And it all started so well, right?

"Where's the content?", right? It all started so well, and then there's nothing. How does that work?

Turns out, some weeks are busier than others, and last week or so has been pretty damn busy. Suppose it'll get easier to write once I hit the discipline/habit levels of writing again, but that'll take a while.

While we're on the behind-the-scenes topics, thanks for pointing out that one of the links in the link list (now evaporated) has, apparently, changed the nature behind it. I'd have never expected the old WoW guild forums link to have turned into a porn site. However, as I know who set up the link, and who probably still owns it, that makes it very, very amusing. Sorry for my readers' eyes, though. Anime porn, of all things. Shudder.

Either way, it looks like the activity levels are settling back to normal, so I'll get back to working on a couple of articles that I had in the works, and/or figure out more topics to write on.

More to come! Even without the questionable links. 

The Hero's Conundrum

Some may be shocked, but I can't stand Dark Knight.

There, I said it. Yes, it's a competent film in every respect. Yes, it has things in it. Stuff, even.

And yet, for all the things, and all the stuff, it's missing one damn thing, and that's a backbone.

You know what I'm talking about. You sure as hell do. The boat scene.

My belief can suspend a lot, believe me, and if I wore suspenders, I'd have it embroidered with "Suspenders of Dis Bee Leaf" but even that wasn't enough to suspend that damn scene. 

You're telling me that the entire moral suspense of the film hinges on two boats filled with saints? Have you seen what panicked crowds do? How did we dimensionally travel from a world full of gung-ho vigilante wannabes, rampant crime syndicates running unchecked, and psychotic clowns that stuff the city full of explosives overnight, and suddenly, somehow, we have two boats full of people willing to die for their brother in Chris Roberts? What on God's Green Flat Earth am I looking at.

So yeah, as you may guess, that scene took me out of the film pretty hard. After that, it didn't matter that people were dying in a fire anymore, or the heroic reputation sacrifice for the Bat at the end (I could dissect that one as well, but won't. That's just too easy), or, honestly, anything. The film lost its spine. It lost its core. Its actual message, the meaning, the potential. And for what? To cosplay two boats full of moral people that spent their entire lives in an utterly rotten society? Well. Alright then. 

Now, let's get a little bloodthirsty, shall we? Let's do something that the film doesn't dare. Let's blow up the boat. Hell - let's go further. Let's blow up both! Don't like blow-up boats? Alright, fine, let's say, The Joker activates fireworks that go "Ha Ha ToLd U bAtS tHeY wIlL kIlL eAcH oThEr!", just to prove a point. And then he'll give everyone ice-cream. Better? Good.

Anyway, what does this do, besides pointlessly graphical bloodshed and the special effects crew detonating two cruise liners? It actually creates a moral question. Not for the people on the boats. Not for the audience. It creates a moral question for the hero. An existential, profound, difficult question. Was he wrong? 

Yes, we get a tragedy and a sacrifice at the end of the film. Yes, we get a vague sense of bleakness, and a bit of shallow hope. But won't it simply be better, more meaningful, more challenging, if Bruce Wayne realized that maybe, just maybe, he was always fighting a losing battle? Imagine it - the real darkness a hero has to face in his own mind, realizing that all these years, he fought for what could have been worthless - at least the way he'd framed it for himself.

Imagine, too, the stakes and actual, deserved, seeds of hope - in being free from the chains that Dark Knight had shackled himself with; in the thought of what his conclusions may be, in what may bring him back from the "dead". It's no longer "Gotham is in danger again, gotta rescue it!", it's "Something made me think it's worth what may be one last ride". What would it be? Who knows. Maybe it's reframing the whole problem - maybe saving humans is still worth it, even if they suck. Maybe it's just one bright-eyed kid on the street that does something to remind Bruce that heroism isn't dead. There's a lot of ways to go from here, from the actual pits of hell made not by some villain, but by his own mind, and, dear reader, we were robbed of it. And we were robbed of a chance to ask something of ourselves. Of a chance to learn something. And for some, yeah, a chance to be recognized, if only for a second.

