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Random Topics / REALLY Awesome Book: "The Sparrow"

« on: May 27, 2010, 10:37:54 AM »

I have read this book faster than I have read any other book. 400 pages in 12 hours, from 3 PM to 3 AM. This is a really sweet book. It is called "The Sparrow" by Mary Doria Russell.

It involves the first contact between civilizations, as humanity discovers the planet Rakhat. However, they rapidly lost contact with the original explorers, and a search party finds only one survivor from the original team. No one really knows the full story except Sandoz, the survivor, himself. But he has been scarred, both physically, and mentally, and refuses to talk.

The official story involves something like prostitution. And killing a little girl. Both true events, as witnessed by his rescuers.

The closest I can get to describing the alien race is through a link to another comic.

http://www.messenger-comic.com/

Kind of the like the creatures there, is about the best I could do to describe them.

Now, here's where things get freaky.

Sandoz? The survivor?

He's a Jesuit.

The guy who turned to prostitution and killed a little girl.

That's right, he's part of the order of Catholic priests that educated me. Apparently they're still around in 2060.

Many of you do not quite understand the Jesuits, believing "oh, they're another religious order all into that hocus-pocus magic stuff." Thank goodness, they aren't. They're more real. Sheesh, no other priest could get away with this...

Obedience was one thing, Being used, even by the Father General, was another. He was offended but also embarrassed that he had taken so long to wise up...considering things, John was also sort of flattered; after all, he'd been brought all the way from Chicago because his Jesuit superiors knew he was almost genetically programmed to despise a**holes like his beloved brother in Christ, Johannes Voelker.

So, the first crew to visit a foreign civilization contained four Jesuits, one Catholic, one lapsed Catholic, one atheist, and one Jew. Everything seems to go well, even though we've been told the end of the story at the beginning.

What went wrong? What changed everything?

This book definitely deserves a read if you are interested in any of the following topics: Religion, celibacy, first contact, alien cultures and societies, and linguistics. Even if those things don't interest you at the current, I guarantee you'll be hooked. In short, this is the book I'VE been wanting to write all these years.

2

Writer's Guild / Clorox Fail

« on: April 05, 2010, 07:55:24 AM »

I never did give the conclusion to that other story, did I? Well, here’s how it really ended. My mom called me later and asked if I needed a kit to repair my glasses. I had already fixed them. I said yes.

But it seems like my life is lived in a slight tension between my mom and me. So, I continue to write, and I don’t think I’ll ever be out of material.

The situation: ROTC. As you may or may not know, I’m applying for an army ROTC scholarship for college. Yes, it means I will serve in the army for four years after I graduate, and, yes, it means I will be paid ($200 a month) to go to college. Now, I’m strong enough, fast enough, and far more than bright enough to receive a scholarship. In fact, I already have received it. There’s two minor, very minor, problems.

1. Asthma.

2. Eczema.

I hate these two words. They seem to define my life. Currently, they define my lack of an ROTC scholarship.

In order to finally receive my scholarship, I have to convince the ROTC board that neither of these conditions will affect my service in the army.

Asthma is easy. I was on the track team for a long time. I can run, I can sing, I can surely breathe.

My eczema was a slightly different matter. It’s a skin condition. In the winter, the cool air causes my legs to become cracked and itchy. In the summer, irritants cause my legs to become itchy. It’s a lose-lose.

So my legs don’t look so great. They have a couple of “Hmmm…what’s going on there?” sores, and my mom is always looking for new ways to help my legs.

We’ve tried every cream, every lotion, everything.

Way back when I was home schooled, she had me sit outside and have my legs under the sun for 20 minutes a day. Then, we moved to the solution (lol?) of water and Epson salt. Essentially, that’s like putting your legs in the ocean for 20 minutes a day.

Then, she thought she had hit on the final solution.

Clorox.

You think I’m joking, don’t you?

My mom read an article in USA Today. I really hate that phrase. It seems to define her opinions of me. She has explained to me how every person you meet online is a child molester, how video games will rot young minds, and, most importantly…

How Clorox will heal eczema.

She made me do this a while back. After about a week or two, she more or less gave up on me. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can say that will make me think soaking in diluted Clorox for 20 minutes a day is a good idea.

She’s always just like this. I wasn’t allowed to watch either The Lion King or The Wizard of Oz on account of them being “too scary.” Harry Potter was banned from the house on account of it being “glorification of the devil,” and Dungeons and Dragons was a game that only “Satan worshippers” played. Okay, mom. Whatever.

I would probably trust my theology teacher before my mom. In class the other day, he said, “I don’t understand why the Catholic Church is so against the Harry Potter books. There’s so much Christian imagery in them, it seems stupid to just write them off as anti-religious. I mean, the last book has a RESSURECTION scene! How much more Christian can you get than that?”

The defining moment came when I was younger. I obsess about this moment now that I’m older, even though I didn’t think too much of it at the time.

We were walking through a store, and I saw a pack of skittles. I don’t know what gripped my mind to want them, but I did. I was young. I was impressionable. So I asked my mom for them. What did she say?

“You can’t have those. They have wheat.”

I had a wheat allergy when I was younger. It was only when I got into high school did I figure out that she was lying. That’s probably what’s driven me apart from her the most.

In order to convince ROTC that my asthma wasn’t a problem, I took a breath test, which showed I was in the top of the average for lung ability.

For my eczema, I had to go into the doctor’s office the next Friday. It was on the previous Friday when she stated that I should be soaking in Clorox for 20 minutes a day.

I did it on Friday. Partially to humor her, I guess. It wasn’t really the fact that I didn’t like taking baths. I read my Fantasy Short Story book while taking my baths. I last read a story about a futuristic world where no one ever dies.

On Saturday night, while I tried to get the screw back into my glasses, since it had somehow kept coming out, she reminded me to take a bath. I figured I just wouldn’t do it. That would be the end of it.

On Sunday morning, it started innocuously enough. I woke up, ate breakfast, worked on some schoolwork, then went back to eat lunch.

Both my mom and dad were sitting at the table. They were eating a kind of brunch while I retrieved leftovers from the fridge for my lunch. Then, she popped the question.

“Did you take a bath in Clorox last night?”

“No,” I responded.

!!!

“If you don’t bathe in Clorox then your legs won’t clear up!!!”

“I know,” I responded, “I know.”

“I don’t understand why you won’t do this. It’s only 20 minutes a day and your legs will clear up perfectly! I’m not asking all that much of you!”

I threw my lunch in the microwave, “It’s just that I don’t think it will have…”

“They’ve done studies that say…”

I hate this phrase of hers, too. She used it on Saturday when she tried to get me to clean my room, after she told me I had to get a haircut.

“Studies show that people with clean rooms do better than people with messy rooms.”

Okay, mom. Or perhaps people who do well like to keep their rooms clean? I’ve stopped arguing with her on things like this. Maybe that was why I didn’t take the bath that night?

“…bathing in Clorox will heal up skin.”

“It’s just…I’m not sure how effective it is.”

“If you don’t do this, then the doctor won’t write that your legs have cleared up for the exam on Friday!”

Diffusal of a situation lesson A. Put blame on yourself.

“It’s not the Clorox, I just scratch my legs too much, that’s all.”

“If you don’t get your legs cleared up you won’t get the $200,000 ROTC scholarship!”

Watch her make the link…watch it…waiiiiiit for ittttt…..

“It’s just a matter of soaking for 20 minutes a day for five days for $200,000! I don’t see what’s so hard about this!”

BAM! Initiate rebuttal, “I don’t think that not soaking in Clorox is the only reason I would be rejected from ROTC.”

