Here's the restored portion of the cathedral. Note gold tabernacle.
Since it's east-facing, like all churches worth their salt, the sunrise shows through the window.
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Speaking of Minecraft
As previously mentioned, St. John Notch has been rescued via the use of a level editor. The details were that I recreated the level with the same seed, then copied and pasted the cathedral and surrounding grounds into the new version, then rebuilt the missing portion. The Crafting Murloc also joined me to help complete it.
Here's the restored portion of the cathedral. Note gold tabernacle.
Since it's east-facing, like all churches worth their salt, the sunrise shows through the window.
Here's the restored portion of the cathedral. Note gold tabernacle.
Since it's east-facing, like all churches worth their salt, the sunrise shows through the window.
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Joy of Suffering
The steeple of the town church was just barely visible over the horizon, about five miles away. That was as far as Giuseppe was allowed to venture on his own. He stopped in the middle of the dirt road, staring out towards the hills beyond, and waited.
The first sun had set a little over three hours ago, and now the second one, further and dimmer, was dipping ever closer to the horizon. A cold wind was blowing from the south, stirring the fields of dry grass and making them look for all the worlds like a beige ocean, waves crashing and white caps shimmering in the waning light. The air was pregnant with the smell of straw.
A shiver caught Giuseppe off-guard. Now that he had stopped, he was beginning to cool off. The antarctic breeze made the small rivulets of sweat feel as if they would freeze to his skin.
The wind carried with it the deep bong of the church bell, sounding the evening Angelus. Giuseppe turned around to look.
You could go back, a whispering voice as cold and subtle as the wind said to him. Papa would understand.Read the rest here.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Brothers
Because, apparently, it isn't Lent unless I've written a short story.
Read the rest here.
You know in the holos, when the good guy finally catches up with the bad guy and winds up to deliver a solid blow right to the bad guy’s kisser? You know what they never show in those movies? How much belting the bad guy hurts.
That was the first thing I noticed after I sent my brother reeling backwards. Dadgum, my fist stung like it had been slammed in the door of dad’s hovercar.
“What the heck was that for, John?” my brother screamed, blood trickling from his mouth, trying to act all innocent-like.
“You know perfectly well, James!” I screamed back, trying to ignore the pain in my hand.
“Like spit, I do! I’m not some Tellurian mind-reader.”
I scowled at him, as if the look could bore a hole through his head. “Mary,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not hung up about that, are ya? What’s the big deal?”
I lunged for him, but didn’t catch him off guard, like the first time. He blocked my jab, but I caught him with my left hook. He stumbled to the ground, and now both my fists hurt like the dickens.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Quick Takes (whatever day I finally post this)
...and I'm sick once again. I should just schedule blogger to auto-post an "I'm sick" post about once a month. It would probably be right most of the time.
The entire family is dying of the Lung Crud. This time, Anthony was patient zero, and I followed shortly after. Odd, though, that Anthony got sick on Friday, when he hadn't been out of the house since the previous Sunday. How are these germs getting in?
#
Stations of the cross have been particularly penitential this Lent. I have somehow managed to always end up in front of a family who follows along at their own pace, disregarding the tempo set by Father when intoning the Stabat Mater, and who somehow always end up out of sync with the entire rest of the congregation when reading the other parts. It is a special kind of hell, when you are trying to sing or read and someone else is speaking right in your ear at a completely different speed. It's akin to the torture room described by C.S Lewis in That Hideous Strength, which had patterns of dots on the ceiling and floor, which didn't quite line up. It seems designed to break down your will.
I wonder of the CIA has ever tried that as an "enhanced interrogation technique". That or smearing potential terrorists' backs with bacon grease, waiting a couple days, then popping any back pimples that form. Cause gorram that would make me talk in a hurry.
#
The entire family is dying of the Lung Crud. This time, Anthony was patient zero, and I followed shortly after. Odd, though, that Anthony got sick on Friday, when he hadn't been out of the house since the previous Sunday. How are these germs getting in?
#
Stations of the cross have been particularly penitential this Lent. I have somehow managed to always end up in front of a family who follows along at their own pace, disregarding the tempo set by Father when intoning the Stabat Mater, and who somehow always end up out of sync with the entire rest of the congregation when reading the other parts. It is a special kind of hell, when you are trying to sing or read and someone else is speaking right in your ear at a completely different speed. It's akin to the torture room described by C.S Lewis in That Hideous Strength, which had patterns of dots on the ceiling and floor, which didn't quite line up. It seems designed to break down your will.