Because - yeah. What this film does is quietly betray anyone that's had to make a moral choice in their life. All of a sudden, they look so easy, don't they? Your goal is always right. Don't question it. You are right. You are moral. Your ideals are just. You serve a kind god. So nice, isn't it?

Now, tell me - ever wake up and realize your cause was trash? Ever notice how your driving force became a stone sinking you into a swamp that you willfully ignored for years? Ever do something you believed into so hard that you believed it to be true, even if the warning signs were all there? Or maybe there were no warning signs? After all, the warning signs hardly ever matter. 

Ever see your dream rot before your eyes? Ever realize your dream was, in fact, always rot, and you kept it gilded just enough to be blind to it? Has that ever happened in real life? 

Because if not, someone better make a movie outta that one. It'll be a hell of a fantasy flick.

I Hate Blogging

 Whoa, strong statements right away!

 
Hear me out, though. Let's play a little game. Look at the words below. They are words associated with writing.

 

Write

Letter 

Note

Poem 

Verse

Lyric 

Line

Calligraphy 

Scribble 

Book

Manuscript

Journal 

Publication 

 

All sounding good. Some beautiful, even. And then you have: 

Blog

  

A word that sounds like someone having a fit of literary vomit. Or a bad day they summed up in one sound. Blog? Really? This was the best we could come up with for this dying format? It couldn't have been named an e-journal or anything else? Anyone else remember LiveJournal and its prototumblr cousin, DeadJournal? How did it come to this? Why couldn't we keep the "Journal" part, were there too many letters?

What are your thoughts on the name of the format? And while we're at it, do you have any other words you'd want to be stricken out of the dictionary?

 Words like Moreover, perhaps? Or... moist?

 

See - I don't intend to make this all serious. I promised shitposting, and shitposting there shall also be.  

For the record, I meant to post this on 15/7/25

Hello, dear reader.

If you're reading this, I'm sorry for you - that means someone thought giving you a link to this site was a fantastic idea. It probably wasn't. Either way, welcome. Enjoy your stay. I hope you'll drop a note.

After nearly a decade of  "considering" to resume my posts here, I figured I might as well bite the bullet and just do it. Why? Many reasons, but the main one, I suppose, is just being tired.

Tired of having to rely on AI to provide me with coherent, challenging conversations. Tired of people responding with .gifs instead of actual words. Tired of endless, boring, empty memes, regurgitated propaganda pieces, blank stares, incoherent sentences.

Am I out here to fix that? Hah, I wish. The world has been trying to shut its eyes and ears off for a while, and all that's different now is that we have better tools to drown ourselves in ourselves with. Want your echochambers? Find the right reddit or discord servers. Want to run away from empty talk? Your AI buddy's waiting for ya. Want the grass? Hey, it's over there, touch it. Want something human? Oh. Hmm. Um.

So, what is this even for? Hell, I don't even know yet. Just a place for conversation. A place to discuss, shitpost, argue, challenge. This is NOT meant as a "safe" space. The comments are open. You can comment. You can say what you want. Just remember, shitpost too hard and I will respond. Or someone else might. It might not be kind. It might not be your usual "Uh-huh, guess we're all right in our own way" kind of response. It may turn out that your opinion is stupid. It may turn out MY opinion is stupid. If that's the case, I invite you to point that out. However, I do ask that if you decide to read and comment, you at least try to do it in a civil and precise manner. This is not a safe space, but this is not an edgelord central either. Please bear that in mind.

So what's with the name? Wasn't this called Spherical Cow in Vacuum?

Yeah. Yeah, it was. Back in the day, this was indeed called that. Times change, though, and I feel I've moved on from theoretic what-ifs to thinking about why-nots instead. A while ago, I had to host an event, and at the end, I received a comment on it being awesome and unhinged. Unhinged being a good thing. And that's what got me thinking - why hinge myself? I'm not a door. So here we are. Hinges are for doors. I'm not a door. You're not a door. Unhinge a little.

Some of the old readers may notice I've nuked half my old content from orbit, and that's indeed the case. I don't feel comfortable showing my younger thoughts. Not at the moment, anyway. I'll eventually bring them back, once I feel more like it, but right now, it feels cringeworthy. It's part hindsight - I was clearly too optimistic, even though, I recall, no-one ever called me that; and it's partly because I hate re-reading anything I wrote. In fact, I'll want to delete this post once I finish it, but, nah, not this time. 

