot out from the Green Lantern's ring and passed over the assembled Enterprise crew. "Well, ring," Hal asked, "What are they?"
"Three humans, birthplace: earth. One unidentifiable alien."
Despite himself, McCoy grinned again, "You see, Spock, even the Green Lantern's ring can't identify you."
"Doctor, please," Kirk said, before Spock could reply. "We have guests. Gentlemen, I am Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."
"We know," Superman said. "And the Vulcan is Mr. Spock, that's Doctor Leonard McCoy, and Montgomery Scott. But, of course, you aren't really them, since they are characters on an old television show, and even if they were real, they wouldn't be born for another two hundred years."
"And I don't remember any episodes where they interacted with the Green Lantern Corps," Hal said. "So, who are you?"
"Fascinating," said Spock. "They appear to believe we are fictitious characters, even as we believe the same of them."
"Fictitious? Us?" Hal said.
"Yes," J'onn said. "They believe we are comic book characters, and that this is the 23rd century. And they know about us, although some of them are confused, but Kirk knows our names, abilities, and secret identities. He read them in comic books when he was growing up in Iowa."
"A parallel earth?" Superman asked.
"That would be a logical explanation," answered Spock. "But hardly the only one. More likely that you are aliens masquerading as these comic book heroes or else artificial biological constructs of an alien technology that truly believes themselves to be what they have been created to appear to be."
"Spock, I scanned them. We've had a whale of a lot of experience with god-like aliens and artificial life forms. I tell you, man, that Green Lantern is from 20th century earth."
Kirk held up a hand. "Everyone, it's clear we need to sit down and discuss how we all came to be here, and to figure out where here is, to everyone's satisfication. Why don't we all adjourn to the meeting room and sit and discuss this over coffee?"
"A good idea, Captain," Superman said.
Spock led the way, and McCoy and Kirk brought up the rear. After everyone else had left the transporter room, Scotty shook his head, "I'll be needin' a drink." And then he headed out in search of just that.
* * * * *
"Super-heroes, Mr. Spock? Isn't that... unlikely?"
Spock nodded in agreement with his captain's assessment. "Nevertheless, Captain, it appears to be the case. Three humanoid beings are floating in space 50 meters in front of the Enterprise, without the benefit of pressure suits or oxygen. Instead, they are clothed in primary colors and sport capes and masks."
McCoy was grinning from ear to ear. "Put it on the view screen, Jim. Hey, maybe Superman is out there. Wouldn't that be a sight to see?"
"It would, indeed, Doctor McCoy," the captain replied. "Mr. Chekhov, pull up visual on the main view screen."
"Aye, Keptin."
Hovering in front of the dark, star-speckled vastness of space were, in fact, three humanoid-looking forms. One was a brown-haired man in a half-mask clad in a a green and black single piece uniform. One was a green-skinned bald man in a blue cape. The third was a large, dark-haired man in a blue suit, red cape and boots, and a big red S on his chest.
"I'll be..." said McCoy, "It is Superman, and Green Lantern, too! But I don't recognize that green-skinned one. If his ears were pointed, I'd think maybe some kind of Vulcan super-hero."
"Vulcans do not have super-heroes, Doctor. We believe in admiring actual people rather than stories and legends."
"They look pretty real to me, Mr. Spock," Kirk said. "And the green-skinned one is the Martian Manhunter."
Spock arched an eyebrow at the captain.
Kirk grinned, "There wasn't a whole lot to do during the long winters growing up in Iowa. I read... a lot."
Kirk pressed a button on his chair, activating the comm. "Transporter room, lock on to the 3 life forms in front of the ship and beam them aboard."
* * * * *
"I don't believe it," thought Hal Jordan through the telepathic link the Martian Manhunter had established between the three of them.
"Believe it," J'onn thought back. "I detect hundreds of minds on board."
"And I can see them with my X-ray vision," Superman thought. "They're all dressed just like in the original series. And, Hal, Kirk looks just like William Shatner."
Hal smiled. "We need to get inside that ship. Maybe we can--" his thought was cut off as the three of them were caught in the Enterprise's transporter beam.
* * * * *
"--wave and get their attention."
"It appears," said Superman, out loud, "that we already have." He looked down from the transporter pad into the inquiring gazes of Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock, Dr. McCoy, and Scotty: all of whom were characters in a cancelled television show, not real flesh and blood people. But here they were, looking exactly like the actors who portrayed them looked 50 years ago. And in an actual working starship Enterprise.
