…

My plan was simple. First, I would enter the cafe with a newspaper. Then I would get my coffee and loiter, like this was a regular thing for me. I don’t know why I cared so much. I guess I still don’t. Deep down, I wanted to prove I was a normal person. Normal people went to cafes, right?

I crept to the coffee-shop, wary to not seem too eager. I blew that when I pushed the door, rather than pulled. The loud rattling of the door in its frame turned all eyes to me, both inside and out of the shop. I flushed, realized my mistake, and then pulled with more force than I needed to. I was off to a good start.

There was a line to the counter and a small stage where a guitarist was getting ready to play that soft kind of music that I call background noise. The red tables stood out against the brown and green tones throughout the shop, like mushrooms on a forest floor. Even with all the attempts at atmosphere through color and music, I felt nothing for it. It felt all too artificial, like my presence.

At the end of the line, I gave myself a proper amount of distance from the person in front of me. My foot tried to tap while I was waiting, but I willed it into submission. I didn’t want to seem annoyed or impatient to others. In my head I rattled off what I was going to order.

“Sir, may I take your order?”

I nearly bolted to the counter and apologized. I was terrified some customers behind me were shooting dirty glares for wasting their time.

“No problem. How can I help you?”

I froze.

“I’d like a coffee, please.”

“Sure, what style?”

My eyes moved up to the menu and I glanced around at all the items, names I couldn’t understand and numbers in columns that grew in amount from left to right. I felt my eyes rattle in my head.

“Uh. Large black, please.”

I didn’t even like black coffee.

I paid my three dollars and sat glumly at one of the red eye-sores. I saw one of the big, comfortable chairs with the leather and padding, but I stayed away. I didn’t want to look like I was struggling to get out of it later.

My paper was open to a section I wasn’t really paying attention to; I was more interested in staring at a wall. I heard my name come from the counter and rose to get my drink. I didn’t realize my feet had been wrapped around one of the legs until I went stumbling across the floor, dragging the chair with me. The loud scraping caught everyone’s attention as my fingertips brushed the floor. I felt tears well up in my eyes as I untangled myself from my betrayer. I shuffled to the counter and grabbed my drink silently, terrified of being mocked. I sought sanctuary with the turn-coat chair.

I brought my paper cup to my lips, hesitant. I didn’t know what was worse: the taste, or the searing spears that had assaulted my tongue. I fought a yelp and swallowed my sip. I felt the hot dirt-water scald my throat and the gazes scald my skin.

I left the paper at the table for someone who would actually read it, and dumped my coffee in the trashcan as I made my way out. Maybe this was wasteful, but the bigger waste was my being there. I decided to go back to where I was comfortable.

I’m still hard at work on my Expedition Europa project, which I promised to showcase some information from. I still intend to, but I haven’t gotten around to it. I can verify that so far, much of the locomotion in Europan seas are based on tentacles of flagellate movement. Fun stuff.

In addition, in the off hours at work at the LRC I’ve taken to writing what I can. I am working on Dash scripts, as well as a few writing projects, one of which is a short story for an NPR contest. I am in the polishing stages at this point, and I am extremely pleased with what I have thus far. The other project is a journal where I respond to a prompt. I’ll likely post one of those tonight. The other project is me dabbling with one of my story concepts called “Worldwalker”. It’s going to take me a while, but I am going to press on. I’ll post a rough excerpt here. If anything, the roughness should illustrate that writing in a process, albeit a long, maddening one at times.

Aluia wasn’t used to waking up so early in the morning, much less being woken up by screams. At first she was only half aware of her surroundings, but the acrid smoke roused her. And the survival instincts kicked in. She leapt to her feet and dove for her armor that was resting at her side. In fluid, hurried motions she had managed to slide into her plate. She grabbed at her sword and shield, barreling out of her small tent into the settlement.

In seconds, rotting fingers were rubbing against her armored shoulder, clawing at the metal unsuccessfully. She spun, knocking the hands away; she then brought her shield in front of her. She had wandered right into a pair of ghouls. Thrusting her shield forward to create a buffer zone, and with enough room to swing, she dispatched the first of the pair, followed shortly with the second. She turned her attention to the chaos at hand, as ghouls were swarming the settlement, swarming into tents and bringing down the minor shelters. She saw survivors spread throughout, fending off the undead with great efficiency. It came with living in the area, she imagined. She immediately got to work, rushing shield-first into a trio of ghouls approaching a distracted pair of settlers.

A lot of personal pronouns in this excerpt, but I’ll fix those in time. At this stage in the project, my main concern is just getting a story down on paper. it’s not until the later stages where I make it sparkle, like so many vampires these days.

Anyway, the titular Sara of this post is one classy lady. My post wins by sheer volume, however. I refuse to let her outdo me and I am throwing down the gauntlet. Rawr.

Stay tuned for your regularly scheduled program.

Pro-Tip: Swear words make you a good writer.

It was 2 in the morning when the body was finally found. Some poor schlub was coming down the hotel lobby from one of those swank rooftop parties and stumbled on a person curled up in the hallway. Being drunk, he tapped at the person’s back with his foot, telling him to get out of the way. He, remarkably, did not notice the blood pooling on the floor under the body. The drunk party-goer shrugged and stepped over the curled up corpse and proceeded to wander to his room.