So, then - that's it for my first actual post in a decade that's not a short story of some kind. Feels weird writing here again. Weird's not always bad, though.

To all that knew me back then and come back - welcome back. To all that knew me in the last decade - get ready to join the older folks to ask, "What happened to you, man? You used to be cool". To everyone that joins because somebody felt this would be a fun link to share? Welcome. 

And hey, if you know someone that's also tired of having to talk to the AI to have a semblance of a conversation again, feel free to send them this way. 

Season's End - mood exercise

The end of the season, when silence falls early on the sea-side cliffs, the idle crowd hiding from it indoors, in noisy bars and cozy rooms, afraid to disturb it or become a part of it.

When the dry, intense heat turns to darkness dressed in fine translucent mist, moon shining through thin swirling clouds, painting a faint path of light on tiny waves. Just as silent as the rest is the sea, resting from the season's festivities, the noise, the excitement and the crowd. A few tiny lights from tiny distant boats and a few equally tiny distant stars shimmer faintly through the fog. The air is warm and damp and heavy with the smell of the sea, of the humid earth, and of the wet and empty boardwalk. The last sounds of the passing season fade, drowning in the sea, the darkness and the mist, and silence reigns.

The night waits, silent, warm, alien and inviting, waiting for something, something new to happen, something to to start the new season - a sound, an event, an accident; a frightened bird's scream, a pair of hissing cats, a drunken crowd. The first sound of the season, what will it be?

And then it comes, faint at first, coming from below, from the sleepy dark town. It's quiet at first, but it grows louder, and louder - two voices, as though one intends to outdo the other, contesting which would disturb the silence the most. A laughter.

The darkness shrinks, giving room to the shining mist as the lanterns light up on the empty boardwalk; the waves splash harder to drown the singular sound, and the boardwalk sweats harder, to make sure the duo won't linger around too long, nor try to sit comfortably on any of the many benches. The two don't seem to mind too much, with frequent pauses in their walk, leaning on the guard railings and trying to sit on the surprisingly wet benches. Tiny spiderwebs built by hundreds of industrious spiders all over the boardwalk hang broken in their wake.

The laughter leaves the boardwalk and the shore, giving way to new sounds, those of drunken crowds, disturbed birds and meowing cats, cheery music and splashing waves. The laughter's sound fades, growing distant, as it retreats gradually back to the sleepy town - the first sound of the new season.

Panda story, full russian version

Жила-была панда, а точнее, панд. Звали панда Черноглазом, и был он обыкновенный, плюшево-магазинный, жил в магазине в компании других, похожих на него панд, и тоскливо взирал на то, как его более удачливых родичей понемногу разбирали. Кого-то утаскивал с собой шумный, радостный ребенок, кого-то дарили девушке, иногда панда отправлялась в гости к выздоравливающим... Кто-то из панд слал письма родственникам в магазине, кто-то нет, но в общем Черноглазу было понятно - счастливы были все поголовно. Ну что ж, оставалось только ждать - найдутся хозяева и ему, это всего лишь вопрос времени, надо просто подождать.

И Черноглаз ждал. Ждал довольно долго, потому что панд на полке было много, и их постоянно довозили со склада, тем самым пополняя стройные плюшевые шеренги, но вот однажды, дождливым осенним вечером, Черноглаз неожиданно попал в чью-то волосатую лапу. Лапа была одна, мужская, и ни детей, ни девушек вокруг не наблюдалось. Черноглаз обрадовался - его брали в подарок. Панды любили быть подарками и неожиданными сюрпризами, им было приятно сидеть в темной упаковке или чьей-то тесной сумке и торжественно вручаться кому-нибудь. Вручение всегда сопровождалось радостью, а радость панды любили всегда.

Лапа унесла Черноглаза к кассиру и без лишних слов отоварила. К лапе и ее хозяину тот присматриваться не стал: а зачем? Привыкать ко временному хозяину было бессмысленно, поживешь с ним день-другой, и будешь вручен, а там все закрутится, и забудешь уже и лапу, и магазин, и вообще все-все, будет, чем заняться, и чего думать.