* * * * *
Despite the delight he had expressed earlier, McCoy was skeptical that these beings were actual 20th century comic book characters come to life. More likely another god-like alien picking up images from the crew's minds and choosing to assume a form that fit the heroic ideal. He scanned the three men on the transporter pad with his tricorder. Sure enough, two were alien, different from each other, and like no alien race on file. The third one, the "Green Lantern" was... "Human, Jim. The man in the mask is from Earth. Chemical analysis of his body's cells would be consistent with someone living in the late 20th, early 21st century in the industrial West."
At that moment, a green light shot out from the Green Lantern's ring and passed over the assembled Enterprise crew. "Well, ring," Hal asked, "What are they?"
"Three humans, birthplace: earth. One unidentifiable alien."
Despite himself, McCoy grinned again, "You see, Spock, even the Green Lantern's ring can't identify you."
"Doctor, please," Kirk said, before Spock could reply. "We have guests. Gentlemen, I am Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise."
"We know," Superman said. "And the Vulcan is Mr. Spock, that's Doctor Leonard McCoy, and Montgomery Scott. But, of course, you aren't really them, since they are characters on an old television show, and even if they were real, they wouldn't be born for another two hundred years."
"And I don't remember any episodes where they interacted with the Green Lantern Corps," Hal said. "So, who are you?"
"Fascinating," said Spock. "They appear to believe we are fictitious characters, even as we believe the same of them."
"Fictitious? Us?" Hal said.
"Yes," J'onn said. "They believe we are comic book characters, and that this is the 23rd century. And they know about us, although some of them are confused, but Kirk knows our names, abilities, and secret identities. He read them in comic books when he was growing up in Iowa."
"A parallel earth?" Superman asked.
"That would be a logical explanation," answered Spock. "But hardly the only one. More likely that you are aliens masquerading as these comic book heroes or else artificial biological constructs of an alien technology that truly believes themselves to be what they have been created to appear to be."
"Spock, I scanned them. We've had a whale of a lot of experience with god-like aliens and artificial life forms. I tell you, man, that Green Lantern is from 20th century earth."
Kirk held up a hand. "Everyone, it's clear we need to sit down and discuss how we all came to be here, and to figure out where here is, to everyone's satisfication. Why don't we all adjourn to the meeting room and sit and discuss this over coffee?"
"A good idea, Captain," Superman said.
Spock led the way, and McCoy and Kirk brought up the rear. After everyone else had left the transporter room, Scotty shook his head, "I'll be needin' a drink." And then he headed out in search of just that.
Thursday, March 06, 2014
Change? Good or Bad, Is It Even Possible?
"At 46, it's just too late to change your life." That's what the well-meaning voice in my head tells me. I have to admit, it's tempting to listen to the voice. A certain complacent surrender to my remaining years. Wistful regrets sipped like lukewarm whiskey from a chipped coffee mug, a dull comfort in the long night that is the Rest of My Life.
Except... the math doesn't really support it. I'm (obviously) 46 right now. Let's say I live to be 80. 34 years to go, more behind me than before me. Looks like the math is in the voice's favor. However, let's look a little more closely at those 46 years. The first 18 were spent in childhood. Any changes now can build from those years. They don't count against the remaining years (or, alternately, they count for them). Either way, 18-80 is a total of 72 years, with 34 to go that means I've lived 38 of those years. Still past the halfway mark, but not by much. OK, let's see if we can tip the balance. Undergraduate education. Important, true. But hardly definitive. Lots of people go directions nowhere near what they studied at college. If I can scratch those years, then 22-80 is 58 years, with 34 to go, that means I've lived 24 of them. Not even at the halfway point of my adult life. So... too late to change? Not even close.
Ah, but, dude, retirement is 65. 22-65 is 43 years, with only 19 remaining. Definitely past the halfway point. You're locked in, man. Listen to the voice. It's wisdom. I suppose it would be, if I were merely talking about career. But if I'm talking about something else, something more lifelong, something like... a calling, then I think I can consider it fair to use the 80 mark as the outer boundary. "A calling?" the voice asks, "when did that happen? Why wasn't I in the loop on this one? After all, I live in your head." Well, I never said that I had a calling. I never even said I was considering a change in my life. I merely went through the exercise of showing that even at 46, it's not too late, contra to the voice of conservative comfort in my head. "Well, if it's just an intellectual exercise, knock yourself out, kid. Just don't go getting any ideas, okay?" We'll see...