I wonder of the CIA has ever tried that as an "enhanced interrogation technique". That or smearing potential terrorists' backs with bacon grease, waiting a couple days, then popping any back pimples that form. Cause gorram that would make me talk in a hurry.
#
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
What Do You Make of the World?
In which I plow ahead, forcing myself to write a short story, not because I think it's good, or interesting, or even because I enjoy it, but because if I'm going to start something, then, gorammit, I'm going to finish it even if it kills me.
I’ll never forget my first day at the Academy.
“The world,” began Professor Sullivan, “is what you make of it.”
The elderly doctor leaned on the podium. It bobbed up and down as the anti-gravity thrusters adjusted to the meager weight of his wiry frame. His eyes swept over the attentive audience--my classmates and myself--drinking us in. And we were eager to be drunk on his words.
“The world,” began Professor Sullivan, “is what you make of it.”
The elderly doctor leaned on the podium. It bobbed up and down as the anti-gravity thrusters adjusted to the meager weight of his wiry frame. His eyes swept over the attentive audience--my classmates and myself--drinking us in. And we were eager to be drunk on his words.
He turned to the screen behind him and, with a sweeping gesture of his hand, wiped a static image of the world into existence. The orb was crudely drawn, jagged lines cordoning off areas of flat-shaded blue and green.
“Centuries ago, this is how we saw the world: fixed and unchangeable. Mankind was the slave of relentless and ineffable powers, over which he had no control, or means to keep them at bay.”
He folded his arms behind his back and turned towards the image. The profile of his dimly lit face was overcome with concern. “Those were dark times.”
He waved his hand across the board once more and the image changed again. The jagged lines smoothed into curves and the flat hues blended into an infinity of shades.
“But in the midst of these dark ages,” the professor continued, “came some remarkable minds. Minds who were able to master the laws of nature. Minds that saw the malleability of the universe and thus opened themselves to a world of amazing new possibilities.”
He turned back to us, a glimmer in his eye and a mischievous grin on his face. “But even they were held back by their shackles to the old way of thinking: that there were some absolutes which mankind simply could not overcome.”
Behind him, the world expanded and contracted. Bulges formed and crept under the surface, as if some great mass was trying to burst forth.
“Centuries ago, this is how we saw the world: fixed and unchangeable. Mankind was the slave of relentless and ineffable powers, over which he had no control, or means to keep them at bay.”
He folded his arms behind his back and turned towards the image. The profile of his dimly lit face was overcome with concern. “Those were dark times.”
He waved his hand across the board once more and the image changed again. The jagged lines smoothed into curves and the flat hues blended into an infinity of shades.
“But in the midst of these dark ages,” the professor continued, “came some remarkable minds. Minds who were able to master the laws of nature. Minds that saw the malleability of the universe and thus opened themselves to a world of amazing new possibilities.”
He turned back to us, a glimmer in his eye and a mischievous grin on his face. “But even they were held back by their shackles to the old way of thinking: that there were some absolutes which mankind simply could not overcome.”
Behind him, the world expanded and contracted. Bulges formed and crept under the surface, as if some great mass was trying to burst forth.
“It was only at the turn of the last century that the wisest of the wise finally stumbled onto that great, liberating truth that freed humanity forever, to be the master of nature, instead of her slave.”
The world changed colors, from blue to red to violet, then shapes, from a sphere to a cube, to a flower. The light show grew in intensity and vibrancy, shining through the professor’s wispy-white hair, finally becoming a fiery explosion, a flaming wreath around his face, which was darkened by shadow. He was a terrifying sight to behold.
“Centuries of human progress were poured into discovering this truth. It represents the sum total achievement of all knowledge.”
He held out his hand and the flaming rose jumped into it, burning itself into ashes. The light vanished with the flames and the room was darkened, save for a single shaft shining through an open window behind us which illuminated his open hand. He stood motionless. The room was dead silent.
The ashes began to stir. They crawled around in a circle on his hand, moving faster and faster, until they became a tiny cyclone. From the midst of the whirlwind, a dove burst forth and flew over our heads. We gasped and turned to follow its path out of the window.