Однако по приходу домой, Лапа не стал Черноглаза ни прятать, ни запаковывать, а взял бумажку, что-то на ней написал, и все это сфотагрофировал. Черноглазу это категорически не понравилось. "Неужели я тут останусь", подумал Черноглаз, разглядывая комнату, в которой его в конце концов оставили. Комната была просторной, но без следов детей, для которых его бы принесли, да и девушек с больными тоже не наблюдалось. "Ну я и попал", подумал он.

Новый хозяин и правда оказался вовсе не временным, и, к Черноглазьему сожалению, каким-то странным - чуть ли не ежедневно он придумывал какую-нибудь фотосессию, в которой Черноглаз каждый раз оказывался звездой: то на дерево залезет, то положит ему на глаза огурцы (ну и гадость, хотя, отдавая должное Лапе, нужно было признать - по крайней мере он сперва замотал огурцы в пластик), то еще что-нибудь ему в голову взбредало... В основном Лапа обходился какими-то записками, которыe Черноглаз придерживал в своих лапках, что было необременительным, но загадочным... Ну а затем Лапу понесло путешествовать, и Черноглаз зачем-то полетел с ним.

Лететь Черноглазу не понравилось. Да, он сидел в темной, тесной сумке, но к этому моменту он уже знал - его не подарят, это просто его хозяин, оказавшийся сумасбродом, решил снова где-нибудь его сфотографировать.

Черноглаз оказался прав. Хозяин фотографировал его везде - в кино, в барах, в лесу, и даже в каких-то горах, причем в горах его снимал не только хозяин, но и его друзья, оказавшиеся людьми тоже несколько своеобразными. Правда, друзья с Черноглазом играли, да и хозяин тоже, но иногда было страшновато - свисать с горы на одной лапе - ощущение еще то, конечно.

Зато запускать воздушного змея Черноглазу понравилось невероятно, он совершенно забыл, где находился, и для него на время - какое, не известно - существовали только ветер и моток веревки, которым Черноглаз ощущал извивания змея. Ну а затем снова были фотографии в каких-то кафе, аэропортах и других заведениях, и Черноглаз в конце концов сбился со счета всего происходящего. Очнулся он лишь дома.

Дома было, как обычно, тихо - особенно по ночам, когда Лапа спал. Спал он как-то плохо, поэтому по по дому ходить приходилось тихонько, на цыпочках, но экспедиции всегда были любопытными и занимательными - открытий было много. Как-то раз Черноглаз чуть не влез по неосторожности в камин, запачкался, и громко расчихался. Лапа заворочался, что-то проворчал, но все-таки остался лежать. "Фух, пронесло!", воспрянул Черноглаз. Ему не хотелось, чтоб хозяин узнал о его передвижениях - он вряд ли бы их пресек, но с фотографий он, возможно, перешел бы на видеосъемку, а раскрывать секретов магазинных панд Черноглазу не хотелось.

Так и шло время. Черноглаз бродил по ночам по дому, а днем попадал в фотохроники, хозяин уходил на работу, возвращался, спал... Все текло медленно и размеренно. Черноглаз привыкал, и, кажется, уже совсем привык к тому, как здесь жилось. Письма, отправленные сородичами, были встречены удивлением - такого ни у кого, почему-то, не было, лишь один панд, попавший в рекламное агенство, мог поделиться схожими историями, но и там все было иначе. "Эх, ну вот... Все панды как панды, а меня вот угораздило... Не мог себе найти енота?", сердился по ночам Черноглаз, пытаясь заснуть, "Тоже мне, фотограф нашелся"

Одной ночью он проснулся от странной тишины. Нет, в доме все было, как обычно, а вот на улице... На улице царила тишина. Ни дуновения ветерка, ни шелеста веток - все было тихо. Черноглаз аккуратно спустился по ступенькам и тихо-тихо открыл входную дверь (это-то он уже умел), а открыв ее обомлел. На улице... На улице было белым-бело. Все вокруг него было занесено чем-то светлым, легким и пушистым. То же белое и пушистое кружило в небе и падало, и падало... Несколько пушинок упали ему на нос и растаяли. Неподалеку поскрипывал лес, у дороги горели фонари.

