Dad

My dad died October 8th. How surreal is that? The last time I talked to him I called because I'd just seen a video of Bob Fosse in The Little Prince and realized Michael Jackson had stolen his moves. So much for any respect I had for him as an innovative dancer. But, I mean, how stupid is that? I always called to tell him stupid things like that. Any problems or more serious thoughts, I called mum because Dad was kind of homophobic and far too republican to understand. Of course that didn't always work out either as Mum is quite religious and I'm ... not. Christianity has too many plot holes and inconsistencies for me to go along with it blindly.

But I do believe in an afterlife. And that helps a little bit. Knowing how many people, loved and admired Dad helps. But everything is getting harder. Going to work and dealing with people. Talking to people. Even my family. Even the Brit. I just can't. I just want to curl up and hide, but I can't do that either. No one seems to want to allow it. They'd all get too worried.

I find myself mad about stupid things. Like the fact that every Youtube video has a political ad before it and it's all anyone can talk about. I just can't make myself care anymore. A client walked up to us yesterday and said, "I just heard beautiful news. Romney's gonna win." And I wanted to respond with, "Fuck Romney. Fuck Obama. Fuck you." No matter which president wins they're not going to bring back Dad. Or invent time travel. They can't even fix the stuff that's *not* impossible. It's all pointless now.

And this eighty-year-old guy yesterday felt the need to tell us about how his doctor gave him a clean bill of health and he'll probably live to be one hundred. Why is that fair? Why does he get to live when Dad's gone? That's such bullshit. And the guy is a complete dick and a letch. How is that fair?

I guess this is probably the anger stage of grief? But I think I was supposed to experience something else first. They say the stages don't actually come in any specific order and may take god knows how long. I'm not sure I ever want to get to acceptance. I'm not sure this is something I want to accept.

I'm trying to write. I'm trying Nanowrimo again. I have the start of an outline for a paranormal romance book. Haven't actually written anything. Actually, that's not true. That bit I posted about Juliette was kind of the jumping off point. Though it's changed since then. I meant to write today. I don't feel like it anymore. At least not that. The Brit and I are writing. But we're doing characters I don't really like so it almost feels like a chore. I didn't want to do this scene from her perspective, I wanted to do it elsewhere, but he's so stuck on his character that whenever she comes up I know I'm not going to get to do my stuff.

I've told him I don't want to talk about Dad, but he doesn't understand that it also means I can't deal with his problems either. I just can't deal with anything. And somehow I'm watching PS I Love You. It's a great movie. And I love Gerard Butler. But watching a movie about a man's death and his wife dealing with it is probably not my best move. Or maybe it is. Who knows.

And now I've run out of things to ramble about I think. I think I'll just curl up in a hole somewhere. A dark, deep hole.

Pageviews, Crafting, and Words, words, words

I got all excited to see that I had 21 pageviews today, and none of them were my own views! How awesome is that? Not very, I know. But it's still exciting.

Edit: Maybe I'm lying about pageviews. I'm confused...

I've been catching up on my Youtube stuff today. The Guild season 6 premiered last week, so I've been watching all their production videos. I adore Felicia Day. I want to be her best friend. Like, the first time I've ever wanted to use the term BFF. She is honestly the reason I got back into writing and reading. I wanted to read the books she was doing in Vaginal Fantasy, and more than anything I want to be one of the writers she talks about.

Anyway, [/endrant]...

 In one of those production videos one of their actors had a birthday. He turned 24. I felt useless. But! He's a only year younger than me! So, hey, that's not *too* bad. I just gotta get off my ass.

One of those production videos, they talked about how you just gotta start doing it. So I've decided (once again) to try. Maybe this is the time it'll stick.

So I'm going to stop sitting here eating cupcakes and dreaming and post a new blog. Mostly because I need to stop eating cupcakes.

