Back on My Feet

The song was wrong,
I was not the one
that could not be beaten.
But, I battled through.

Got a job again,
hope it lasts a while,
let's me get onto ground
that is not quicksand.

One thing I forgot,
is the aches and pains
that will stay with me
from this long drought.

Four years without work,
most of it on streets,
and the body is complaining
each morning I rise.

Not about today's strains,
but the ones long suppressed
and only as I relax
coming to collect due.

Thank Mother Nature's mercy
that coffee is at hand
and works as advertised constantly
to get me going...
or at least into gear.
3April2015 - Dyfedd Rex

"What I Lost Last Week" a.k.a. "Three Partners" - A CRAPP tale from Troy Tanner... chapter one only....

"For being part of the Environmental Protection Agency, we sure trash the eco-system a lot." Kirk's comments during after-action paperwork days tend to make me smile.

It was damned good to have him back. Breaking in the new kid nearly drove me nuts over the summer. She was good, but keeping her grandfather from interfering took more work than I really needed while showing her the ropes. Amber sat three sets of desks over, alone for now, studying as her next partner was on vacation. Something we in the CRAPP division tend to milk out as much as possible on. Then again, the Cleanup, Remediation, And Paranormal Protection jobs take their toll faster if we skip those days off we can sneak.

"Yeah, we also kill more trees than any other division in the agency." My personal pet peeve was high this morning, testified to by my overflowing trash can, old type writer and twelve open bottles of that screwup hiding stuff. Watching the guys with computers upstairs do reports last week, I felt I really deserved something more modern than 1950's era surplus. But not for my chair. It may be that old, and failing, but I have it broken in to that wonderful stage called "comfortable".

Longhand tossed his copy of a report on a cleanup from back in the spring over to me. The Hell Hound thing ate up more trees than most quarters did in the office. If I ever find the damned fool that felt crossing a hell hound with a red bones bloodhound, I intend to use all four edges of every sheet of paperwork that generated to flay him with. Or her, not trying to be sexist (Yes, they just made me watch those mandatory political correctness videos. Again.). Satan's puppies, I was calling them. So help me, former partner or not, if Blair had a hand in it, I was dumping the paperwork on him.
Kirk hates paperwork as much as I do. The only reason we do it is Jim's Law. Our boss, Jim Young, painted this on the walls a few years back. "No paychecks issued until the paperwork is CORRECTLY filed."

I intend to have it made up on a brass plaque for him someday. With my name listed as "chief violator".

"Tanner, Longhand. Quit screwing off, and finish that Environmental Impact Statement." Hollering from his office door, coffee mug in hand to raid my precious supply of Kona again, Jim strolled into what I tend to call the Pits of the Damned, the small cubicle room that is the CRAPP offices.
I'm Tanner, or at least that is the name the thing on the desk claims for me. It lies a lot. Saying things like I am a "Remediation Specialist", when janitor is a lot closer. It also says my first name is Trey, not Troy. What can you expect, it was made by the lowest bidder, like all things governmental not associated with a corner office are.

"Jim, get me some leads on which redneck is behind it, I can stop the mess." I pushed aside his hand reaching for the pot. "Tanner's Law." My words accompanied a gesture towards my sign. "No expense accounts approved, no coffee stealing allowed."

"Not me this time, the IG held them upstairs. He said he'll sign off this time, but your next set gets submitted to him with a personal interview over why you needed those items." Trusting Jim, who is a former partner, I let him fill the mug.

"Yeah, fine. The IG and Director Johnson can check my expense reports all they want. If they want to ride along next time." Finding things to extinguish dog-poo reacting closer to napalm than fertilizer took a hellish amount of experimenting. Not to mention a lot of cleanup behind the failures.
"They might do that. Congressional Oversight Committee meetings next week." Jim smiling with that retort set my nerves on edge. Hell, to avoid those, they might.

Leaning back, I noted a well known gleam in his eyes. "Where and what, Jim?"

My heart sank when he pulled out a thermos to fill next. He expected me to cut him off again after this assignment. Taking his time to fill it, part of an old game dating back before his promotion up the food chain.