Черноглаз стоял, замерший в удивлении. Все было белым - ну, кроме чернеющих стволов деревьев и темного небосвода. Мир был похож на затаившуюся, огромную панду. "Не иначе, как что-то намечается", подумал Черноглаз, уже успевший поднабраться от хозяина легким цинизмом, "Но красиво-то как, нет слов!". Без слов он постоял еще немного, и, тихонько притворив дверь, вновь пошел спать. Спалось легко, но во сне, обычно полном бамбука и игр, внезапно поселилась медведица. Большая, красивая, и пушистая. Не исчезла она из его снов и в следующую ночь, и в ночи, следующие за ней...

Но вскоре белое исчезло с улиц - конечно же, хозяин успел сфотографировать Черноглаза и на "снегу", вместе с парой груш, которые он зачем-то обозвал яблоками... А в месте с белым исчезла и тишина. К хозяину приехали гости. Гости были шумными, говорливыми и активными, и двигаться по дому Черноглазу было сложно. Несколько дней он тихо сидел в уголке и дремал. Правда, гости им интересовались, и время от времени брали на руки...

А затем пришла, наконец, тихая, спокойная ночь, и все улеглись спать, и Черноглаз вновь пошел в обход... Шел он тихо, и осторожно, стараясь не разбудить кого-нибудь из спящих... И вдруг в тихой, дышащей темноте он разглядел нечто белое. С черными пятнами. "Ты кто?!", спросил Черноглаз.

Белое с черным обернулось, и он вновь обомлел, как когда-то, запуская змея, и как когда-то, глядя на белое в ночи. Перед ним стояла медведица. Большая и черно-белая, как и во сне, но сном это не было, это точно была явь... "Ты кто?!", повторил Черноглаз.

"Да Панда я, кому ж еще мне быть?", ответила ему с улыбкой Панда, "Да уж, ты, парень, одичал тут, похоже."

"Ага, есть малость", ответил Черноглаз, "А зовут-то как?" И правда, он немного одичал... Но шли часы, Черноглаз и гостья говорили и говорили, смеялись и шутили, и понемногу его дикость стала отступать, и ему стало вдруг радостно. Ведь иногда и правда везет, ведь так?

А везло и правда невероятно - оказалось, что гости привезли ее в подарок Лапе, и что она остается жить здесь же; и что зовут ее Белохвосткой, и что хвост у нее и правда очень белый и пушистый. К тому же Белохвостка оказалась веселой и очень умной (как и все панды, впрочем), полной рассказами о всякой интересной всячине и разнообразнейшими идеями. Совершенно обалдевший Черноглаз теперь с нетерпением ждал наступлений новых ночей, когда все засыпали, и когда панды выходили на тропу хулиганств и баловства.

Уехали гости. Прошли недели. И вдруг везение закончилось... Черноглаз увидел перед собой сумку. Хозяин снова куда-то уезжал, и он явно ехал с ним. "Ну что ж, еще увидимся", помахал он мысленно лапкой Белохвостке. Махал он ей мысленно и в самолете, и в автомобиле... Сумка была тесной и темной. Внезапно Черноглаз почуствовал, что хозяин ходит взад-вперед, как будто сильно волнуется, или как будто ему больше нечего делать. Шаги остановились. Послышались шаги другие - легкие, звучные, каблучные. Сумка внезапно расстегнулась.

Перед Черноглазом стояла девушка. Пожалуй, красивая, как зимняя ночь. Пожалуй, что да. Даже по меркам магазинно-плюшевых панд. Хозяйка, которую он когда-то ждал, да так уж и не ожидал увидеть.

"И все-таки я оказался подарком", прочитала Белохвостка в пришедшем вскоре письме. "Ну что же, подарок, приезжай, буду ждать", ответила она и выглянула из окна. За окном снова затаилась спящая панда. Панда таилась и улыбалась чему-то во сне.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

В жизни не писал сказок, в жизни не писал прозу на русском, да и вообще прозу последний раз писал лет эдак семь назад... В общем, не знаю, чего и получилось.