“You just don’t want to go into ROTC. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I…” STOPPED. I’m getting angry. Anyone can see my rage would be perfectly justified. But I disagree with anger, and it disagrees with me. I’ve learned my lesson about these conversations. I’m going to throw it out as plainly as possible.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” I watched my plate of spaghetti turn in the microwave.

That didn’t stop her of course. It went on, with “If you don’t get this scholarship, we’re not going to pay for your college, and we’re going to have to take out a loan to pay for your tuition.”

As I stood there, though, I felt the twitch.

I was almost about to cry.

I guess that’s why men get angry. It’s all just a block to prevent this from happening. The last time I really cried was in 7th grade, when I learned that kids weren’t naturally nice to each other.

I decided to talk away, and just left my lunch there in the microwave. I walked back into my room, and checked on the status of my college applications. After a while, my dad walked into the room.

“Your plate is done.”

“I’ll get it in a minute. I’m checking on my colleges.”

I trust my dad. He once got in an argument with my mom, trying to explain to her that just because some Satan worshippers play Dungeons and Dragons does not mean that all people who play Dungeons and Dragons are Satan worshippers. He always struggles to keep his mouth shut during family reunions while my mom’s side of the family gives long speeches about how Obama is the Anti-Christ.

After a while, my mom came into the room. I looked up at her from the Yale website.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I won’t pester you about it anymore. You know what, you know what’s best for your legs.”

Huh. I guess that’s okay.

“Give me a hug,” she said.

I stood up from my chair to give her a hug. I closed my eyes. Unfortunately, little did I realize that my cockatiel Caesar was sitting on her shoulder. He considered me a villainous cur, and proceeded to bite me on the nose.

I retracted from my hug a little bit.

That’s why I didn’t want to take Clorox baths. It wasn’t because I didn’t like taking baths, and it wasn’t because I didn’t believe it would work. It was because I didn’t want my decisions to be made for me by someone who still believes that Harry Potter will draw young people’s minds to witchcraft.

And yet, both of us can somehow be okay with that. We may disagree on a lot of things, but we’re still a family, darn it. We always want what’s best for each other, even though we may disagree on what the best is.

And, I still love my mom. It’s hard, this whole family thing. But I like it this way, hard, rather than simply saying “I hate my parents” like it seems all the cool kids are doing these days.

So, I went to the glasses place and got my glasses fixed. I got a haircut, too. But I have yet to clean my room. It will happen…eventually.

((I received a clean bill from the skin doctor, and my breathing was labeled “above average.” Keeping my fingers crossed. ^_^))


Maybe you've had disagreements of this sort with people you know? What did you do?

3

Random Topics / Voice! The Ursa Major Awards

« on: March 25, 2010, 07:07:34 PM »

http://ursamajorawards.org/index.htm

Now, I remember a conversation that Virmir and I had on how we disagreed with the results of the Ursa Major awards LAST year...

So, this year I am DETERMINED to cast my vote.

Personally, I'm really rooting for Housepets and Lackadaisy, both comics are definitely fantastic.

What do you think?

4

Writer's Guild / GOGGLES!!!...no

« on: February 20, 2010, 10:35:51 AM »

We've all seen how much Sir Voltar likes his goggles. But are goggles really that great? My own experience might speak otherwise.


I’ll have to be honest: goggles aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

I bought into it just as much as everyone else, after seeing the legendary drawing http://virmir.artspots.com/image/42174/goggles. I mean, goggles just have a certain flair to them.

After I’ve spent the day wearing goggles, I’ll repeat my analysis: goggles aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Last night, due to an unfortunate circumstance, my glasses broke. One of the miniature screws came undone. If you’ve ever worn glasses, you know what a pain those are. They require the absolute smallest flat-head screwdriver ever made in the history of man in order to get them screwed in. Thus, without the screw tightened properly, the lens on the right side popped out.

Fortunately for me, I had GOGGLES! You know, prescription sports goggles? Previously, I just used them for playing dodge ball at school. Since I really just felt too lazy to go to the kitchen and get a screwdriver to repair my glasses, I just put my goggles on instead.

Sure, goggles have some problems. There’s the fact that they press against your face, causing a minor pain similar to a headache. And, of course, there’s the strap that cuts into your ears.

But the worst part of wearing goggles is the tunnel vision. You don’t notice it at first, but as you wear them throughout the day, you’ll find that you gradually start to lose touch with the world around you. First, you jump when someone taps you on the shoulder. Then, you fail to notice as someone walks right next to you.

I put up with it, though. I mean, I just didn’t feel like repairing my glasses.

But then, as usual, Mom came into the picture.

She was leaving for a dentist appointment. But really, she was just saying that she was preparing to leave for a dentist appoint, or fixin’ to get ready to leave for a dentist appointment, when she popped into my room.

“What’s with the goggles?”

“Oh, my glasses just broke a little, but don’t worry about it.”

Naturally, I forget that the phrase “don’t worry about it” sends Mom into a full-fledged panic attack. This happens with nearly everything in her life. For example, when “Mad Cow” was on the news, she decided that we needed to abstain from all beef products. We instead turned to Bison burgers (which we found tasted really, really good, so we kept eating them after the scare was over.)

“Do we need to take them to the eye doctor?” she asked, her eyes bulging.

“No, I just need to screw them back in.”

“We need to get them fixed!”

“I know. I can fix them.”

“Do you want to come with me to the dentist so we can…”

“Actually, you know, I’ll just fix them right NOW.”

I rose from my chair, with my goggles over my eyes. I went to the kitchen where we had the miniature screwdrivers in a small box. I laid my glasses on the kitchen table and opened to box. Oddly enough, the smallest one was missing from the box. I checked in the drawer.

“I can pick up a glasses repair kit from the pharmacy on the way back, they’ll probably have something like that,” she added, as I searched through the drawer.

“I don’t need a glasses repair kit. I just need to find the right screwdriver.”

“Would a kit have the right…”

“Mom,” if she kept this up, she would be late for her dentist appointment. It was an EASY FIX. All I needed was the right screwdriver, darn it!

It would be much easier than last time. Last time this happened, I didn’t have goggles. So when I tried to get the screw into my glass frame, I could hardly see what I was doing. Then the screw came out and fell onto the floor, where it was so small it looked like a speck of cereal. At least this time I could see what I was doing.

I looked downstairs, perhaps Dad took the screwdriver out and put it on the tool bench? I checked over it with my goggles. Nope. Perhaps I didn’t need a screwdriver…I mean, it was a flat-head screw, so any thin, non-flexible object would work.

“I’ll stop by the store on the…”

“No, don’t worry, I can do it.”

“All you need is a kit.”

“No, I’m just being defensive about my own abilities,” I totally just said that.


“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I don’t even need a screwdriver. ANY flat object will do to screw the screw back in!”

“But…”

“I’ll be fine.”


As she left, I was trying the screw with a sharp knife. Then I decided to heat up lunch. And then I realized something. I forgot one of my primary rules.

“Never reject someone who is offering to help you.”

I took on this rule upon realizing that a lot of my life was spent struggling against people who were trying to help me. And I forgot it yet again. As Sir Voltar would say, “HOLY FRAZZ!”

She wasn’t trying to hinder me. She was offering to HELP me, to go OUT OF HER WAY to make it so I could repair my glasses more easily, and I said, “Nope, I’ll do it all myself. I don’t need any of YOUR help.” I recognized what I was doing when I said I was being “defensive,” but I forgot to change my behavior. Curses, foiled by myself yet again.

A lot of our lives are spent in goggles, tunnel-visioned so much that we can’t recognize help when we see it. So down with these goggles. Sorry, Voltar, but this whole goggles thing just isn’t for me.

5

Art Gallery / Lopez's Art!