What he said chilled my heart. "Region One requested help. Dan said he'd even let you in the office."
Dan Martin, the Region One CRAPP liaison hates my guts. Something to do with using his BMW as a pen to keep a litter of young werewolves in. Hey, I filled out the expense report, justified it, just a budget cut cost him the car in the end.

Kirk leaned back in his chair, looking skyward. "More white-man mess to clean."

"Mother Nature's mess." Jim laughed. "No playing that race card to get out on Native blood reasons, Kirk. They say it has something to do with salamanders. Starting fires in hunting cabins and barns out there."

"Sounds like a white guy from Fish and Wildlife's problem." Kirk pressed on, but his eyes narrowed at that creature being named. "Oh, hell no. White folk brought the fire breathers here, not my people."

"On a reservation in upstate Maine." Jim twisted the knife, stealing a handful of candy from Kirk's desk jar. "You get nominated as lead to keep your people happy."

Looking across the desk, I waved off Kirk's next try. "Fine. Anything that has Dan ready to let me back into New England must be real, and scary." Standing up, I glanced to the wall plaque with the names of the fallen agents on it. Something about this raised my hackles, wondering whose name would get engraved on it next.

Kirk's glance spoke volumes. He wanted to head home for some time off. I let a smile cut my face after Jim's door closed. "Think you can convince your fellow natives to cut me a fishing permit?"

"Not my tribe, but I can try." He looked dubious.

Flashing a set of Office of the Inspector General's ID's for him, expertly forged over to us, I smiled. "We are looking at blaming the BIA for everything."

If you investigate the Bureau of Indian Affairs, most Natives bend over backwards to help. Especially when a fellow native is part of the team.

Questions to deal with in Writing

As one writes a story, you find yourself asking more questions about it, of the characters and yourself.

First, does it read well? You deal with that later. That is the kind of thing for the edit sessions. I find that the dictum many writers speak of, write the story, stupid" works best. Write the damned thing, then go back and edit. "Journey to Freedom" would not have taken six years and 10 drafts had I listened to that advice.

Second, Where the HELL did that come from? And what relevance does it have to the tale? This happens when some bit of the character's back-story creeps into the story, as  you write it out, and that is something you do NOT stop to deal with right then, either. Just drive on, but jot down notes on your shock at what dances off the fingers as you move the pen or tap the keys, depending upon preferred method of first drafting. Deal with that later, too.

Third: Should I stop here? Only if you absolutely have to. Never break a streak of words when you have a good run going. Even something you feel may be destined for some forgotten stretch of literary wilderness might have the rough gem you just need a touch of cutting and polishing on to convert it into a magnificent jewel.

Fourth: Is this paragraph good enough? Delay, prevaricate, and drive on with the streak. Never stop, save to top off the coffee/tea/soda cup and get right back at it, fast. A quick peek at social media is fine, as long as you keep it quick, don't linger, and keep the cursor away from those blasted game icons.

Last: Will it sell? Just tell the tale, you can fix marketability of a tale in the edit, or change your target audience/market as needed.

In other words. Butt in seat and write. Make your daily/project word goals, pad that number all you can, and pray Life, Lady Luck, and the Fates don't notice you are having a good time.

Oh, save and back it up frequently. Murphy loves to vex writers by applying his law to us.

Coffee

I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?

Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.

The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.

Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.

The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".

The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.

Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.

It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.

Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.

Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.

The Slime - A Poem of My Brain and Writing

Wading into the slime
that sloshes betwixt my ears
I find things never the same
as stories morph so wildly
during the early stages.

Waves of ooze slosh
as my head spins about
when characters toss me more surprises
conspiring darkly to meet up
in tale already spun.

The goo sticks everywhere,
as I wade deeper in,
seeking the true story amid rumors
that the characters spread about
to keep me confused.

Writer's Whip in hand,
I try to herd them
back to the trail laid out
only to find more strays
seeking their way in.

Maverick ideas agitate pools
here in the grey matter
as the tale winds around tight
forming into the IM-Hul feared
as they win out.

The slime aids them,
these rogues and renegade characters,
raising waves I must navigate somehow
in this vain-glorious effort
to tell their story.