It was about 6 in the morning when someone actually realized the curled up person was dead. Even worse, the deceased was one of those pop-stars.

Bart stepped into the hotel, hands firmly entrenched in his coat. Though the hotel was warmer than the bitter cold outside, he refused to remove his hands from the safety of the pockets. He peered around for a Blue to fill him in on the deal.

As soon as he made a passing glance to his left, a Blue approached hurried and huffed to his right.

“Detective Blair?”

Bart turned his head to the Blue. He hated being confused with his partner.

“Blair is running late. This is Bart.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry Detective Bart.”

Bart resisted the temptation to make a deal of it.

“S’fine. What are we needing here?”

The Blue motioned to Bart to approach the elevator.

“About 0600 this morning a maintenance man stumbled on the body of Cecil Williams-“

“Name sounds familiar. Why?”

The Blue balked at the question. “Williams had the stage-name Lonchre.”

The elevator makes a noise and the door opens, and the pair step out, stepping around a rush of hotel-patrons wanting to leave.

“No shit? That popstar? The guy who was posing as a woman for all those years?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, shit. Can’t believe I didn’t know that, I had a few of her- well, his- albums.”

The Blue looked very amused. He was going to make a comment about this gruff detective and his choice in music, but decided against it as he saw the detective’s grim face at the revelation as musician he liked was now lying dead in a hotel hallway.

The rest of the walk was silent, all two corners of it. They arrived at the crimescene, where forensics were already hard at work.

The Blue stepped into the hotel room behind the crime-scene while Detective Bart stood and watched the scene. The body was on a stretcher now, covered. Bart wondered what Lonchre looked like without all the glam. Probably not that great considering the amount of blood on the floor.

“You librarians better not fuck up my crime-scene.”

One of the forensics looked up at Bart and grimaced. She spoke in a fluttery tone. Incapable of sounding the lease bit annoyed.

“Christ, they had to send you?”

Bart looked at the source of the snark, and was pleased to see the round, pink face of Susan.

“Hey there Sus. What have you saved for me?”

“Quite a bit, actually. Pretty sure if this was a murder, it was the sloppiest goddamn one I have ever seen.”

Bart’s interest piqued, “Really now?”

Susan stood up, holding a variety of sample bags.

Found a weapon we’re dusting for prints, and it looks like there was some hair under the victim’s fingernails.

Bart finally took a hand out of his coat pocket to pull out a stick of gum from another on his pants. “Couldn’t it have just been a suicide?”

Susan placed some bags in a box. “We’re not ruling that out, but the wound does not strike me as a suicide wound. It’s pretty sloppy and feels like something out of an execution. Long range.”

“Guess that’s why I’m here then.”

“Guess so.”

A call from the room. “Bart, get your ass in here.”

“Sorry Sus, looks like they’re singing my tune.” He made his way to the door, but stopped when Susan began to speak.

“Hey, Bart. How’s your partner?”

Bart scratched at his scruffy chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Well enough to come back to the force today.”

He stepped into the hotel room. One more body in an already too-crowded space.

The chief was there. This was going to be a huge priority case, so this wasn’t shocking.

“Shouldn’t you be sitting behind a desk, sir?”

“Jesus Christ. I’m trying to keep the circus going up here, and you’re downstairs asking my Blues about the situation, where anyone could hear?!”

“Technically, it was the Blues’ fault. He knows the rules.”

“No time for jokes, Bart. This is a big fucking deal.”

“A pop-star got killed. Not even sure if it was a murder or not, what makes this such a damn priority?”

The chief stalked over to Bart, getting right in his face, his breath was hot and sour, and the words were wet and they came flying out of his mouth.

“WE’RE DEALING WITH A MAJOR PLAYER AND THE INEVITABLE MEDIA CLUSTERFUCK AND YOU’RE ASKING WHY THIS IS A BIG DEAL?”

Just received some new nickelodeon magazine issues that feature a new Spongebob comic I wrote. Just look for the September 2009 issue, the one with the Madagascar penguins on it.

The semester is nearly over, so with any luck, my abilities should return.

A lone statue stands in the desert, a sign of a ruler from ages prior. It is worn down to just the legs and the head. Separated from each other, the head lies in the sand with a sneer of “cold command”. A traveler describes this sight, and the words of the ruler presented at its base; “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!” (Shelley 590). This is the literal interpretation of the poem “Ozymandias”, written by Percy Bysshe Shelley in 1817. On the surface, it is simply a second hand description from a traveler of a statue in the desert he once saw, but as with many poems, there is more to it than can be inferred from a literal analysis. In the case of “Ozymandias” a deeper interpretation on the nature of legacies can be inferred through textual evidence and historical context.

This would be the second time in this literature class where I have focused on the historical context of a work. Prior to this, the discussion was about the writings of Langston Hughes during the Harlem Renaissance.

I think this double major in literature and history is a good idea, as I seem to naturally move toward that direction.