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This is something I started writing a long time ago that I really liked the idea of and I really want to continue, but I need to scale the story down a little bit. It's overwhelming even to think about, much less try to explain or write. So, here you go! It's super short!
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“You know, soldier,” came a voice from the girl on the back of the horse, “you haven’t said one word to me. You could have kidnapped the wrong girl from the safety of her home.”

“I haven’t, Lady Charissa.” Growled the soldier.

“I’m not Lady Charissa. I demand that you let me go.” The soldier said nothing. It was several minutes before she spoke again. “How do you know who I am then, Feral.” He said nothing, but she saw him sit up a bit straighter in a bit of shock. “I can see your hands holding the reigns. The markings on your right hand are very specific. A fox if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken.” He said in a dark voice.

“I didn’t mean to offend, soldier.” She said quietly. “The others made themselves known in the town asking about me. No one but the queen is supposed to know the way I look. How did you know who I was?”

The man didn’t speak for a long time. When they arrived at the next village he stopped the horse and stepped down then lifted her into his arms. Bound the way she was, she was unable to walk. He nodded to the innkeeper inside, showed him his army credentials and carried her up the stairs to her room. He laid her on the bed and for the first time she looked at his face. His brilliant red eyes shown underneath his hood. He removed his hood and showed his short black hair and chiseled features. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and swallowed tightly.

“We’ve met, haven’t we, Soldier.”

“I’ll go down and get you some food. I’ll untie your hands so you can eat. You’ll get some sleep.”

He left then, pulling his hood back up around his head and went to the dining room. He returned quickly to find the girl trying to untie her bonds. She looked up at him innocently as he placed a tray of food on the table beside the bed. He knelt and began untying her hands for her. As he worked at the knots he spoke in a quiet voice.

“When you were very young, a group of specters kidnapped you. They took you to one of their encampments on the east bank of the Coria River. They kept you there for two years before deciding that you were not the person they wanted. Your pendant of dawn would do nothing for them. They decided to have you executed. It was their way. The fox they sent to murder you seemed to take pity. He took-“ With an exasperated sigh Charissa cut in.

“Soldier. I know the story. I was there, you know.”

Work in Progress

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Started this tonight. Paranormal Romance. Not sure about her name. May change it. Already have a Juliet elsewhere. May also change to first person. Not sure, want to go from his head as well, so probably not. Also may remove the fictional town. Feels like cheating. Just have the mom live in Phoenix.

  ----

Juliette gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Why didn’t she leave as soon as she got the first call? Was the test in her literature class really so important? So important she couldn’t gone home when she got the call? Aunt Erin had called on Monday and asked her to come home as soon as possible, said that her mom was very, very sick. Juliette had passed it off as Erin being an extremist of sorts and had said she would come on Friday after her classes. Now it was Wednesday and Erin had called again to say that her mom had gotten worse and the hospital had flown her to Phoenix because they could do nothing more for her in Tunsen.

Tunsen was her hometown. A strange place by any standard. It had been founded under the guise of yet another Arizona mining town by her great-great however many times great grandfather back in the eighteen hundreds. Now it boasted a population of less than two thousand. The closest town was two hours away,  Not that anyone in town remembered or cared that her family were the descendants of Oliver Tunsen. Her mother, Sarah, had been the younger of two daughters of the last Tunsen, and much to Grandpa Tunsen’s chagrin, she had indeed chosen to change her name when she married Jasper Harris. Jasper. Dad. He was a whole different story. She wondered if anyone had called him. She hoped not.

She shook her head to banish thoughts of him. That was the last place she needed to go. She pushed the accelerator down and sped her Jeep around a little Toyota that decided the speed limit really was a limit. Couldn’t they see they were the only one on the entire freeway actually going seventy-five? Didn’t they know she had to get to the hospital?