The professor spoke slowly and clearly. “The world is what you make of it.” He smiled and looked at the moment no different than any other kindly old gentleman. Once more, his eyes washed over us.
“Now it is up to you, the greatest minds of your generation, to use this truth. Make the world into something greater.”
The world changed colors, from blue to red to violet, then shapes, from a sphere to a cube, to a flower. The light show grew in intensity and vibrancy, shining through the professor’s wispy-white hair, finally becoming a fiery explosion, a flaming wreath around his face, which was darkened by shadow. He was a terrifying sight to behold.
“Centuries of human progress were poured into discovering this truth. It represents the sum total achievement of all knowledge.”
He held out his hand and the flaming rose jumped into it, burning itself into ashes. The light vanished with the flames and the room was darkened, save for a single shaft shining through an open window behind us which illuminated his open hand. He stood motionless. The room was dead silent.
The ashes began to stir. They crawled around in a circle on his hand, moving faster and faster, until they became a tiny cyclone. From the midst of the whirlwind, a dove burst forth and flew over our heads. We gasped and turned to follow its path out of the window.
The professor spoke slowly and clearly. “The world is what you make of it.” He smiled and looked at the moment no different than any other kindly old gentleman. Once more, his eyes washed over us.
“Now it is up to you, the greatest minds of your generation, to use this truth. Make the world into something greater.”
# # #
For those of you keeping score at home, I started writing this story over two years ago, about the time I made this blog post. The story was originally called "Delusions of Reality" and was going to be about a boy at an academy who learned to "change the world" by make-believing it was something else, until he realized that it was all make-believe and nothing ever changed. I realized this was dumb and stupid and violated the cardinal rule of story-writing: the artist serves the muse, not the agenda. But, I still liked the conceit and the twist at the end, and reworked it.
Bonus points to those who get the references. Certain persons who did their theses on Fermat should get a few of them.
As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Wrong Side
“This project is moving forward. It’s going to happen. At this point, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop it.”
Marcus Marcellus regarded the pronouncement from the rotund man on the other side of the faux-mahogany desk with bemusement. He hid his smile, and thought of all the times he’d heard something similar.
His conversational partner, William Porter, took a long draught from the black cigar in his mouth and blew smoke from his nose like a dragon warming up to breathe flame at an unsuspecting knight. A dragon that had perhaps become slothful and old sitting atop his hoard of gold.
“I don’t mean to stop it,” Marcellus replied. “I only want to suggest that a solution may be reached that serves both my clients and yours.”
This time, it was Porter’s turn for bemusement. His lips curled and he let out a sort of coughing laugh, with little pockets of smoke escaping between the chortles.
Porter turned his chair and made a sweeping gesture towards the picture window behind him. Marcellus could see the crescent of the planet Cephas--its sun, Vega, illuminating it from behind.
“If your clients are served by getting off my clients’ planet, then yes, I agree.”
Marcellus ignored the snipe and pulled a packet from his briefcase, setting it on the desk. “We can offer to pay, not all at once, but the settlers are willing to enter into a deal to repay--with interest--over the next seventy-five years.”
Porter did his dragon impression again, blowing smoke from his nose without even looking at the packet. “Mister Marcellus, terraforming is a very expensive proposition, one that requires a significant up-front investment. My clients can’t wait a lifetime for repayment, and I seriously doubt the squatters will still be around in three-quarters of a century. I certainly won’t be. You’ll probably be long gone, too.”
Again, Marcellus hid his smile.
“I’m afraid your colonists will either need to pay now, or move.”
“Off their own land?”
“Yes, off their own land. The Interstellar Court has ruled, and upheld their ruling in multiple cases, that those who benefit from terraforming must pay fair compensation. Those who refuse can be evicted. Surely you know this.”
Marcellus looked down at his shoes. He had only one more gamble, and it was a long shot. “Then I can make one more offer,” he said.
“Yes? What is it?”
“They would like to invite you for dinner.”
Porter guffawed. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner. Then maybe you’ll see these people as just that--people. They’re honest. They’re hard-workers. They don’t deserve to be treated like cattle.”
The guffaw changed into a full belly-laugh when he realized that Marcellus was serious. Marcellus wasn’t sure how much of his plea Porter heard through the howling. Eventually, the larger man calmed down, removed his spectacles, and wiped his eyes, glistening with the tears of laughter.
