[Cooperative Writing Project] Spire

The city thrusts out of the pounding sea like a line of jutting fangs, the low terraces and thatched roofs of its many buildings decorating the black cliffs like skeins of pearls against the ebony skin of some Bezhaari princess. Tallest of its towering structures is the central prominence of the Grand Palace, the steeple that gives the city its name. The Grand Palace sits in the center of Oldtown, on the island in the middle of the roaring river Shere, that rushes down to the sun dappled waves of the Veil. Once, Oldtown was all there was to the city - little more than a cluster of fisherman's cottages, and the brooding keep that kept them safe from the raids of seaborne barbarians.

That was centuries ago, and like most sedentary organisms, the city has grown broad and fat with age. The fisherman's cottages on Oldtown have long since given way to nobleman's houses and merchant's vaults, just as the motte-and-bailey of the keep have turned into the sprawling, labyrinthine Grand Palace - more than half its winding halls abandoned, its rotting wings spacious enough for thousands, but home only to the handful that rule the city.

The Shere runs north to south, with Oldtown's island clogging its throat like a fishbone. Bridges chain the island to each bank, from the solid stones of the Beggar's Gate connecting to the Shambles on the east to the dainty, ethereal span of Kolgard's Folly to the west. They are heavily trafficked, even in the midnight hours, save when a dreaded Hellstorm descends on the city as summer dies and winter rears its ugly head.

There are many who call this the City of Storms. They're not far wrong.

Parts of the Shambles were once affluent and prosperous. Most of it never tried to be. Walled ghettos, shantytown slums, the fisherman's community of Wavetown, the tanners and the smelters and the sootstacks of a thousand various industries - all of these find their place in the Shambles, a dark and rotten cancer that has long since outgrown the skin of the city and now threatens to tilt it over and drown it in filth. The Shambles is a place from which everyone is trying to escape, but they have a way of claiming people and dragging them back, no matter how hard they might kick and scream. Some parts - especially those with walls - could be considered decent enough places to live, but by and large their lights are lost in the gloom cast by neighborhoods where a man's life is worth less than a mug of ale, or a hit of sah.

The west bank of the river is where the noble retreated when Oldtown grew too crowded for their diversions. Wealthy merchants and others attracted to prosperity soon followed, building neat and tidy neighborhoods that soon fell into the same barely reigned chaos that plagues all grown cities. Ordered streets and blocks turn into a tangled and confused maze of cul de sacs, parks, ornamental ponds and memorials, all crammed together with no room for rhyme or reason. It's as though the builders were seized with a sudden madness, an urge to mash all the culture missing from the Shambles into the far side of the city to redress some sort of cosmic balance. The wags and the broadsheets call it the Gilded Labyrinth, and even the locals require guides when they venture beyond their home street.

The Veil brings many things to the city shores, wonders and horrors both, from lands more distant than most could imagine. The ships of a hundred nations dock in the harbor, and the city streets buzz with a thousand different languages. To the east, the Akheri Empire, monolithic and strong, its knights and legions crushing all who oppose it with merciless precision. Once, not so very long ago, the city belonged to the Empire. Akheri has not forgotten. To the west, the allied nations of the Free Republic bicker and squabble, their only common bond their steadfast opposition to the Empire. They've pleaded with the Governor-General to join them, and he's diplomatically refused. With rumors of war growing stronger by the day, neutrality may soon be no option.

This is a city caught between the extremes of the Shambles and the Gilded Labyrinth, between the shackles of the past and the winds of an uncertain future, were a thousand cultures merge into a hodgepodge gumbo uniquely its own. Madness stalks the twisting tunnels beneath the city, and revolution haunts the streets. On every lip, there's a rumor of coming change - but none can agree just what. This is the City of Storms, and a great storm is coming.

Welcome to Spire.

Craft Swap!

I'm leaping at the opportunity for Jessica Christian's craft-swap, so here's my part of the bargain. :) I'm putting this on my blog and it'll RSS feed to Facebook - so remember, yours may not be the only comments I've received!

The first five people to respond to this post will get something made by me!

My choice.
For you.

This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:

1. I make no guarantees that you will like what I make!
2. What I create will be just for you.
3. It'll be done this year. (ha! 10 whole months :)
4. You have no clue what it's going to be. It may be a story. It may be poetry or an article on properly cleaning your face before a masque. I may draw or paint something. I may bake something and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!
5. I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

The catch? Oh, the catch is that you must re-post this on your blog or Facebook and offer the same to the first 5 people who do the same on your blog or Facebook.

My new writing journal...

...can be found here! New stuff as I write it, and older things as it occurs to me to put them up. You should bookmark it!

...I know, two months without a blog update and all I post is this lame plug. There might be more soon. No promises.

So no one told you life was gonna be this way...