Except... the math doesn't really support it. I'm (obviously) 46 right now. Let's say I live to be 80. 34 years to go, more behind me than before me. Looks like the math is in the voice's favor. However, let's look a little more closely at those 46 years. The first 18 were spent in childhood. Any changes now can build from those years. They don't count against the remaining years (or, alternately, they count for them). Either way, 18-80 is a total of 72 years, with 34 to go that means I've lived 38 of those years. Still past the halfway mark, but not by much. OK, let's see if we can tip the balance. Undergraduate education. Important, true. But hardly definitive. Lots of people go directions nowhere near what they studied at college. If I can scratch those years, then 22-80 is 58 years, with 34 to go, that means I've lived 24 of them. Not even at the halfway point of my adult life. So... too late to change? Not even close.
Ah, but, dude, retirement is 65. 22-65 is 43 years, with only 19 remaining. Definitely past the halfway point. You're locked in, man. Listen to the voice. It's wisdom. I suppose it would be, if I were merely talking about career. But if I'm talking about something else, something more lifelong, something like... a calling, then I think I can consider it fair to use the 80 mark as the outer boundary. "A calling?" the voice asks, "when did that happen? Why wasn't I in the loop on this one? After all, I live in your head." Well, I never said that I had a calling. I never even said I was considering a change in my life. I merely went through the exercise of showing that even at 46, it's not too late, contra to the voice of conservative comfort in my head. "Well, if it's just an intellectual exercise, knock yourself out, kid. Just don't go getting any ideas, okay?" We'll see...
Thursday, February 27, 2014
The Moon's Heart
I am the moon. I reflect the light of the Sun. At my best, I reflect so much of His light that the night is well-lit. Other times, the things of the world come between us, casting a shadow across my face, so I only reflect some of His light. At my worst, I hide behind all the world has to offer and reflect none of His light. But even then, when the night is darkest and I completely fail to reflect His light, there is still light. Even the new moon is visible. The heavens are never so dark as to leave even this old moon alone. The Sun and all of His stars are always there, and I can always hope to begin again, a new moon means a new opportunity to bathe in His light, to reflect His glory, even to let His light shine from me onto the very same world I hid behind from Him. As long as there is a sky, and as long as I am a moon, the Sun will always be there, giving me a chance, night after night, month after month, to shine in the light of His love.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Top Ten Favorite Comic Book Couples
Yeah, this should have pictures. Maybe I'll add some later. And, no, you're not suppose to care about my opinions on these things. And, finally, yes, I am clearly a DC fanboy.
- Barry and Iris: "marital bliss"
- Swampy and Abby: "unconventional relationship"
- John and Zatanna: "still friends (of a sort) even after the break up"
- Querl and Kara: "star-crossed (and time-crossed) love"
- Bruce and Selina: "opposites attract"
- Wally and Linda: "marital bliss (mostly), now with kids"
- Hal and Carol: "on again, off again"
- Dick and Kory: "young love"
- Joker and Harley: "unrequited love is crazy"
- Clark and Lois: "the classic (comic book) love story"
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Why Aquaman Rocks
- He lives in the ocean (not just BY the ocean, but IN it. Screw "beachfront" how about "all in"?)
- He is King of Atlantis (that's right, he's the sovereign ruler of a long lost mythical kingdom. What are you sovereign ruler of?)
- He's stronger than you (unless you're one of a very select group of people, e.g., Superman, Aquaman can take you out in a fight. Probably without much effort).
- He's tougher than you (able to withstand ocean depths that crush some submarines. Odds are you could break your leg tripping over your own feet).
- That mental telepathy with fish thing (no, he doesn't talk with fish. Fish are stupid. They can't hold up a conversation. But he can influence them... with his brain. My brain just barely influences my own self, let alone anything not physically connected to it)
- No secret identity (yeah, he's "really" Arthur Curry, but Arthur doesn't have some mundane day job and a cheap little apartment somewhere. He's always Aquaman, and the closest thing he has to a day job is King of Atlantis, see #2 above).
- His costume (admit it, you couldn't pull off orange and green. Aquaman does, somehow. Dang, he's cool...)