« on: February 18, 2010, 01:14:36 PM »

I don't actually do much independent art nowadays, but I am in Studio Art at my school, and I seem to have made it my mission to distribute a wide array of animal art around the school, (I made a Raccoon painting that hangs outside my main classroom.)

Here was one of my projects...Fox prints!



We had to make it in about 10 different colors...these two came out the best.

6

Writer's Guild / DEFENSE

« on: January 22, 2010, 06:51:55 PM »

This is a true story. I wrote it in third person, because I felt it had to be written in third person. I was dissociating the entire time, (another kind of defense.) Little did I know how useful my psychology class this morning would be towards what would happen in the afternoon...

Again, this is entirely a true story. I write my thoughts as they happened during that long, long hour...


It was just a party. Only a party. Then again, it was the kick-off party for the workers of the religious retreat. So it had some significance.

He had been to the kick-off parties before. He didn’t attend the local high school, so the  discussion that would be made there involving the local teachers’ eccentricies didn’t appeal to him too much. But he had to go, since he loved working on the retreat itself.

The party had enough significance that he skipped anime club to go to it. He had to get home early, so that he would be able to print out mapquest directions. The original directions had him take the highway, but he moved the route so that he would take familiar roads through town. It was just on the other side of town, how hard could it be?

He thought of staying at school for anime club. But that wouldn’t do. He HAD to go to the party.

With that, he set off. Lopez knew that there would be some people he knew at the party. Perhaps he would see Katie and Max. He would have seen Mark, but Mark wasn’t out of the hospital yet. Hopefully he would come later.

The directions were pretty direct. Take this road, and that road, and this road, and he would be there!

He left a little bit late. He had told them he would be late, anyway. It was better than arriving early like he used to. The awkwardness as he helped the hosts prepare for the arrival of teens was something he just couldn’t handle again.

As he pulled onto one road, he noticed that the sun gave off a beautiful reflection behind his car. By the time he would get there, the sun would probably be fully down.

He didn’t follow the route exactly. Who could? It was dark. He went to where he thought he should end up.

But something didn’t feel right. He pulled into a parking lot. For a sleepy town, there were sure a lot of cars on the road.

He turned the light on in the car and checked the directions. They said to get on Main St., then get on 106. But where was main street? A police car drove by.

No, he was just doubting himself. He had to be on the right road. He drove on.

The road went into a road that had a long line at the streetlight. That couldn’t be it. He turned right. If he had followed the general idea of directions, he should be going right, anyways.

He remembered for a bit what his mom said a long time ago. A study was done on men and women drivers. The conclusion was that women primarily used landmarks for guidance, while men used spatial reasoning.

Dang right Lopez used spatial reasoning. The study also said that men were better at getting back on track after becoming lost. He would get back on track in no time.

Besides, Lopez liked being lost. It was an adventure. He would get there eventually.

The road kept going, and going, and going. That’s how it is all over New England. You could drive for days on minor roads and never get anywhere.

But he wasn’t lost. He had a general idea.

He reached a huge intersection that was a four-way stop. A sign appeared that directed him towards to highway

He saw a police car. Really? What was it doing?

Wouldn’t you know it! The highway! He found it! He knew he was going in the right direction.

He didn’t have directions from the highway (since he changed the mapquest,) but he had his map of the general area. He could remember where that route took him to get to his destination.

Right?

Of course right.

He turned onto the road. Now, he just had to look for the final road. There were only two turns after he exited the highway.

So he drove. And drove. And drove some more.

He was back at the four-way intersection. Another police car drove by. What were they all doing? They were everywhere. Why?

He should turn back and drive the other way. That must have been the correct way.

But he hesitated. Something was wrong.

Firstly, why the hell wasn’t he following the directions? It was because he liked wandering around, since being lost gave him a sense of adventure.

What the hell?

Why did he get a sense of adventure from being lost?

Maybe he wasn’t lost. He knew exactly where he was going. He was NOT going to the party.

That was it! He wasn’t going to the party!

That was why he didn’t use the GPS that was sitting on top of the microwave at home! That was why he altered the mapquest directions!

He was trying to subvert himself.

He learned all about this in psychology that morning. They were talking about Freudian defense mechanisms. If the mind sees a stimulus that it wishes to avoid, it will create mental barriers in order to stop the stimulus.

He never wanted to go to the party. He said this to himself earlier.

So now, his unconscious mind was trying to subvert his goal of reaching the party. By being “lost”, by changing the directions from the easiest route, and by not using the GPS, it was all a ploy to prevent him from reaching the party.

But he HAD to go. He was a respected member of the religious retreat community. He always showed up on time, sometimes even early. And he was always the last one to leave.

He was an hour late.

He was going to find Main St. And he did. It wasn’t too hard. Then, he would get onto 106, like the mapquest directions said.

Just because his unconscious was trying to subvert him, didn’t mean that he couldn’t fight back.

He fought back by following the directions.

He did. He got onto main, then onto 106. Sure, there were 7 more turns (wow, his unconscious sure did a good job of making things difficult,) before the end, but he was following directions. He could do this now.

He followed 106. He would probably be going north on 106. He had to go north, right? That was what the map said.

He followed the map.

And kept going, and going, and going. He did see another police car.

What the hell?

He KNEW that he should have gone south. The directions said turn RIGHT, not LEFT.

Lopez could not use spatial reasoning for this. His mind was working too hard against him. He needed to start from the beginning.

Right. He turned around and went back to Main. From Main he would go right onto 106…why the hell was he in the middle lane? He turned on his blinker and shifted over.

Lights began flashing. Red and Blue. Why were they not reassuring?

It was his first time. A moving violation. He knew what he did wrong. Was this one of the police cars he had seen earlier?

As he pulled over, turned on his emergency flashers, and turned off the radio, he became a bit annoyed by the bright light that the police car shined directly into his rear-view mirror. He had to redirect his mirror to prevent it from blinding him.

Then, he waited. Lopez began to grow bored. What was taking him so long?

Was he waiting for him to turn off his lights? He tried that. Still, nothing.

He turned off his whole car. It was taking the police officer forever to get out of his car and ask for license and registration.

Eventually, the police officer came. He was young; he couldn’t have been much older than Lopez.

“You know why I pulled you over, right?”

“Yeah,” Lopez replied.

“You were in the middle lane, and when you pulled over, you cut that car off.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“Not really.”

Why did he say that?

“I’m going to have to ask for your license and registration.

He pulled out his wallet and shuffled through the cards. Card after card. Eventually he found the right one.

Then, he opened up the glove box. He had never seen his registration before. He looked through file after file. Tire repair, emissions test. The officer must have seen that he didn’t know what it looked like. Why didn’t he help him?

He pulled out a folder that was official-looking. He found a file entitled, “Contact Registration.”

“Is this it?”

“No.”

He looked back down at the pile. The police officer eventually pointed to the registration. Lopez handed it to him.

As the officer walked away, he noticed that he walked sort of slow. That would mean more waiting.

Wait, what the hell?

He had practiced this. He should be thankful that the police officer pulled him over! He was driving dangerously! He could have hit that other car!

He learned about this in psychology, too. He was being “Passive-aggressive.” He wasn’t being openly hostile towards the police officer, but his way of answering, his tone of voice, his anger at the officers’ slow rate, it was all from his unconscious.

At this point, Lopez declared all-out war on his unconscious.

He was HAPPY to be pulled over. He was THANKFUL towards the police officer! He was going to smile, dammit!

He had to smile! Dammit!

When the police officer came back, he told Lopez that his registration had expired. He should find the new one and place it in his car. Of course, Lopez knew this already, too.

“I’m letting you off with a warning. Be more careful next time, okay?”