...your job's a joke, you're broke
Your love life's DOA -
Seems like you're always stuck in second gear...

So, here I am again. Things... have been better. But they've also been worse.

Just wrapped up almost two months on leave; did a little bit of this and a little bit of that, it was fairly productive as far as my vacations go (ie, I didn't spend the entire thing dozing on my couch playing video games, surfing the internet, or watching junk movies/anime/television), although I didn't do anything particularly earth shattering. NaNoWriMo went well; I reached 50,000 words, the story (almost) has a satisfactory conclusion, although it is a 'to be continued' bit, and I've spent a lot of quality time with friends.

On the other hand, I'm incredibly broke (my last paycheck wasn't deposited, thanks to a SNAFU where the base assumed I was AWOL and stopped paying me - things have been cleared up, but I'm empty until Friday), and my Coast Guard documentation has expired - meaning that I'll be in the pool (and possibly some schools) until the New Year, and then I'll be back on leave (regular or Without Pay, depending on how much I've got in the leave bank) until I have my new MMD.

So, things aren't bleak, per se, but they are looking a bit gloomy.

Not a lot else to say for me, though; I had a rather nice, although incredibly cold, camping trip up to the Blue Ridge Mountains a few weeks back. I've made a number of new friends thanks to actually being able to attend the local write-ins during NaNo. I've learned a new 'sport' (frisbee golfing), and I play whenever I can get a friend and some daylight together in the same spot. I had Korean for lunch today, and it was incredibly tasty.

Mind Your OPSEC...

...so, I forgot the key rule of the internet; nothing you write is ever really private. I'm always surprised when friends read whatever I put up here, so the thought that total strangers - probably arriving via the miracle of Google - might find what I wrote was laughable. I also thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping operational security in mind, and that I was keeping any references to our schedule or operations discreet and vague enough to be safe.

Apparently, not so much.

So, my apologies to all those concerned, and please note that the offending entry has been deleted. I won't make such a lapse again.

And the thunder rolls...

...and the lightning strikes
Another love gone cold
In the sleepless night
The storm raged on out of control
And deep in her heart
The thunder rolled...

So, no sooner than I post an update than something comes along to contradict it. The most exciting thing to happen to me lately has definitely been the hellacious squall we went through on watch tonight, a sight I was lucky enough to be on lookout for. Some of the sweetest lightning I've seen, ranging from yellow-white to violet, and with a nice cameo appearance from a pair of waterspouts - the first I've seen, although I've certainly heard plenty about them. Very cool!

That was about it. Just thought I'd share. ^_^

And did he ever return...?

...no, he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned -
He could be riding forever 'neath the streets of Boston -
He's the man who never returned!

Well, hopefully things won't get that bad for me. Actually, according to a conversation I had yesterday with the ship's purser, the end could very well be in sight; I should be go for departure the next time the ship pulls into port. When that will be is a matter of debate (and, when final word does come down, OPSEC), but with any luck I'll be headed for home pretty soon. Can't wait!

Things here on the ship continue much as they have been; we're through the Straits of Gibraltar and in the Mediterranean Sea now, the calm waves a startling contrast to the stormy Atlantic. The weather has been warmer, too, since we came into the Med - not my favorite thing, I'm definitely ready for cooler temperatures and looking forward to fall weather at home.

I've been having trouble sleeping again, most likely thanks to our changing hours - we're about six hours ahead of EST right now - and when I do get to sleep, it's often broken up as I wake at random hours, blink wearily at the clock, and try to get back to sleep. My dreams have been vivid and lifelike, fever bright, their subject matter strangely coherent and at the same time, almost too bizarre for words. Last night's had me as an immortal Roman soldier, sleeping for 2000 years, waking up in the modern age. One a few nights before that involved a vain house that wanted someone to care for it and keep it pretty, but hated children and women... so it ate my ex-wife when she showed up and started making noise about taking it from me (leaving me with the smaller, more comfortable house that had been ours until the divorce and which, in the subsequent time, she had pretty thoroughly trashed with partying and neglect).

Odd enough just on the face of it, nevermind the fact that I've never been married. O_o

Other than my dream life, things have been pretty quiet around here - just steaming steadily east, on our way to fuel up the Navies, US and NATO fleets alike. Today's moment of excitement came when a small bird flew into one of the bridge wings and knocked itself silly - dazed enough that my watch partners were able to pick it up and move it out of the way of traffic, and set up food and water nearby. By the time we were relieved of watch, it was recovered enough to hop around the wing and fly short distances, although still out of things enough for me to sit a few feet away and make a rough sketch in my Moleskine. It's not particularly good, but perhaps I'll post a picture at some point when I get back to the World.