And she knew she was being unreasonable. But her mum was in the hospital. She wasn’t waking up, Erin said. And they didn’t know what was wrong. She wasn’t surprised Tunsen Medical Center couldn’t help. Since she moved down to Tucson she had realized that Tunsen Hospital shouldn’t even be considered a hospital. You could get a flu shot and they could set a bone or stitch a cut. If you were brave, you could have a baby there, but pray nothing goes wrong because you’ll have to be flown to Phoenix. They just weren’t equipped for anything like that. They didn’t even have an operating room. Hopefully the doctors in Phoenix had a better idea of what was going on.

She squeezed the steering wheel even tighter, her knuckles pale, and glanced up at the exit signs. She couldn’t remember the exit number, but she knew it was 7^th Street. She still hated the freeway after being out of Tunsen for four years, she was so accustomed to its smaller streets and lighter traffic. She let out a panicked caw when she saw it was the next exit, and weaved her Jeep over into the far right lane then onto the onramp, earning her plenty of honks and angry gestures.

Soon she arrived at Good Samaritan Hospital. She’d been here once before when Grandpa Tunsen died. She was only twelve then and thought the tall white building looked like something out of an alien movie. Looking at it now, ten years later, she still had the same impression. Inside it didn’t take her long to find Erin. She was shouting at a nurse about how her sister needed silk sheets.

“Erin,” she called as she came near and the older woman’s head popped up, her anger dissolving into tears. The woman had mood swings like Juliette had never seen in anyone else.

“Julie, baby,” she called, brushing a hand through her pixie short gray hair. She had a streak of hair at her temple dyed pink now, last time Juliette had seen her it was green. She hurried over and pulled Juliette into a hug, hunching over to do it. Erin was built like Grandma, tall and spindly, almost scrawny but never gaining any weight no matter how many cupcakes they ate.

“What’s going on?” she asked, pulling gently from Erin’s arms.

Just like that Erin brushed the tears from her cheeks and her anger was back. She turned her glaring eyes back to the nurse. “I was trying to explain to this nurse that my sister needs better sheets. Silk. Or Satin.”

“Mom doesn’t need silk sheets.” She smiled at the nurse, a cute girl with an upturned nose and curly hair wearing blue scrubs like she’d seen on everyone else. “Thank you.”

Aunt Erin had married Victor Dawson who owned a chain of restaurants throughout the country. And somehow he ended up choosing Tunsen, Arizona to build his mansion retreat in the woods of the White Mountains. Completely random to her, but Tunsen seemed to have that kind of draw. But since then, Erin had gone from living in the rundown condo with the leaky roof that Juliette remembered from her childhood, to Dawson Manor. Juliette had hated staying with her there. She got lost in the massive mansion.

“She deserves silk sheets.”

“She doesn’t even like silk sheets, Aunt Erin,” she muttered, rubbing her hands on her face. “Where is she?”

Erin led her to the room nearby. A heart monitor beeped and kept track of her vital signs, the numbers didn’t mean anything to her, though. Her mother lay on the bed, tucked into crisp white sheets. She was pale, her normally glowing complexion ashen. Her chestnut hair peppered with gray strands fanned across the pillow case. She brushed her hands through her own dark brown curls and slumped into the chair beside the bed.

“What’s wrong with her?” she breathed weakly.

“She has a fever that just keeps going up. She had been coughing all the time, then she starting throwing up. Then her speech was slurred and she couldn’t walk straight, like she was drunk, falling over. It all happened so fast. She passed out and I couldn’t wake her up, I took her to the hospital and they flew her here pretty quickly.”

Juliette nodded weakly and took her mom’s hand. Her skin was too warm and clammy.

“Victor is contacting doctors all around the country and flying out whoever he can.” Erin rubbed her shoulder. “I called your father.”

Juliette flinched and shrugged her hand off unthinkingly. “Why?”

“They were married for twenty years, Julie.”

“What did he say?” she asked, already suspecting the answer.

“He hung up.”

Juliette snorted. “Figures.”

“Julie,” she began but Juliette waved her hand.