“I thank you for the joke, Mister Marcellus, but I decline the pathetic offer. I must say I find the idea of dinner with these peasants revolting. What are they? Polaks? Latins? Israelis? Christians and Jews, the lot of them. No, Mister Marcellus, I’ve had my fill of their type. The leeches of society. The beggars. Those who demand help from others while producing nothing of value themselves.”
“I’m sorry you see them that way. If you could just spend some time with them as I have, it might change your mind.”
Like flipping a switch, Porter turned from mirthful to serious. “I doubt it. Tell the gypsies and robbers who hired you to pay their dues or leave.”
Marcellus nodded and reached for his briefcase. “Then I thank you for your time, Mister Porter,” he said, turning for the passageway to the shuttle back down to the planet.
“And Mister Marcellus,” Porter called out.
Marcellus turned back.
“A word of advice: you should give up working pro bono for those lowlifes. I think you’ll find your idealism quickly puts you on the wrong side of history.”
Marcus Marcellus regarded the pronouncement from the rotund man on the other side of the faux-mahogany desk with bemusement. He hid his smile, and thought of all the times he’d heard something similar.
His conversational partner, William Porter, took a long draught from the black cigar in his mouth and blew smoke from his nose like a dragon warming up to breathe flame at an unsuspecting knight. A dragon that had perhaps become slothful and old sitting atop his hoard of gold.
“I don’t mean to stop it,” Marcellus replied. “I only want to suggest that a solution may be reached that serves both my clients and yours.”
This time, it was Porter’s turn for bemusement. His lips curled and he let out a sort of coughing laugh, with little pockets of smoke escaping between the chortles.
Porter turned his chair and made a sweeping gesture towards the picture window behind him. Marcellus could see the crescent of the planet Cephas--its sun, Vega, illuminating it from behind.
“If your clients are served by getting off my clients’ planet, then yes, I agree.”
Marcellus ignored the snipe and pulled a packet from his briefcase, setting it on the desk. “We can offer to pay, not all at once, but the settlers are willing to enter into a deal to repay--with interest--over the next seventy-five years.”
Porter did his dragon impression again, blowing smoke from his nose without even looking at the packet. “Mister Marcellus, terraforming is a very expensive proposition, one that requires a significant up-front investment. My clients can’t wait a lifetime for repayment, and I seriously doubt the squatters will still be around in three-quarters of a century. I certainly won’t be. You’ll probably be long gone, too.”
Again, Marcellus hid his smile.
“I’m afraid your colonists will either need to pay now, or move.”
“Off their own land?”
“Yes, off their own land. The Interstellar Court has ruled, and upheld their ruling in multiple cases, that those who benefit from terraforming must pay fair compensation. Those who refuse can be evicted. Surely you know this.”
Marcellus looked down at his shoes. He had only one more gamble, and it was a long shot. “Then I can make one more offer,” he said.
“Yes? What is it?”
“They would like to invite you for dinner.”
Porter guffawed. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner. Then maybe you’ll see these people as just that--people. They’re honest. They’re hard-workers. They don’t deserve to be treated like cattle.”
The guffaw changed into a full belly-laugh when he realized that Marcellus was serious. Marcellus wasn’t sure how much of his plea Porter heard through the howling. Eventually, the larger man calmed down, removed his spectacles, and wiped his eyes, glistening with the tears of laughter.
“I thank you for the joke, Mister Marcellus, but I decline the pathetic offer. I must say I find the idea of dinner with these peasants revolting. What are they? Polaks? Latins? Israelis? Christians and Jews, the lot of them. No, Mister Marcellus, I’ve had my fill of their type. The leeches of society. The beggars. Those who demand help from others while producing nothing of value themselves.”
“I’m sorry you see them that way. If you could just spend some time with them as I have, it might change your mind.”
Like flipping a switch, Porter turned from mirthful to serious. “I doubt it. Tell the gypsies and robbers who hired you to pay their dues or leave.”
Marcellus nodded and reached for his briefcase. “Then I thank you for your time, Mister Porter,” he said, turning for the passageway to the shuttle back down to the planet.
“And Mister Marcellus,” Porter called out.
Marcellus turned back.
“A word of advice: you should give up working pro bono for those lowlifes. I think you’ll find your idealism quickly puts you on the wrong side of history.”
Read the rest here.