I've been juggling a couple of books lately - M. John Harrison's "Light", a scifi novel about alternate dimensions, an anthology of travel stories for various destinations around the world, and most movingly, the first collection of Doonesbury's "The Sandbox", a collection of mil-blog short stories from Doonesbury's mil-blog of the same name. With a friend of mine getting ready to deploy back Down Range pretty soon - yes, I'm talking about you again, Alyson - the stories hit that much closer to home. It's a weird feeling, about to return from a deployment (however abbreviated) only to have a friend about to head out on one - one that will be much longr, and more involved, than this little vacation at sea has been. I can't help but worry for her, no matter how much I try to tell myself that everything will be fine. About all I can do, really, is enjoy the time I have, send her letters, stories, and encouragement while she's gone, and pray for her safe return.

Speaking of stories, I've taken a break from Twilight Exile - stuck banging my head against the walls of a fortified city - to pick up West End Blues again, which - perhaps unsurprisingly - flows much quicker and easier. Four pages, almost 2,000 words, over the last day and a half - not quite NaNoWriMo levels, but pretty respectable still. I may have mentioned a few entries ago that I was starting to get a grasp on the overall plot - what started out as an insight into the main character, Grey, and an overview of his life in the urban wasteland of Rhydin's West End is slowly shaping into a real story. That's definitely a positive.

So, tl;dr version: home soon, writing good, reading good, sleep intermittent and sanity bending, friend deploying, bird amusing. Also, I'm out of SmartWater and forced to return to the ship's desalinated, overbrominated potable water system. And that's terrible.

You load sixteen tons and what do you get...?

...another day older and deeper in debt.
St. Peter don't call me 'cause I can't go
I sold my soul to the company store...

I think I've mentioned in the past, probably more than once, how much I hate the day watch. You're not allowed to sit down, nor to read, no matter how boring it might be - the summer heat in Virginia hasn't yet bled away to winter chill, so this tiny gangway hallway is one of the more uncomfortable places on the ship, and there's apparently no 'dimmer' switch to the flow of people streaming through the door, so things are either 'shoot me in the head' dead slow, or 'ohmigod I'm gonna die' fast.

This is one of the slow periods, hence my ability to update my blog. I love my Sidekick... even though it sucks as a phone, it's internet capability has saved my sanity more times than I can count.

Usually, the way things work, there's three people on watch - two on the gangway and one roaming. Two people on the gangway means that, no matter how busy it gets, there's enough people to deal with it. One person roaming gives you a chance to recharge your batteries, get some head space back after the mindless tedium of standing at a podium, sweating your brains out. Today... there's just me. I've been shackled to this frigging podium going on six hours now, save a half hour meal break and a ten minute water break. It's getting to me.

On the other hand, I've gotten a couple of pages written for my new 'series', West End Blues, so at least there's an occasional silver lining. Knock on wood, this month has shown some promise for my writing - Twilight Exile proceeds apace, WEB has already netted some positive remarks from my peers on RDI, and I'm keeping up decent word counts on each (which will hopefully keep the hungry wielders [not members] of my 'fan club' at bay). All in all, I don't have much in the way of complaining to do.

My brother asked me last night how I was doing. I had to think about it; my usual answer is that I'm "holding a turn". I'm not really going anywhere, or doing anything, I'm just in a kind of pleasant limbo... making good money, home most nights (at least until the ship deploys), I've got a good bunch of friends, a very caring, loving family... I can't really complain. I'm tired all the time, maybe because of the fluctuating work hours, maybe because of the medication I'm on to control my blood pressure, and I wish I had more time to do stuff, but over all, I'm doing well.

He also brought up the possibility of me going through the hoops necessary to publish, and actually try to make a living as an author. It's a conversation he and I have every so often, mainly because he wants to make sure I don't grow too satisfied, or despairing, and give up on my dreams, and it's a conversation I appreciate. It's one I've had with other friends, too, and it's one for which my answer is always the same.

"I'm not ready."

It could be considered a cop-out answer... after all, if you leave it up to the engineers, the project's never ready. Eventually, you have to take it away from them and send it to market. But I still feel that my writing is rough and unready for a mass audience (despite Aly's support that she's read published authors much worse than I), and I haven't completed what I would consider the most basic hurdle - I haven't actually finished something that could be satisfactorily published. I have one (1) completed short story to my name, and a handful of teeny fic... a pair of half finished novels, and some works in progress. Nothing that would make a publisher, or even an agent, sit up and take notice.

But I'm workin' on it. I'm inching for daylight.

What being an author means to me, most of all, is freedom. Not from work; as any writer, even an amateur, would be quick to tell you, an author puts in just as many grueling hours a day as anyone in an office. Not from want, because unless you're Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, or John Grisham, chances are you won't make it big in the business. But freedom none the less - freedom to tell the stories I choose to, rather than listening to someone else's. Freedom to travel, because with today's communications, you can send your work in from damn near anywhere.

Freedom to be myself.

Which raises the question... who am I now?

Holding a turn...