“I just want to sit with mom and not think about him. Please.”

Her aunt nodded a bit and rubbed her shoulder again before walking out of the room.

Juliette sighed, leaning forward to put her arms on the mattress, folding them to pillow her head and keep hold of her mom’s hand. “I’m here. I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry. Please wake up. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll stop fighting. Just wake up.” She pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I’ll move back to Tunsen, learn the magic. Whatever. You just have to wake up.”

----

Lyric the Djinn

Lyric’s world exploded in colors and sounds and sensations. She quickly formed a body around her essence. Tan skin, deep auburn hair, and chocolate brown eyes. Chocolate. Chocolate sounded amazing. Maybe she could get this master to give her chocolate before they started spouting off wishes. They obviously didn’t have a clue what she was, no preconceived notions about genies forming her appearance straight out of the bottle.

Clothes before chocolate. She wrapped a loose shirt and pair of trousers around her body. It was men’s clothing from her own time. She smirked as a pair of boots covered her feet and she touched down on the ground. Once upon a time her father would have hit her for wearing it. But he was long since gone, and it was something familiar and comforting to wear something from her own time. The last time she’d gotten out of her bottle, she was told she looked like Robin Hood’s merry lady. She still wasn’t sure what it meant.

She had no idea how long she had been confined to the dark, lifeless dimension “inside” her bottle. And now it all came rushing back. The smell of smoke, tobacco smoke specifically, filled her nose. A dim room, lit only by a few lights on the walls. Dark wood walls and wood floors, tables scattered around and a long bar with stools. Music, unlike any she’d heard before played from a small metal box on the bar. She approached it slowly, eyeing it curiously. A man’s voice crooned over the sound of unfamiliar instruments.

She reached forward to examine it, take it apart and find the tiny little man that must be inside when a bottle crashed behind her. She spun around to see him standing there. She knew him instantly, just as she did all her masters. Giaccomo Rossi. Jack. First generation American. His parents came over from Italy and he was born here just after. America. The New World. She’d always wanted to come here. Maybe he’d let her see the outside world. She idly stared into his green eyes and traced his family history back. Often she could find a common line between them, but she’d only found herself in Italy once or twice.

Jack had dropped a bottle of liquor, staring at her now in shock. She had appeared out of nowhere, of course he’d be shocked. It made sense.

“Hello, master. May I call you Giaccomo? Much nicer than Jack. Do you have chocolate? It has been so long since I’ve had chocolate!”

She laughed brightly and opened up her senses. She could smell the liquor he’d spilt, not a far cry from the ale they used to drink in the seaside towns. She opened her arms wide, spinning as she took in the smells and sounds of this new world. Djinn senses were so much stronger than a humans. Mortals live on this world, while djinn are a part of it.

“Who are you?” He asked nervously. “How did you get in here?”

“What year is it?” She asked moving back to the singing man in the box. “The last time I was let out it was… 1922? I believe…”

“It’s 1968… What do you mean let out?” He frowned deeper. “Who are you?”

“Forty-six years. Nearly a lifetime.” She sighed.

“Who are you?”

She tensed. That was three times. Djinn worked under rules of three. Three wishes. Three repetitions for the binding spell. And three questions. Ask a direct question three times and a djinn must answer, whether you are their master or not.

She clenched her jaw. It started like pins and needles through her blood. But it grew quickly. She knew she had to answer, but she hated being forced like this. That was the curse of the djinn. She wondered what free will truly felt like. The pain increased and she knew soon she’d barely be able to gasp in a breath to answer.

“I am your djinn, master.”

“My gin? Like, gin and tonic? That don’t make no sense, lady.”

“Djinn. Commonly known as a genie.”

“A genie? Like… lamps and three wishes?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “You get three wishes. But it is a bottle, not a lamp.”