As the police officer returned to his car, Lopez knew what he had to do.

He had to go home. He just couldn’t fight with his unconscious anymore. He could analyze it all he wanted, but there was always another layer that he would have to uncover. It would never end.

Because he didn’t want to go to the party, anyway.

7

Art Gallery / Web comic artist needed! ASAP!

« on: November 29, 2009, 08:19:02 PM »

So, I got this killer idea for a comic. But, as you know, I'm currently busy finishing that OTHER comic on this board. So, in short, I'm a web comic writer, and I need a web comic artist.

I say I need this ASAP because ideas can leave me reaaaally fast, and by the time I finish up my other comic (that you all have read, of course,) it will be far too late for this story.

So, if you ever thought you could draw, if you ever wanted to draw, if you ever WANTED to want to draw a web comic story but have been kind of on the fritz, contact me.

The story will take place in a "city" environment, and will feature one human main character, and one anthro fox character. I will provide reference pictures if you feel incredibly inept at your ability to draw. The story is titled (currently,) "Never ride a train on a Sunday".

I also repeat, I am DESPERATE. This is a really good story, but I've got only a little bit of time before it leaves my head. So, don't be afraid to speak up if you want to try something new. Try something new; if you have a little bit of time, be daring. The comic will be under ten pages, so it won't kill your social life. Please. I need you.

8

Writer's Guild / Orders

« on: November 27, 2009, 08:55:42 PM »

Reading through Geary's 3 hour story made me think of the assignment I had to write for English class. It had to involve "Madness" in some way, either through Repression; The Oedipus Complex; Freud's Id, Ego, and Superego; or Jung's Persona, Shadow, Anima. Gaaaaah. Short story very loosely based on "Dirty Snow" by Simenon. I tried to make this story as CLEAR as possible.

((Note: Some swear words are CLEARLY edited out. Use your imagination))

Orders


   Lelane raised his head from the chart for the first time that day to ask, “Where’s Myelka?”

   Roes coughed and smirked a bit at the question. Everyone always knew where Myelka was. If the official knew as well, since the official was part of everyone, why did he always feel the need ask that question at the start of every one of these meetings?

   Roes had become very bored with these meetings. He didn’t always answer when he was asked a question, and he didn’t always do exactly what he was told. He tried to think back to a time when he used to be able to follow orders and answer questions without thinking about them. When it used to be simple, yet unboring.

   It was two months ago. The day Roes was standing guard as everyone else stood in line. He was in change of making everyone else stand in single file. Lelane told him that if anyone got out of line, he should shoot them.

   In the line stood a mother with her daughter. The daughter stood beside the mother, so he shot her. When the mother stepped out of line, he shot her too.

   There was nothing wrong with what he did. But there was nothing right, either. That’s just the way things were. Those were orders.

   But what if there could be something right and something wrong, rather than just something being ordered or not?

   So, Roes decided not to follow orders anymore.

   After he decided upon this way to live, he found the violin player.

   Roes and Myelka were ordered to escort the violin player to the streetcar. The violin player was part of the Resistance. He had killed an officer, so he must be arrested. If he tried anything to resist the arrest, Roes was ordered to beat him. Roes would need to take his gloves off in order to do that properly, though. His gloves were such a hassle, but everyone was supposed to wear them.

   Roes and Myelka stood outside the frozen door of the violin player’s apartment. Myelka kicked the door open, and Roes charged in. The violin player reached for his case, but Roes was far too quick for him. By the time the violin player had his hand on the case, Roes loomed over him and turned the butt end of his rifle towards the violin player’s head. If Roes hit him, the man would be very injured and might have trouble walking out to the streetcar. Since Roes didn’t want to carry him, he stopped right before the rifle hit his head. The violin player cowered to the floor, and Roes kicked the case to spring it open and reveal the weapon inside.

   Myelka and Roes escorted the violin player out into the cold. Both Roes and Myelka had ample clothing to wear off the cold and snow, but the violin player shivered from his torn shoes. They took him out of the building to wait for the streetcar to take him away.

   Roes took his gloves off and told the violin player to hold them. Those gloves were such a hassle. It was far better to simply go without them.

   As the streetcar took the violin player away, the violin player waved to Roes from inside the car. Myelka said, “I hate you, Roes. You know that?”

   “Okay,” Roes replied.

   “You know why? Because you’re always perfect. You always do everything perfectly. You know what I think? I think you’re a phony. I don’t think you actually love your job. You don’t actually love following orders,” Myelka tightened his gloves and walked away.

   That’s when Violet came.

   Violet was an expert at trudging through the snow. You could look one way, say hello to a far-away friend, and look back to find she was a mile off. The snow was no obstacle to her. It might have been due to how she was so small. She was small enough to fit in a fireplace. It could have been her eyes. She locked eyes with Myelka as he left. It could have been her hands. She had an icy-blue scarf over her hands, so if she fell, she would fall face-first. But she couldn’t fall. Her eyes were too focused, she was too small, and she traveled too fast.

   “Hello. My name is Violet. What’s yours?”

   “Roes,” because he had decided not to return to his base on time, he decided he would talk with this girl.

   “Why did you do that? Aren’t you supposed to hate the Resistance members because they’re trying to kill you?”

   “I didn’t want my gloves anymore, and I don’t have to follow orders.”

   She came closer. Roes couldn’t tell she had stepped closer; she just was closer.

   “Will you help me?”

   “No,” Roes was done with following orders.

   A voice came from above, “Violet! Get back here!”

   Violet stood in the snow, looking down at her scarf-covered hands. “I had better go.”

   Roes turned around and looked up at the man who yelled for Violet. He could see him clearly, and he looked like the violin player, only less pale and gaunt.

   By the time he looked back down, Violet was gone.


   So, of course Myelka was late. He ran in flustered and hid in the back until the end of the meeting.

   “She asked about you again,” Myelka told Roes.

   “Okay.”

   “Don’t you even care? She loves you.”

   “I don’t follow her orders.”

   “If only her freaking father wasn’t there…”

   Myelka stopped wearing his gloves a while ago. Roes and Myelka were the only two without gloves.

   A tip from a friend of a friend led them to an apartment building adjacent to the one where they captured the violin player. A stash of weapons for the Resistance had been collected inside A charred elevator shaft stuck out the top of the roof, letting the cool air circulate throughout the entire building. Roes and Myelka had to go in first, as usual. When they opened the door, Violet was waiting immediately inside. She had gloves over her hands and an icy-blue scarf wrapped around her neck.

   “The basement,” she whispered. Her breath exhaled to a cloud of mist even inside the building.

   “Thank you Violet,” Myelka subtly kissed her on the forehead, and then she turned back inside and up the stairs. The squad, on the other hand, went down. At the bottom of the stairs, a key lay in front of an obviously locked door. Myelka picked up the key and tried to turn it in the lock. As he fiddled with it, footsteps came from upstairs, going up, going down, or going nowhere. The steps going nowhere were just there to intimidate them.

   Roes shoved Myelka to the side and turned the key in one flick of the wrist. Myelka shined a light into the room, and it was practically empty. Just three or four large crates. It was all relative. It was not that there were too few weapons, but that the room was too big, too spacious, too empty.

   Roes and Myelka stood at the front of the building while the others clumsily hauled crates up the stairs. It took four of them to take just one, so it would take two trips. But Roes knew that those two trips were one trip too many.

   Myelka was the first to go down; it was inevitable. Roes was far enough away to retaliate, but by the time the building quieted down, three people were bleeding out, their blood freezing on the tiled floor.

   There was nothing anyone could do about that. The rest of them simply carried the remaining crates out to the truck.