- He carries a trident (sure, a giant fork seems funny, until 300 pounds of solid Atlantean muscle has it pointed at your heart. Then, less funny... unless you're Joker-level crazy).
- He loves his wife (whether it's the version where she's crazy, or an assassin sent to kill him, he loves her. Heck, in the Flashpoint timeline he was willing to destroy the surface world because Wonder Woman killed Mera.)
- The Justice League accepts him (you can laugh all you want, but Batman and Superman picked him to be on their team, not you. If he's good enough for the likes of the World Finest to pal around with, who are you to judge him?)
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Night Thoughts
Two cats on an old gray gate,
Purring softly while the hour's late;
Gazing down, the old, old Moon,
Listening to the cold wind's tune,
Wonders if those on Sleep's sweet slope
Still believe in the myth of Hope.
And there was evening and morning, another day-- until there just aren't anymore.
Purring softly while the hour's late;
Gazing down, the old, old Moon,
Listening to the cold wind's tune,
Wonders if those on Sleep's sweet slope
Still believe in the myth of Hope.
And there was evening and morning, another day-- until there just aren't anymore.
A Cold Refusal
A DC Comics fan fiction. All characters owned by DC Comics. This tale is totally done without permission, etc.
"Not interested," said the man in the blue and white parka. He picked up the half empty mug of beer on the counter in front of him and took another sip. In the relative silence of the mostly empty bar, the mug made a distinct thud when he placed it back down.
"Not interested? Come now, Captain. Surely you don't expect me to believe that you are not interested in making an easy million." The man in the green three piece suit smiled at his seated companion.
"Not interested in the job, Nigma."
"The job? The job is easy. Easiest heist ever." A pause. "Perhaps there are other factors underlying your absurd refusal."
Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, took a quick, deep breath and silently counted to three before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? And if you're suggesting what I think you are..."
Edward Nigma raised his hands in a show of protest. "I'm not suggesting anything. I perfectly understand that you prefer to operate in Central City. It's a Nice Place. The police are Nice, your colleagues are Nice. Even your superheroes are Nice. Relative to some of the other members of the Capes and Cowls Club. It must be wonderful, not having to deal with a violent psychotic who is truly scarier than any of us so-called 'villains.' Tell Flash I said 'hi' next time you chat."
Snart turned towards Nigma. "You think I don't see what you're trying to do here, Riddler? You think if you suggest I'm afraid of Batman that I will sign on, just to prove something?" Snart shook his head. "Ain't happening."
"I never suggested that you were afraid of Batman. I just said that you have it 'nice' here in Central City. Of course, you'd have to be mad to not be afraid of Batman. He's decidedly... Not Nice."
"Look, Nigma, Bats is scary, but in the end it's about taking a beating, physically and, you know, psychologically. The psychological beating comes from losing, and we always seem to lose. Even if we do pull off a crime successfully, we keep pulling more until the hero beats us. If I was afraid of constant failure, I woulda given this life up a long time ago. And as far as physical pain goes, you ever been hit by a super-speed punch? You're a smart guy. Force equals mass times acceleration, and no one does acceleration like a speedster."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"And do what? Sell refrigerators at Sears? I started out as a thief. But when I met the Flash, I became something more. At first, he was just a nuisance, but eventually he became a symbol of everything that I would need to beat to live in the world that I wanted to live in. Same holds for the rest of the Rogues. I'm guessing that's not much different than you Arkham loonies and Batman."
He glanced at Edward, who offered only a quick nod as a response, so Snart continued. "If I'm going to commit a crime without the Flash's interference, it's going to be because one of us Rogues beat him. Not because I slipped off to Gotham to be a henchman for one of the Bat villains."
"So, 'no' is your final answer?"
Snart nodded. "Besides, ya got Fries in Gotham. Why not tap the local ice bad guy?"
After a moment's silence, Cold grinned. "Lemme guess. You did, and he turned you down?"
"Victor is not really a team player. He has his own agenda."
"Killer Frost? Icicle?"
Nigma sighed. "Yes and yes. I even looked up the current Chillblaine while I was here in Central City."
Snart shook his head. "It seems no one wants to play with you. Might be something to talk to your shrink about when Bats throws you back into Arkham." He turned back to his drink.
Edward Nigma started to step away.