She scanned the bottles of liquor he kept behind the bar, finding hers nestled amongst the others, looking distinctly out of place. Small, cloudy glass. Uneven shape, hand blown. All bottles djinn were tied to were enchanted to make people want to pick them up. Want to open them.

She pointed at her bottle. “That one. That’s mine.”

James glanced at it, then back at her. “You’re crazy. How did you get in here?”

Two times for that question.

She sighed. “Three wishes. You may wish for anything with a few exceptions. I cannot kill mortals, I cannot raise the dead, I cannot make anyone fall in love with another person – or animal, do not try that – I cannot grant you more wishes, nor can I grant you eternal life. Though I do not know why anyone would ask or such a thing. If they truly understood what it meant they would not.”

“Why did you have to come into my bar, crazy lady? We’re not even open, the door is locked, how did you get in here?”

Three times. She didn’t wait even for the pins and needles this time. There was no point in finding it. “In my bottle. Someone brought it in here. And you opened it and here I am. Three wishes you get. But… first… Please may I have some chocolate, master?” She asked again.

“Fine. Here. My mama baked me cookies.” He set a plate of baked goods on the bar and backed away from her toward  the front entrance. While she plucked a cookie off the top, he checked the lock on the door. Still locked, of course it was.

She took a bite and the doughy morsel exploded in her mouth. Sweet and fine, dark chocolate chips that melted in her mouth. She could trace the cacao beans back to their origin, if she wished. But no, she would rather enjoy the taste in the present. She closed her eyes on the second bite, moaning indecently. So good.

“Why are you doing this?”

“A better question, my friend, is why are you not taking advantage of it?” She asked. “I have offered you three wishes, nearly limitless in possibilities. And you worry more about the state of your locks?”

“Fine, prove your story to me.” He said, folding his arms.

“You wish for a display of magic. Simple.” She waltzed around the room, deciding she liked this new music. She found what she was looking for, a picture of a woman in what she hoped was today’s fashion. She liked it. A boxy little sleeveless dress in bright blue, boots to her knees in white leather and little white gloves up to her wrists. While her clothes morphed, she changed her hair. Finding a short little cut on a picture of someone named Mia Farrow, her hair shortened quickly, cropped close to her scalp and a lighter colour now.

She smiled back over at her master. He was across the room, staring wide eyed at her. Her smile widened into a grin and she popped the body out of existence, reforming it behind him.

“Do you approve, master?”

He stared at her a while longer. “Three wishes?”

“Yes, master. Three wishes.”

His wishes were simple and he barely paused to think about them. Wealth, and a handsome face. She considered teaching him about the consequences of selfishness and vanity. She knew other djinn who killed off  beloved relatives and left their masters untold sums of wealth. She even knew of a djinn who when his master wished for him to “change his face” with no specifics, set his face on fire, leaving it scarred for life. She didn’t think she could be that cruel, she didn’t have it in her. Never had.

She didn’t teach him the consequences. She created a locked box that would never be empty, always full of the currency of the time and land he was in. And gently molded his features, turning his rather aquiline into something smaller and much straight, made his lips fuller, the kind even she would like to kiss, and gave him dark wavy locks that any woman would want to run their fingers through.

He set at a table to contemplate his third wish. “What happens to you? When you grant my third wish?”

She glanced at him, frowning lightly. “It matters not. Please hurry, master.”

“It does matter. What happens?”

Twice. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re a living, breathing person.”

“Yes. And I have been for seven hundred years. I move from master to master, wherever my bottle takes me. It should be of no consequence to you.”

“But what happens?!” Three times. “What happens in between masters?”

She clenched her jaw, needles filling her veins. She didn’t want to answer. She did not want to guilt him into anything. Many of her kind were bitter tricksters by her age. But she couldn’t do it. Mortals didn’t know any better, it wasn’t their fault.

“I go back into the bottle.” She gasped when the pain became too much. Then she stared into him and the words poured out of her mouth. “A dark, lifeless prison. Alone with the passing of time and only my own thoughts and dreams. No sound, no light, no sensation. Nothing. I do not exist within the bottle.”