As always, constructive criticism welcome.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Choose Your Own April Fool's Day Joke
It's early in the morning and you're bleary-eyed and groggy. Sitting down at your computer with a fresh cup of coffee, you open your web browsing gadget thingy (which is Google Chrome, if you're any kind of cool) and navigate to F.U. News.
Boldly proclaimed in big letters at the top of the page is an exciting new story! It says:
If the story says "The Murloc is Pragnent (Again)," go to Pregnant.
If the story says "Space Pirates Gets Published," go to Pirates.
If the story says "Joe Dies in Fiery Auto Accident," go to Gruesome Demise.
Pregnant:
"Ohmigosh!" you scream, running to the phone. You dial Rie's number.
"Hello?" I tired-sounding voice answers.
"Congratulations!" you yell.
"For what?"
"For being pregnant!"
"I am?" the Murloc answers.
"Aren't you? Joe posted on his blog...." You look down to the calendar on your desk, and notice the date. "Oh, April Fools," you mutter.
If you find the joke funny, go to Funny.
If you feel embarrassed, go to Embarrassed.
Pirates:
"Ohmigosh!" you scream, running to the phone. You dial Joe's number.
"Hello?" a suave, soothing voice answers.
"Congratulations!" you yell.
"For what?"
"For getting published!"
You here Joe snickering on the other end of the line. "April Fools!" he shouts.
For other April Fool's Jokes:
Google renamed to Topeka.
Gmail experiences vowel outage.
Chrome offers sounds extension (actually pretty cool, until it gets really annoying).
Google announces the ReaderAdvantage™ Program. (Be sure to get your free badge!)
Google launches Translate for animals.
Picasa announces LifeSize™ photos.
Extra Dimension discovered in Street View.
Water discovered on moon.
Boldly proclaimed in big letters at the top of the page is an exciting new story! It says:
If the story says "The Murloc is Pragnent (Again)," go to Pregnant.
If the story says "Space Pirates Gets Published," go to Pirates.
If the story says "Joe Dies in Fiery Auto Accident," go to Gruesome Demise.
Pregnant:
"Ohmigosh!" you scream, running to the phone. You dial Rie's number.
"Hello?" I tired-sounding voice answers.
"Congratulations!" you yell.
"For what?"
"For being pregnant!"
"I am?" the Murloc answers.
"Aren't you? Joe posted on his blog...." You look down to the calendar on your desk, and notice the date. "Oh, April Fools," you mutter.
If you find the joke funny, go to Funny.
If you feel embarrassed, go to Embarrassed.
Pirates:
"Ohmigosh!" you scream, running to the phone. You dial Joe's number.
"Hello?" a suave, soothing voice answers.
"Congratulations!" you yell.
"For what?"
"For getting published!"
You here Joe snickering on the other end of the line. "April Fools!" he shouts.
If you find the joke funny, go to Funny.
If you feel embarrassed, go to Embarrassed.
Ohmigosh!" you scream, running to the phone. You dial the Murloc's number.
"Hello?" a cackling voice answers.
"I'm so sorry for you loss!" you yell.
"What are you talking about?" the voice replies.
"Joe—your husband? He died?"
"I don't know anyone named Joe. You have the wrong number!"
"I'm sorry!"
The voice cackled again. "You have interrupted me and angered me! For that I curse you, I curse you, I curse you!" The sound of a click ends the phone call.
You put down the phone, wondering what that was all about. "What was that all about?" you ask, generally.
Suddenly, you double-over in pain. A tingling sensation runs up your spine, and your hands feel numb. You fall to the ground, writhing in agony. Your skin crawls. You look at your hand to see millions of tiny little bumps skittering underneath the surface. "Oh, god, what's happening to me!" you scream, wondering what's happening.
Suddenly, your body bursts into flame. You writhe in agony for a minute before finally being turned to ash.
THE END.
"Haha, that was a funny joke," you remark.
THE END.
"That wasn't very funny," you remark, feeling embarrassed.
Suddenly a fairy appears and grants you three wishes. You live happily ever after.
THE END.
For other April Fool's Jokes:
Google renamed to Topeka.
Gmail experiences vowel outage.
Chrome offers sounds extension (actually pretty cool, until it gets really annoying).
Google announces the ReaderAdvantage™ Program. (Be sure to get your free badge!)
Google launches Translate for animals.
Picasa announces LifeSize™ photos.
Extra Dimension discovered in Street View.
Water discovered on moon.
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