   As Roes was about the leave, Violet stood by the entrance, in her over-sized soldier gloves and icy-blue scarf. The last thing the soldiers had to take from the building was Myelka’s corpse. But before they could, Violet dropped her gloves on it.

   Only Roes had noticed. He picked up the gloves to hand them back to her, “You dropped these.”

   She looked as if she didn’t care, but Roes knew she did. She couldn’t hide it. It came through on her breath. Roes decided he would get her to take her damn gloves back. He told the other soldiers to go without him; he would find his own way back.

   He followed her up the stairs. It felt like such a long way that they just might reach the top and see the elevator shaft.

   She stood outside the door with her keys in her ungloved hands.

   “I’m just giving you your gloves back.”

   With one sweeping movement she unlocked the door and walked in. Roes followed her, of course. She needed her gloves back.

   However, there was another man inside as well.

   “Violet! What the hell are you doing?” he had the same voice as the man Roes heard shouting at Violet earlier.

   Violet didn’t answer. Roes stood in the doorway, holding the gloves.

   “And so what do you think you’re doing? You soldiers with your freaking guns, your freaking uniforms, your freaking accents…” he went on for what seemed like an eternity.

 “Let me tell you this: stay the hell away from my daughter.”

   Roes looked down at the gloves he held in his hands. He thought of the violin player. The violin player was probably wearing his gloves right now.

   Then Roes looked at the man’s eyes. He loved her. He was her father, so that was only natural, he supposed. But Myelka had said that she loved Roes, who was hated by her father. They stood there in a triangle, none of them knowing quite what to do.

   “I’m just here to give your daughter her gloves back.”

   The father would always believe Roes was evil. It was only natural. Everyone else believed that. But he didn’t have to stand there and listen to the father. Roes didn’t have to take orders from anyone anymore. He left the gloves on the floor.

   
Roes began to realize something. Without Myelka, no one recognized him anymore. He didn’t follow orders like he used to. Back then, everyone knew his name. It was always “Roes, do this!” or “Roes, do that!” But now, since those phrases didn’t work anymore, everyone had forgotten his name.

   Nothing happened, but everything happened all the same. Roes was finally free. He didn’t need to do any of it, not just because he had decided not to, but because no one requested it of him anymore.

   So, he walked the streets, free. Free from orders, free from restraints, free from restrictions, free from everything. And yet, every day, he walked by Violet’s apartment. He knew that Violet had to stay there, but that her father had told him to leave.

   Roes didn’t care. But he had forgotten about the father’s orders. For that reason, he had to go back. He couldn’t let that man give him orders that he would follow. How could he make such a mistake like that?

   When he returned and he knocked on the door, Violet was the one to answer. This is what Violet had been ordering him all along. How could he make a mistake like that?

   There was no way out. Orders were the way of the world. He would always have to make a choice. He had to follow someone’s orders.

   He decided to choose Violet.

   “Who do you think you are, coming back here?” the father screamed.

   “My name is Roes, and I’m choosing your daughter.”

   “Like hell you are!”

   He grabbed the father by the neck and swung him into the wall.

   Roes didn’t have to follow the father’s orders; only Violet’s. If Violet so much as gave the signal he would crush the father in his palms.

   “…st-…stop.”

   “Roes, stop!”

   Any command, any order. Roes let the father fall to the ground, gasping for air. It was only natural, he supposed, for Violet to take orders from her father.

   “If…you…” the man coughed, “…want her just remember to…listen to her. Do whatever…she says.”

   Roes already knew he took orders from Violet.

   But what if he took orders from the father, too?

   “I will take care of your daughter,” Roes said.

   Both of them now received orders from Violet.

   “Father…” Violet said. She ran over and gave her father the biggest hug Roes had ever seen. She took orders from the father, too.

   That’s what it was. Roes had heard this word a lot, while taking orders. Everyone said it to him, especially Myelka. “You love your job,” he was always saying.

   If Roes took orders from Violet and the father, and the father took orders from Violet and Roes, and Violet took orders from her father, there was only one line left.

   “Violet,” Roes asked, “Do you love me?”

   “I’m pretty sure,” she wiped the tears from her eyes.

   Love. Orders. They weren’t different; they were one and the same.

   Then it was the three of them. The occupation had long since forgotten the soldier they once knew. The three of them were all in love, all following orders, even the orders they dared not to say to each other. Now that he had learned how to follow orders again, he would start with these two. But, gradually, the world would begin to know Roes once again.

____________

Question: Do you know someone that you take orders from? Do you follow the orders of anyone without them telling you to follow them?

9

Writer's Guild / Father Fox: An MK Story

« on: November 25, 2009, 07:55:46 PM »

So, I was REALLY tired of reading stories written about priests by people who don't actually know any priests. Then, this MK story just popped into my head, and I couldn't resist.


Father Fox was not a fox, not by any standard. He lacked the ears, the tail, the grace that made those of the vulpine race. He never stopped to sniff the air to find out what resided there. He never hunted, never fought, never howled, and never thought about why he should be a fox in the first place.

Of course, he knew there were foxes, since he had read about them. Not just the ordinary foxes that he saw around town, but true foxes. They had been the result of some sort of evil magical spell at a place called Metamor Keep. However, they had learned to overcome the animal instincts that resided in them in order to defend themselves. There were the perpetual children and those who had been transformed into members of the opposite gender, but they did not receive nearly as much attention as the animals.

Father Fox knew he would never see these creature-people, but he had read a great deal about them. Thomas the Duke had been transformed into a horse. Misha the fox defended that keep with all his strength. But, most interestingly, there was a devout Follower there by the name of Charles Matthias. Not even being transformed into a rat could cause him to lose his way.

One time, the altar boy Frederick asked Father Fox, “Will you ever become a bishop?” to which he replied, “I don’t think so, as long as I don’t need to. Bishop Marst is a very capable Bishop.” Father Fox always trusted Bishop Marst. Bishop Marst had told Father Fox to write to him often, and report if there was anything strange or unusual happening.

But one day, late at night, a stranger knocked. Father Fox half-expected to find a runaway bride, or a murderer (because there are very few options for strange knocks in the night.) Yet, he opened the door anyway.

Much to his surprise, a small robed stranger appeared at the door. His size was about that of a child, he, or she, even had gloves to cover his small hands.

“Hello,” the small figure said.

“Hello, do you need something?” Fox asked.

“Well, I could actually use your help. I presume you’ve heard of the residents of Metamor Keep?”

“Of course,” Father Fox thought for a minute, but didn’t know the proper reply. Was this small figure a transformed child hiding out from pursuers? Perhaps he was an escaped attacker of the keep? Father Fox did not try to think too much, and just followed his feelings. “I know that they are Victims of unfortunate circumstance,” he said, “Why do you ask?”

The small figure slowly uncovered his hood, and Father Fox could see clearly that this was not an ordinary resident of Metamor Keep.

“My name is Charles Matthias.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve heard about you. Please, come in,” the rat was just like Father Fox had imagined him.

The large rat glanced left and right, to make sure there were no predators ahead. “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said,” But I need someplace to…lay low for a while. As you can imagine, most are not quite as tolerant of my appearance as yourself.”

“But with a clean soul, who needs appearances?”

“True.”

The priest showed Matthias into a small room. There were now windows, and a small lock dangled from the back of the door, a remnant of the time when there were things in the room worth protecting.

“Will this do?”

“Yes, thank you. It is only for a few days.”

“Fell free to stay as long as you need to.”

“Thank you. I am ever grateful.”

With that, Father Fox left the rat to his alcove, and returned to sleep, as he would be performing mass tomorrow. He couldn’t look too tired, or the townspeople might get suspicious.