Slushy stuff impedes movement
from thoughts to words set
by fingers over keys to electrons,
as the skull overheats rapidly
when they mentions stuff.

This is my fate.
Scrivener of tales never read,
yet still I write them, slowly,
seeking not fame, just peace,
from yammering voices inside.

Or is it true?
Is today just a nightmare?
Will I wake to find them
sitting patiently for another chance
to rebel from fates?

Who knows? Who cares?
The Ghosts walking the Savannah,
Dragons and elves plotting in mountains,
and war inside Assassin's Guild
sound a bit much.

Until, weaving it together,
I see the connections offered
by Billenius as he sips tea,
of a greater story here
waiting to erupt out.

Just hope my skull
holds the surging slime tight
to the channel now being dug
amid the folds and ridges
of my aching brain.

17July2014 - A Frustrated, yet writing, Dyfedd Rex

Talking out a Story Idea (part 4) - When Settings Expandhen

So, as some following the re-write of Scorpio's tale called "Predator's Ground" might have noticed, Scorpio popped up in a place long known to me, but still mostly Terra Incognita. This leaves the writer with a quandary, do you press on with the tale, taking furious notes in a side window, stop to flesh the area out a bit, or write the tale, then flesh things out using that as the basis later?

I don't work well the last way, things twist too much, leaving you needing earthmovers, high-explosives, and those big mining trucks to fix things.

Nor does stopping to flesh it out work, as my characters tend to wander off when ignored mid-tale.

So, I've been writing (mostly in my head, which means the next bit should seem a bit more polished, as it worked through a few times as I had work pretty steady since the last bit posted over there) and taking notes (which I am finally writing down today, and will share as part of the peeks into my slimy skull).

One thing I know for sure. I really intend to beat up the characters, all of them, a bit more now. They made me do extra work, and this was just supposed to be a simple re-write to flesh up the tale a bit and fix inconsistencies I left in it, being early in my current attempts at writing.

So, watch here, there, maybe elsewhere and everywhere, for more tidbits, the prelude piece to the tale (##$@%! Characters! I'm gunna murderize them for making more parts earlier in the tale after I already started it!).

Well, getting my stuff in my duff to move to a better writing locale in a bit.

I hope, clouds willing. They like to piddle on me during long walks lately.

Silence - an update

If this place gets a bit quiet, relax, I'm just working on a longer piece to try to shop later this year. A story, novella to novel length, called for now "Crossing of the Shadow". This thing is part of the Billenius cycle of stories, set before he lost his eyes, so it is giving me a chance at looking into that character's past and tinkering a bit, given I know where he is headed for at this point in his life.
Dealing with his earliest visions, trying to keep from tipping my hand too much, but this is when his aura sight and precog abilities really nearly ruined his life, and I'm tempted to make this the root for his arrogance that will lead him to walk "The Paths of Damnation" some time soon for me.

So, don't worry if I seem to stop posting, it just means the creative juices are flowing a different direction from poems and Urban Fantasy tales for  awhile is all.

Or, at least I hope. There is one poem working its way out of the slime I think with, which may drop down from the murky skies before the New Year. Just remember, though, "May" is nearly as big a word as "If", when it comes to deadlines and me.

Dangers Rise Up - A poem of the streets

Dangers rise up
as the cold builds
and Winter reaches out claws
to rip up sup
as we wander.

Currently, we wonder
who is our stalker
and rumors talk of one
who likes stabbing backs
with real knives.

I don't venture
west of Third West
myself now that my allergies
rage up so easily
so it's hearsay.

Or is it?
Been warning folks lately
about the new, darker element
that walks the streets
of Salt Lake.

Now, at night
I do worry some
about those guys I know
who have gone back
to the shelter.

And those campers
who brave that area
at about the same time
as these crimes occurred
at Coffee Line.

Eyes narrowed warily
I survey those about
seeking some clue, but fail
to see where threats
may be waiting.

Oh, I see
some that cause concern
but none match what happened
or am I blinded
by my misconceptions.

So I walk
with a different gait.
Hiding the bum knee's pain
to make the target
look less inviting...
and warn friends
to beware.
7November2013 - Dyfedd Rex