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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