________________________________________________________________________

The church in the small rural town where Father Fox lead his flock was never really full. And yet, although a small mass it was, it was still a celebration, filled with the Followers’ attentionship and absolute elation.

After the mass, and after the people had left, Father Fox had a special guest to visit.

“Hello, Charles,” he knocked on the door, “Feeling well?”

“Fairly, give me a minute before you come in.”

Father Fox waited outside the door. A bit of shuffling of papers emanated from inside, with another bit of fumbling followed by the door opening.

“Please,” Matthias directed, “Come in.”

The small room that Father Fox had given him was adequate for the man-rat’s needs. The desk no longer had the thin layer of dust that Father Fox had intended to brush off eventually, and the few paper wads rebelling against the floor were huddled into one corner. The chair no longer wobbled.

“I apologize for being to secretive,” Charles said, “But I hope you can understand. My missions for the Keep are definitely of utmost importance.”

“Of course,” Father Fox sat down,” I understand. I have read a great deal about you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Of course, not all of it has been flattering…”

“Well, all words have their place somewhere.”

“Of course.”

“How is the community here?”

“Fair. We are mostly farmers, and the bit of rain we recently received was a welcome gift.”

“I see.”

“How is the religious life up at Metamor?”

“Good, good. Even with our…difficulties…we manage to get by.”

“What kind of difficulties?”

“Well, many members of the Ecclesia disagree with our tolerance of the Lothanasi there, and many Ecclesia simply disagree with us,” he twitched his nose, “So it’s hard to find a balance.”

“Of course.”

Father Fox watched as the rat twitched in the chair, his whiskers accenting his face oddly.

“Well, I had better leave you be; I am sure you have much work to do.”

“Don’t be afraid to come back anytime. It was great to speak with you.”

“The same.”

With that, Father Fox left the room and closed the door. He listened for a moment as the shuffling of papers once again emanated from the inside, and returned to write his letter of report to Bishop Marst.

________________________________________________________________________

When Frederick came up to Father Fox after mass, he looked slightly distraught.

“Father Fox?” he asked, standing far below him in his white altar boy robe.

“Yes, Frederick?” Father Fox asked in reply.

“May I show you something?”

“Of course.”

Father Fox followed Frederick all the way to the front of the church. It was not a very long distance, but they both treasured every step of the way.

Eventually, Frederick showed Father Fox a small space under one of the pews.

“See? It’s gone! One block. Well, I know it’s not very important, I know, but it’s still strange.”

“Yes, it does make me a bit uneasy as well. Who would have both the strength to remove one stone from the floor along with a reason to do so in the first place?”

“That’s all I wanted to show you, Father.”

“Thank you, Frederick,” the light coming in through the stained glass windows made the boy look a bit unearthly, “And if your keen eyes spot anything else, be sure to tell me, okay?”

“I will.”

After Frederick left, Father Fox check on the missing block again. However, before he could, he noticed that a small block in the floor before the altar was missing as well.

________________________________________________________________________

Most of the Followers were fine with the missing-block mystery at first. It was just a matter of watching your step as you walked up to receive communion. However, as the church began to become more and more drafty, the people starting asking Father Fox more and more questions, to the point where his time studying the the seminary was useless.

The missing blocks were nowhere in sight. The only solution to the problem would be to watch all night for any sign of the stone stealer.

“Heard anything yet, Frederick?”

Frederick hastily shook his head, both to reply and to keep himself awake.

“Very well, you may go home and get some rest. I will watch for the rest of the night.”

Father Fox watched the rising soon gradually peel in through the windows, and reminded himself to watch the sunrise more often. So often he busied himself that he didn’t have time to appreciate the little things. After watching the whole night yielded nothing, he decided to spend a little time talking with Charles. As he walked out of the church, he noticed a new block missing fro the front wall.

________________________________________________________________________

Charles’s room was impeccable, as usual, since all the important papers were hidden. However, this was all the better, since then Father Fox could talk to him without his eyes constantly wandering.

“Do you have…any clue on when you must depart? I am sure that you have far more important things to do than sit around in a cramped room shuffling papers.”

“Still, no. But I think the day is getting closer and closer. Please do not be offended if I mysteriously depart without saying goodbye.”

“Of course. Stay as long as you need to, since if you weren’t here, the real rats would move back in,” Matthias snickered awkwardly.

________________________________________________________________________

Father Fox had enough; the stealing had to stop. Therefore, he penned a letter to Bishop Marst outlining the whole situation. He told him exactly when the first block had been removed, and where each block was.

Of course, the bishop undoubtedly had better things to do than check up on an out-of-the-way parish with a problem that seemed like a joke, so Father Fox tried to write in his most sure penmanship. Well, this problem was certainly unusual. So, the best Father Fox could do was wait.

In the meantime, both he and Frederick found unique ways to fill in for the missing blocks. After unsuccessfully trying to fit in new blocks, they resort to inserting straw into the holes, then covering them with a  mud-based hardening mixture. It was fairly efficient, but new holes sprang open practically as fast as the pair filled them.

Father Fox thanked the Lord with all his might; Bishop Marst had finally arrived.

“Hello, Bishop Marst.”

“Hello, Father Fox. I received your letter, and decided to come by to help you with your problem.”

“Thank you very much. Would you like to see what’s happening?”

“I would, it has certainly intrigued me.”

Father Fox opened the front door for Bishop Marst. Frederick was sweeping the floor, but paused to give respect to the Bishop.

Father Fox started with the first block missing from the floor, then began to show him the blocks in the order they disappeared, while explaining their various attempts to patch up the structure. By the end of the display, Bishop Marst began to grow bored.

“Do you mind if I look at these…removals…a bit closer?”

“Of course. I have not found anything through close examination, but perhaps your sharp eye will yield something.”

“Bishop Marst traced his hands along the vacancies, all the while mumbling to himself far too quietly for Father Fox to understand him. Then, he stood up, “Do you mind if I take a look around by myself?”

“Of course. I’ll wait in my room until you’re ready.”

With that, Father Fox left Bishop Marst to his tracking.

________________________________________________________________________

Bishop Marst did not have a natural nose for trouble, but through an expansive search, he hoped to find the right trail.

He knocked on every door, making sure to talk to everyone, from the altar boy Frederick to the beggar Maximillian. However, none of them yielded anything. Nevertheless, he told Father Fox his findings.

“None of them have any clue or trace,” he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to Father Fox. “I know there’s magic behind this, I just know it. But I didn’t feel any real magical abilities from anyone around here.”

Bishop Marst sighed, knowing there was nothing else he could do.

“I’m sorry, Father Fox. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ll try to find someone more adept at these things when I can.”

Bishop Marst stood up, “I need to get going; I can’t spend all my time here. I will be thinking about your problem all the while,” he turned to the door, but turned around to Father Fox just before he left, “If the church looks too unstable, stay out of it until the problem is foxed, okay?”

Bishop Marst chuckled a bit, then sighed, “Fixed. I mean. Fixed.”

“I will,” Father Fox replied.

Father Fox looked back to his desk. A lone sheet of paper rested in the center, and Father Fox didn’t really know what to do with it. He thought about writing on it, but he didn’t really know what to write about. As he heard Bishop Marst’s footsteps recede into the distance, he decided to write a letter of thanks to the bishop for all his hard work.

However, just as he began to write, he heard more footsteps, running.

Bishop Marst ran in, out of breath.

“Father Fox, may I have the keys to the basement sub-storage?”

Father Fox looked at him with a blank stare.

“The keys.”

“I don’t think you want to go in there.”

“Give me the keys!”

“No.”

Bishop Marst slowed his voice, and spoke in a more soothing tone, “Father Fox, what’s in the basement storage room?”

“It’s a wreck.”