RPG Codex review

Recently posted a review of Witcher 3 on the Codex. Hoped for a lot more anger from the natives, but apparently it's too accurate or something, I don't even know. Even the pre-agreed-upon troll-baiting with my fellow moderator Scrooge failed to deliver any extra shouts of anger.

I just don't know what I'm doing wrong here, people. Looks like I've lost my edge and mellowed out.

Review: http://www.rpgcodex.net/content.php?id=9961

Autumn Night, repost

She felt that the autumn came faster than an eye could blink. The days flew by, dressed in colours of agonizing nature, each morning colder and duller than the one before it. But what's more, there was the never-ending smell of decay in the air; decay and the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. The nights were better, but not by far - dark, damp and grey, they covered the swamp like a giant blanket, drowning it in nearly unreal silence. Which could be a bad thing, except to her, it wasn't. This way, she was left to dream undisturbed.

She was quite sure that if the citizens of the rest of town would ever learn of her thoughts - or ways to spend a cold autumn night - they would at least call her strange. At worst, some could see witchcraft in her harmless evening chants. Witchcraft it was not, of course, just a book that used to belong to her mother, something that lie resting in a large pile of useless things in the attic. All it did was help her see the dreams she wanted to. And it was arguable whether the book did it, in any case, but the more she had been using it, the less she felt inclined to try. For the dreams the book seemed to give her were not the sort she would readily part with again.

It was nothing complex, really. No dreams of riches, power or fame; in fact, she'd never even dare to dream of such things, never quite knowing what those would feel to possess. So, she dreamed of simpler things. Like the summer that was now gone, and the man that was to be her husband that was gone with it. Gone just like that, the Baron off to fight over some dispute with a neighbor. Of course, he wouldn't settle for fighting by himself, instead, it was dragging every man along. And now it was almost three months. Nothing has changed, only a slow stream of wounded that were unable to continue the fight. None of them ever brought news of him, though. It was as if he didn't exist, or as if he died... Though all those thoughts aside, each night she dreamed of him beside her, summer surrounding them; a new, bright, joyful dream every night, never repeating itself, and always continuing where it left - as if her real life was a dream that would pass at dawn as she fell asleep.

Of course, all that was said was true for other nights. This night, however, was different. There was no fog over the swamp, the silence, too, lifting itself from the surroundings. A strong wind blew across the landscape, dragging storm clouds through a dark and empty sky, occasionally ripping the shroud for the light of the moon to shine through. The wind howled in the chimney, knocked on the doors and the shutters, the wind was everywhere, wailing in the trees, throwing leaves across the yard and, occasionally, causing a few ripe droplets of rain drop from the skies.

She could feel it, the night was different. She never opened the book tonight, in fact, the thought had not even crossed her mind. All she did was gaze out of the window in sheer fascination. Watching the clouds, the raging treetops and the fleeing leaves. Suddenly, the storm subdued, the wind dying down, the silence once again enveloping the land. She slowly got up and walked to the door, opening it, hesitantly and carefully, then made a few still hesitant steps, with each step growing more assured - and made her way to the entrance to her yard, opening the gate and waiting by it.

She wasn't sure how long she had to wait, but suddenly - though not to her - there was movement just out of the reach of her eye. As she turned to better see what came towards her, a great lightning split the sky for the briefest of moments, followed by a deafening thunder - and once again, there was silence and darkness, faintly illuminated by the moon that peered out from behind the torn clouds. Faintly illuminating a man in worn, dirty clothes and dented and rusty armor. He looked pale, tired and ill, but it was him. He just stood there, looking at her silently, smiling.

Slowly, she walked up to him, quiet and careful, as though not to scare him away, or to break an illusion, then hesitantly reached for his hand. It was dreadfully cold, though whose hands wouldn't be on such a night? She beamed at the realization a moment later - his hand was real, and this wasn't a dream, for she knew it couldn't be. She tugged on his hand, urging him to step inside the house before the storm, and he slowly followed, clanking his armor and smelling faintly of autumn.



Commentary: A remake of my earliest work - this version has a lot of different things, though, and if I find the original, I will put it up for comparing. This version's main difference, however, is the lack of a clear end that I had in the original, only a hint at it. If one reads attentively enough.