“Oh.” He said simply, seeming truly upset about it. “What is your name?” He asked after a long silence.

“Whatever my master wishes it to be.” She responded honestly.

“But what do you call yourself.”

She stared at him another moment. “Lyric.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why does that amuse you?”

“It’s just… a word, not a name.”

“It is a name I chose for myself when I was changed. I had aspirations as a… troubadour, I suppose in that time.”

“Changed?”

“Djinn are not born, master. We are changed.”

“From what?”

“Mortals. Humans. One of you.”

“So is it like… When you die or something you can be a genie instead of an angel?”

“No. Becoming a djinn is usually a curse, or a misguided blessing. It deals heavily in difficult magic. A witch may curse a person into a life of servitude. Others think they are blessing the other with eternal life and youth, incomprehensible power… But they do not think about the way our free will is taken away and bound to that of whoever holds our bottle.” She sighed, staring out the window at an unfamiliar world and wishing she could return to hers. “And sometimes it is a desperate act by another djinn, to save a dying human.”

“Oh.” He repeated, just as sadly as before.

“Do you have your last wish, master?”

“I wish…”

He looked at her, something strange in his eyes and she swelled with hope. Perhaps this improbable candidate would wish her free. Or even break her bottle and free her entirely… Was it possible?

“I wish … that this place, my bar… I wish everyone in the city wanted to come here.”

She stared at him a long moment, almost incredulously. Then closed her eyes, sending out a pulse of thought throughout the limits of the city. The thought was simple go to Jack’s Place. Then she sent out another pulse. This one telling them they wanted to come here to drink and have fun, and not care what happened to the bar in the meantime. No one would understand why they suddenly had no care for his property, but she hoped it would be up in flames by the end of the night.

She’d never done anything like that before. Never used her powers against the mortals. In all her hundreds of years… Gods, it felt satisfying.

“Goodbye Giaccomo. You will need luck. Perhaps you should have wished for that instead.” She said before blinking out of his plane of existence and back into darkness. Who knew how long it would be this time? She settled into the darkness.

At least she’d gotten chocolate.

---

Lyric didn’t know how long it had been when the world opened again, this time truly exploding. She felt the link between her bottle and her essence shatter and she stood in the ruins of Jack’s Place, staring down at the shards of her bottle at Giaccomo’s feet, his face full of fury. A long jagged cut ran down his face marring the work she’d done reshaping it.

“You bitch! You destroyed it! They stole the box! It’s your fault!” He shouted at her.

She couldn’t help it, in the face of his rage, she laughed brightly, letting in the essence of the world around her. “Oh, Giaccomo! You did it after all! You freed me!” She cawed.

He snarled and lunged at her, she made herself intangible and he went right through her. “What do you mean?”

“You broke the bottle. That frees me from this life!” She twirled around, her arms open wide. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

“You’re free? What do you mean?” Twice. “You’re my genie!”

“Was. Was your djinn. Now I have no master. No bottle. Nothing!”

“I don’t understand.” She realized then that he was drunk and probably truly didn’t understand what she was talking about. Still he asked a third time. “What do you mean?”

She thought without a master the pain wouldn’t come. That she was free from the rules. But when the needles starting rafting through her veins again she knew that she would never be completely rid of them.

“When you break a djinn’s bottle, it frees them. Unless some witch binds us to a new bottle.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But they’d have to find me to do that.”

She lifted herself off the ground, using the energies around her to keep her afloat as she grinned down at him. “Goodbye, Giaccomo. And for freeing me… Even if you hoped to kill me…”

She waved a hand and the money box she’d created for him appeared in his hands. She felt the drain on her powers now. With a master that would be a parlor trick. She’d have to learn her new limits. She would have so many new things to learn. Wonderful. So wonderful!