Bishop Marst inched closer, “I don’t care what it looks like. What’s in it?”

“Oh, just a…few…odds and ends.”

“Don’t like to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then tell me what I want to hear. Is there someone in there?”

Father Fox looked back down the paper.

“Give me the keys. I’m your superior. Do what I tell you.”

Father Fox slowly stood up, and pulled out the drawer behind his chair. He took the keys out of the jewelry box and handed them to Bishop Marst. Then, he collapsed in his chair again, staring at the floor.

Bishop Marst would attack Charles Matthias, and try to kill him. Others weren’t so tolerant and open-minded as Father Fox. But there was nothing he could do about their impending fight.

Then again, Father Fox had learned a lot about Charles Matthias. He was originally a writer, but Father Fox heard that he was quite a capable warrior. In fact, he would be able to defend himself quite well if Bishop Marst attacked him. Did Bishop Marst have any experience fighting?

Father Fox rose from the chair and started sprinting. When he got to the open doorway in the basement, he stopped. Then, he slowly peeled around the corner, with his body following. In the center of the room, Charles Matthias lay dead with Bishop Marst sitting on the ground behind him.

“You…” Father Fox said, “You monster! You killed him; you killed Charles Matthias.”

Bishop Marst looked up at Father Fox with dark, tired eyes.

“How could you? How could you do this? How could you ever say you did this in-”

“Stop,” Bishop Marst whispered.

Father Fox stood vacantly.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because I knew you would kill him!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you hate those from Metamor Keep, just like everyone else!”

Bishop Marst slowly rose to his feet and looked intently at Father Fox.

“Open your eyes, Father Fox! Open them!” he grabbed Father Fox on the shoulders and shook him, then pointed him at the rat corpse. “This isn’t Charles Matthias; he’s brown, not white! This isn’t even a rat-morph; it has no tail! If you keep things from me like this ever again I’ll…I’ll…”

Father Fox collapsed to the floor. Bishop Marst slowly sat down beside him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“That’s just…why I told you to tell me…if anything unusual ever happened.”

“What if it had been the real Charles Matthias? Would you have killed him?”

“I would have done what was right.”

Father Fox put his left hand over the dead body. Its fur head had an exquisite radiance to it, even though he knew it was all an illusion.

“So, will you tell me next time?”

“Of course.”

Bishop Marst left later that afternoon, while Father Fox and Frederick returned to patching up the remaining holes.

Father Fox was not a fox, not by any standard.


Question: Are you a fox?

10

Random Topics / Bears on the big screen

« on: November 04, 2009, 10:21:29 PM »

Because I have a strange obsession with evaluated every piece of Anthropomorphic material that hits the news media...

http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/news/2009-11-03-Berenstainbears03_ST_N.htm

Remember these guys? I thought they were always a bit...light a fluffy. And they're not really very much fauna. They always hit me as the exact generic picture of Anthro. But what do you think?

((In addition....what do you think of the phrase "a slight makeover to bring it into the three-dimensional style, but we'll embrace the core design elements"?))

11

Random Topics / First it was XKCD, now it's...

« on: October 23, 2009, 04:06:56 AM »

...Homestuck.

http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=002697

I mean, I'll have to say, I really like the term "FAUNA OF AN ANTHROPOMORPHOLOGICAL PERSUASION" far more than "Furry." (Although, technically, "Anthropomorphological" should just be "Anthropomorphic". But that's what gives Homestuck its charm)

It seems more and more of these surreal comic strips are turning towards our "style." Do you think that's good or bad?

12

Writer's Guild / Quite the Foxy Commute

« on: October 12, 2009, 07:51:47 AM »

I know what you're thinking...LOPEZ WROTE A TRANSFORMATION STORY??? NO WAI!

Yes, it is indeed true. But it's a little bit more than that. Read on.


I hate my morning commute. Most people can say this, but I hate it for a very special reason. It’s not the fact that my commute an hour and a half long one way, nor is it the fact that it requires both a train ride AND a subway ride to reach its conclusion. No, it’s the DRIVE to the train station that really irks me.

Now, most people wouldn’t have a problem with that. It’s just a fifteen minute drive. Sure, it’s at six in the morning, but it still isn’t that bad. However, the problem lies in the fact that I’m not exactly a people.

See, in this world there are some humans who have a sort of…animalistic nature. My animalistic nature is that of a fox. (Technically, the world has some animals who have a humanistic nature, but I don’t intend to blow your brains out just yet.)

Fortunately, I don’t have to spend my whole life rummaging around the forest hoping to drain the life blood out of squirrels. Like most other animorphs, I have the ability to “repress” my animal form, so that I look like any other normal human being. It’s handy. (Get it? Handy…as in…having hands…okay, I’ll stop now.)

However, there’s a slight catch to this ability. It requires quite a bit of attention to keep up my human form. The repression is not so much a switch that I can turn on and off, but more like a helium-filled balloon that I must keep held to the ground. I’ve suffered many jokes about how I sprout a pair of furry ears during math tests, and once while taking the SAT I had to stop because I lost the ability to hold my pen.

But that problem isn’t all that bad; driving is the one thing that nearly breaks me.

Driving requires attention, which is why public service announcements tell you not to text while driving. Beginning to see the conflict here?

Now, my driving would not be so bad if all I did was grow tawny fur and a bushy tail during my morning commute, but life never lets you off that easy. Instead, it proposes that you should go to a FULL animal form, with digitigrade legs that can’t reach halfway to the pedals, and forepaws that can only turn the steering wheel through proper application of friction.

Even so, I have found a few rules with which to fight back against the foxomorphism.

Firstly, give yourself a good wake-up time. You can’t expect to hop right out of bed and be ready for your drive. Normally, you should choose to wake up thirty minutes before you leave. This gives you enough time to calm your thoughts, but not enough time to get distracted again.

Adjust your chair properly. Nothing is worse than giving yourself a nice little nook for your little furry behind to try to adjust into. The chair should be at an 85 degree angle, almost vertical, and your chest should be one foot away from the steering wheel.

Hand should always be at the six o’clock position. This lets you more “push” the wheel to turn your car rather than grasp it to turn. Most of those who are not familiar with the fox situation say, “Can’t you just put your paws inside the little crevices in the steering wheel?” That should be avoided, since while it is the most stable configuration for paws, turning becomes nearly impossible. Good for highway driving, but little else.

Keep a drink in the car. Make sure it has flavor. Avoid warm drinks, as they tend to hasten the transformation, which is something you really don’t want. Diet soda works best, as anything with sugar will break you down rather than excite you, weakening you to the transformation’s effects.

Keep the radio on, but not for the reason you expect. Most people expect the radio to be another distraction that you don’t need while driving and holding off a transformation, but they don’t understand it in the proper context. While listening to the radio, focus not on the objective music itself, but rather your human reactions to it. How do your ears hear the music, as opposed to your true form’s ears? Also, singing helps, as your ability to enunciate rapidly declines as you proceed closer to foxhood, so it helps you keep track if your transformation gets out of hand.

Go the speed limit. It’s just not worth it to go any faster. You’ll be stressed enough as it is keeping all these things in balance, and going slower than the speed limit is acceptable as long as no one is behind you. This allows you to better divide your time between the road and your human form.

Know the road conditions. Ice can hit you hard if you’re not paying attention to it. That goes hand in hand with the “Go the speed limit” rule.

Find your emergency flashers. If the transformation completely takes hold, don’t be afraid to rap it with your paw until you get your legs back to braking length.

Know the street lights. For those that it applies to, colorblindness can broadside you when you least expect it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stopped at green lights, and just kind of SAT there waiting for someone to honk at me, so I knew it was green. Eventually, I memorized that green was on the bottom, but when you’re distracted, it becomes pretty hard to remember, believe me.