Short story repost 1

Commentary: Since I'm not very happy with the spoiler nature of the name I originally posted this by, here's a repost of the old story. It's one of the few I can look at twice without wanting to completely rewrite it immediately.



Small provincial towns. The sort that have a pair of traffic lights in the center - and even those turn a blind yellow eye to the happenings on the dark streets after the bells of the local church ring nine. The kind of towns that band crowds of youth together. Not for festivities, though, and not even for any particular purpose at all - merely out of nothing better to do. And because of a strange, inexplicable fear. Fear of the dark. And of the things that dwell in its darkest corners.

It's all too easy to feel the touch of death in such a town in the middle of a July night. All you need is but think of it, and, sure enough, it will be there, running a chilled bony finger down your spine, whispering sweet and terrible words in your ears, chuckling at your fears, closing the circle around you.

It was on one of these nights that I met her. Standing beneath a tilted street lamp, looking lost and beautiful. Her pale face was painted yellow by the dim light and framed sharply by dark glossy hair - hair so long that I was not sure where it ended and the night began. As I walked closer, she lifted her eyes at me - eyes dark as the night around us and deep as the abyss. A small, shy smile greeted me, a smile I felt I could kill for - or die for. The world began to fade away, drowning in the deepening darkness. There was but her now, her standing in a puddle of light under the crooked lamp, the crickets singing us a serenade, and myself, feeling dumb-struck by sudden and instant love and paralyzed by a terrifying power of dread and foreboding. Silently, she made a step towards me and offered me her hand. I took it carefully, holding it as if she was made of glass or paper.

Together we walked through the silent, empty streets of the dead town, wading through the still air of the summer night. We wandered in the dark without saying a word, passing through the empty streets, parks and fields. Dogs barked in the distance, disturbed by something in the air - something alive, magnificent and horrendous, a giant entity hanging like a cloud over the small sleeping town.

I turned to look at my silent companion, meeting once more her calm, slightly sad smile. When I turned back to glance on the path before me, I saw that we were at a bridge. I didn't know what bridge this was - or that it was here at all, but it would not surprise me. We slowly walked to the middle and stopped, leaning against the railing and gazing down at the lazily moving river. She glanced at me and chuckled, a brief, sad laughter - more of an utterance of sorrow than joy, I thought. Then, with one brief, graceful movement she was atop the railing, looking down at me with her strange smile, waiting for something. So we stood for an eternity. Then, she turned away, leaning forward on her tip-toes and swooped down off the bridge like a great bird as I stood watching, and as I stood there, I felt the presence gone.

Every July since that night I wander the empty streets of provincial towns. Seeking her. Sometimes, I feel her whispering to me again, tickling my spine with her long, beautiful fingers. But as I turn around, she is gone, and I wander on alone.

Annual update

Going to clear out a bunch of stuff from the blog and repost another bunch of stuff. Possibly revive this whole thing again. Been long enough.

Right, let's see, where'd we leave off last? Ah yes, the military. Well, to hold people in suspense no longer, yes, I was indeed made a Corporal. On top of that, I actually received a reward, an honorable discharge and a mental/capability evaluation of 5/5 for everything except handling stressful situations (4/5). I guess it's a success of sorts, considering my actual mental state at the time, though it's intensely ironic as well. Best evaluation of the entire unit and possibly the whole battalion, go figure. Anyway, that's done.

What next? Getting back to work. Didn't take long to get a promotion (plus HR experience - my candidate got picked). Four months later, three more offices in our company are in love with my methods and I get called an IT guru in front of the customer. Me. The guy that can't code to save his life. Ah irony, all I wanted was to be a writer. Speaking of which, applied to Larian again, had a prolonged communication with samples with the company owner, got his Skype, but never called him to get hired. My people need me! Besides, that'd probably mean moving to Belgium, and if I'd have done that my life would probably still be normal.

Oh yeah, and I'm now staff writer/staff/moderator on RPG Codex. Time to die happy, I guess.



Overall, I can't really say it's been a particularly action-packed year until some time this spring.