"Hey, Nigma, I'm gonna assume that you came to me last because you knew I'd say no, and not because I was your last choice."
Edward suppressed a smile while turning back. "Of course, dear Captai--" Snart was still drinking his beer, but he had his cold gun aimed at Edward's head.
Snart finished his drink, pulled some money out of his parks's pocket and tossed it on the counter. Getting off the stool, he holstered his gun. "Good, 'cause I'd hate to have had to prove myself to you." Then he walked past Edward and crossed the floor to the front door where he exited without a single glance back.
"Well," said Edward to himself, "that could have gone better. Still, there's always plan B."
"Not interested," said the man in the blue and white parka. He picked up the half empty mug of beer on the counter in front of him and took another sip. In the relative silence of the mostly empty bar, the mug made a distinct thud when he placed it back down.
"Not interested? Come now, Captain. Surely you don't expect me to believe that you are not interested in making an easy million." The man in the green three piece suit smiled at his seated companion.
"Not interested in the job, Nigma."
"The job? The job is easy. Easiest heist ever." A pause. "Perhaps there are other factors underlying your absurd refusal."
Leonard Snart, aka Captain Cold, took a quick, deep breath and silently counted to three before saying, "What the hell are you talking about? And if you're suggesting what I think you are..."
Edward Nigma raised his hands in a show of protest. "I'm not suggesting anything. I perfectly understand that you prefer to operate in Central City. It's a Nice Place. The police are Nice, your colleagues are Nice. Even your superheroes are Nice. Relative to some of the other members of the Capes and Cowls Club. It must be wonderful, not having to deal with a violent psychotic who is truly scarier than any of us so-called 'villains.' Tell Flash I said 'hi' next time you chat."
Snart turned towards Nigma. "You think I don't see what you're trying to do here, Riddler? You think if you suggest I'm afraid of Batman that I will sign on, just to prove something?" Snart shook his head. "Ain't happening."
"I never suggested that you were afraid of Batman. I just said that you have it 'nice' here in Central City. Of course, you'd have to be mad to not be afraid of Batman. He's decidedly... Not Nice."
"Look, Nigma, Bats is scary, but in the end it's about taking a beating, physically and, you know, psychologically. The psychological beating comes from losing, and we always seem to lose. Even if we do pull off a crime successfully, we keep pulling more until the hero beats us. If I was afraid of constant failure, I woulda given this life up a long time ago. And as far as physical pain goes, you ever been hit by a super-speed punch? You're a smart guy. Force equals mass times acceleration, and no one does acceleration like a speedster."
"Then why do you keep doing it?"
"And do what? Sell refrigerators at Sears? I started out as a thief. But when I met the Flash, I became something more. At first, he was just a nuisance, but eventually he became a symbol of everything that I would need to beat to live in the world that I wanted to live in. Same holds for the rest of the Rogues. I'm guessing that's not much different than you Arkham loonies and Batman."
He glanced at Edward, who offered only a quick nod as a response, so Snart continued. "If I'm going to commit a crime without the Flash's interference, it's going to be because one of us Rogues beat him. Not because I slipped off to Gotham to be a henchman for one of the Bat villains."
"So, 'no' is your final answer?"
Snart nodded. "Besides, ya got Fries in Gotham. Why not tap the local ice bad guy?"
After a moment's silence, Cold grinned. "Lemme guess. You did, and he turned you down?"
"Victor is not really a team player. He has his own agenda."
"Killer Frost? Icicle?"
Nigma sighed. "Yes and yes. I even looked up the current Chillblaine while I was here in Central City."
Snart shook his head. "It seems no one wants to play with you. Might be something to talk to your shrink about when Bats throws you back into Arkham." He turned back to his drink.
Edward Nigma started to step away.
"Hey, Nigma, I'm gonna assume that you came to me last because you knew I'd say no, and not because I was your last choice."
Edward suppressed a smile while turning back. "Of course, dear Captai--" Snart was still drinking his beer, but he had his cold gun aimed at Edward's head.
Snart finished his drink, pulled some money out of his parks's pocket and tossed it on the counter. Getting off the stool, he holstered his gun. "Good, 'cause I'd hate to have had to prove myself to you." Then he walked past Edward and crossed the floor to the front door where he exited without a single glance back.
"Well," said Edward to himself, "that could have gone better. Still, there's always plan B."
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