You also have to all of this while, you know, DRIVING. You still need to stay in your lane, and you still need to keep focused on who is behind and beside you. But what can we do? I’m just a fox in a human’s image.

And yet, every morning, I always seem to make it to the train station alive. A bit drained by my experience, but always on time, expect for that one day when the garage’s electronic gate opener failed to recognize my monthly pass.

Then, I take my backpack and wait for the train. When I board, I always wait in the aisles, standing, even if there are seats across the train. As soon as the door closes, I take off my jacket, lay it on the floor, and let my fox form finally take over. Then, I try to keep it out of my mind that tomorrow I’ll wake up and do the same thing all over again…


This seems all nice, right? But you know me...I don't write about something unless it's REAL. This doesn't seem very real, right?

If this isn't real...what's the real problem with 'I''s morning commute? Why is it written as a transformation story?(Pay VERY close attention to the last line, that's really the key to the story)

13

Art Gallery / Hold Me Down: Fan comic

« on: September 11, 2009, 03:35:11 PM »

So, it turns out I was reading up on Chinese history one day, and I happened upon the part involving where all the western countries(+Japan) made China pay huge indemnities and territory concessions everyyyyy....ten years or so. I thought that was pretty cruel.

Then I listened to the song "Hold Me Down" by Gin Blossoms. I thought that was pretty cool.

Then I logged onto the CF website. Then I was like: "Woah, it all fits!"

So, I decided to create a comic based on it. It is short, at the max 20 pages, but more likely 15. But, in addition, this is the first time I've really tried doing Pencil texturing rather than coloring, which I've found is much more my thing. It's still a learning process, so if any of you have solutions to the problems that you see, feel free to critique.

Since good things come in threes, I'll be posting updates 3 at a time, so I can review them and improve my style for the next 3.







((Yes, I know it's a cardinal sin to include song lyrics in art works, but I couldn't resist doing it for the first 3.))

Question: Go to computer text for next 3 or just try to do cleaner Pencil/inked text?

14

Writer's Guild / Me + Meagan Williamson

« on: August 21, 2009, 01:26:08 PM »

So, when I ordered my psych book from Amazon.com used, I really should have expected that someone else's name would be there. But I kind of didn't. It had such an impact on me, that I had to write a story involving it. This story is mostly true, in terms of Meagan Williamson, but I haven't finished the psych book yet, I'm only on chapter 10. I could use some feedback on how this story/essay makes you feel, since I want to sharpen it up a bit.


I remember when I first opened Introduction to Psychology: Gateways to Mind and Behavior 11th edition by Dennis Coon and John O. Mitterer and saw your name on the front cover, Meagan Williamson. I felt glad, as if there would be someone to help me along as I read.

I remember being in awe of you, Meagan Williamson. Your sunny yellow highlighting overlapped the rote midnight text so brightly and cheerfully. You lit up all the important things, not just the bolded words, and you made all the never ending paragraphs fade under your unique disposition. You had your own personal aura to every single section, and I wanted to find out how I could highlight more like you, Meagan Williamson. So, I followed your guidance, with my static orange highlighter.

After I reached the second chapter, I wondered how I could ever live without you. I was never any good at biology, so the chapter on biological psychology seemed like a demon ready to rip me to shreds with its endless descriptions of the hypothalamus and parasympathetic branches of the nervous system. But you changed all that, Meagan Williamson. You shined the light into the dark cave of knowledge that I was always afraid to enter. And, with your help, I ventured in, deeper and deeper and deeper.

But then, you disappeared, Meagan Williamson. I’ll never forget what it was like to open to chapter 3: “Child Development” and gaze at blank page after blank page, with my static orange highlighter in hand. Everything seemed more confusing, more pedantic, and I was just a feckless high school student lost in a maze of ends in a three-hundred-and-sixty degree pattern around me. My highlighting grew both dimmer and more infrequent, as I lost the help of your guidance.

The next few chapters were listless and dull. But it was not my fault, or the book’s fault; it was your fault, Meagan Williamson. I was so used to pages with your cheerful yellow highlighting, that I never even bothered to know what it was like to highlight a page all by myself.

But I knew I had to move on. I knew that I could not reminisce on your bright yellow highlighting forever. Gradually, chapter four turned to chapter five, chapter five turned to chapter six, and chapter six turned to chapter seven. I learned how to highlight all by myself, with only my own wits and my static orange highlighter to guide me. You, Meagan Williamson, faded from memory. My static orange highlighting grew stronger and stronger, and I forgot all about you.

Then, you came back, Meagan Williamson.

Of course, it was chapter 9:”Conditioning and Learning.” You just skipped the chapters “States of Consciousness” and “Sensory Perception” to go straight to Pavlovian dogs and Skinner boxes. All the while, I thought about how you had betrayed me. You left me back at the beginning of the book, because you didn’t think that “Childhood Development” was important. But it was important to me, Meagan Williamson. I didn’t think I could ever put up with you after you did that to me.

So, I trudged on, all by myself. Then I noticed that your cheerful and bright highlighting now looked so very faded. I began to see how flawed you were, Meagan Williamson, how you highlighted entire paragraphs, how you never glanced at the optional reading boxes, and how you highlighted the miniature-fonted captions under the pictures. I began to wonder how I ever put up with you for those first two chapters.

But it didn’t matter, of course. That was the last chapter you ever marked, Meagan Williamson. Three chapters out of twenty, not counting the appendix. Did you ever feel like a failure, only reading fifteen percent of Introduction to Psychology: Gateways to Mind and Behavior by Coon and Mitterer? Probably not, and that’s what I hated most about you. You just didn’t care. I thought that you enjoyed reading about psychology as much as I did, and that we could bond over that. But you didn’t, so we couldn’t, and I thought we could never bond over anything.

I kept reading, since I wasn’t about to let you stop me, Meagan Williamson. I never even looked back. My static orange highlighting now ruled supreme over the entire text, and all that remained of you was a faded yellow paragraph peppered here and there (taken as a mean.)

After I finished the book, I noticed that you wrote your name on the back cover in black permanent marker, Meagan Williamson.

It looked like an epitaph, Meagan Williamson. That epitaph would scream, “I failed,” to everyone who clutched this 11th edition psychology textbook by Coon and Mitterer in their claws. Everyone will say “Oh, this idiotic girl who can’t even finish Introduction to Psychology: Gateways to Mind and Behavior with her faded yellow highlighting.” Everyone will despise you, for the failure they see in your faded yellow highlighting.

But I won’t despise you, Meagan Williamson. Everyone else will think that you are a failure, but I won’t, because I believe in you. While everyone else will look at you and see your faded yellow highlighting, I will not, because I believe that you are more than your faded yellow highlighting.  I believe that you are you, and you will always be you, and you will not be faded yellow highlighting.

Everyone will shout me down, with cries of “How can you believe in this pathetic girl, with her faded yellow highlighting?” and I will shout right back at them “Damn it! I believe in you, Meagan Williamson!”

And they will call me crazy, Meagan Williamson, believing in a girl with faded yellow highlighting. But I will not back down, and I will not ever stop believing in you.

Because I love you, Meagan Williamson.


Food for thought: Who is Meagan Williamson?

Now, for a more broad question: Who is Meagan Williamson?

15

Random Topics / New Movie?

« on: July 24, 2009, 02:40:05 PM »

We're gonna be keeping a close watch on this one. I'll have to admit, I've never read the tale.

http://www.usatoday.com/life/movies/news/2009-07-23-mr-fox_N.htm

Does anyone know anything more about the original story than the article lets on?

((Hey Vir! Theres even a gray! This movie must have something for everyone. ))