Status update

Welp, it looks like I haven't written here for a while. It's been a turbulent couple of years, I guess. Significant changes since the last time:
- Single
- Diploma complete/awaiting final approval: Clichés in Genre Fantasy Literature
- Mock-up application to Larian Studios as a Writer/Designer trampled over by mandatory military service

I think I'll pause at that last bit for a while, or rather, pause at the last bit of the last bit. Yep - I've been drafted. In fact, in less than two months, I'll be un-drafted again and become a worthless civilian. What do I think of my time in the service? Let's see. I'll make a military-fashion list of items. Some might get wordy.

- Military satire by competent writers is correct. Hashek, Heller, Harrison, they all wrote about different periods of the 20th century, but damn if they aren't right. Sure, it's all hyperboles, but the amount of ridiculous, hilarious and pointless is indeed off the scale.

- People that claim that "military service clears your mind" clearly didn't need any clearing at all and probably lack a mind to begin with.

- Military is, in fact, an extended kindergarten that grows boys from the emotional age of six to the emotional age of eleven. Considering it takes them up to just about a year, that's quite an accomplishment.

- Sadly, this means the visit has been largely pointless for me. I'm already aged thirteen in the head.

- If I don't get Corporal by the end of my service, the only tangible thing I'll be carrying out with me will be a mild case of ulcer and a 1-liter flask that the storehouse doesn't want back. Amusing, considering they're fine with taking back the underpants.

- I'm apparently awesome as a scribe. Who'd have thunk it. This means I get to feel depressed about shoveling shitty jobs around to people that clearly deserve better. Oh, and putting on "shore leave" clothes 1 minute before the crew marches off for the bus because my royal presence is required at the office.

- Apparently speaking English ramps up my authority levels to appropriate levels. I guess not having to mumble while trying to figure out what the hell's supposed to come at the end of the words helps a lot. Shame I can't speak it all the time. That'd make my officers swoon, or, alternatively, be jealous.

- "Meet new friends" thing really works better if you're actually of the target demographic age. Then again, I'm being emotionally stumped and fairly uncaring about that bit anyway. Some nice people have been met, however. Perhaps they'll even be sad some fifty years later when my obituary shows up in the papers while they're still 70-years-young. For a moment, before dementia kicks in again.

- Still possible to meet amazing people in the army, even with my mild case of not giving a damn about anything. Never expected something like that from this place, though. Not now, not before, it's really a bit of a shock.

- As a hotel and restaurant chain, this place barely deserves one star.


This concludes my assorted thoughts on military service and the related experiences.

On a different topic, I need some topic/genre for a short story practice, ideas? No military satire please.

Blade Runner sketchbook

Finally, something nice.

Clicky for Blade Runner sketchbook.

The best thing in Skyrim

(To those not in on the joke - it's phonetically the same as this.)

A Quote

"Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away."

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I have a feeling that most people that try to be creative these days have never heard the phrase or had the concept cross their mind.

Kindle Surprise

After a one-year struggle of choosing a vendor and a model for a possible e-book reader, I've finally settled on an Amazon Kindle - a pretty neat piece of work that I have to admit I've instantly taken to liking.

However, as with just about anything that one's bound to like, there's an entire package of "buts" bundled with the associated item. This time, of course, it's the DRMs and the amazingly high e-book prices.

Now, some might already know of my disdain for the mentioned DRMs - to me, they're nothing but a waste of time and money for the publisher and developer of any type of software, as it takes just a fraction of effort for hackers to break their next generation of defense - and at the same time, legitimate customers end up being treated like dirt, which, admittedly, is not an attitude that I happen to enjoy. In any case, be it as it may, no sooner than I've got my Kindle, I've come across (thanks, Seagale) this lovely little article on publishers stiffing out the public libraries of funds for e-book usage.

As a TL;DR, some of the major book/e-book publishers are trying to impose various limitations on the number of use of e-books - as low as 26 in case of Harper-Collins - with a requirement to renew the purchase after the book has been read the said 26 times. Obviously, with the limited funding that public libraries get, this little scheme becomes quite taxing, and yet again, hits the segment of the population that the industry seems to have defaulted to the level of beggars and pocket thieves. Thanks, industry, students and the lower-middle/working class will remember you with gratitude!

Find your Bella!

Just because you always wanted to: