Impulse Control: Lacking

It was impulse and desperation that led me to proposition Pim to protect me.

There had not been a single disappearance in the district but four.  Four was four too many.  And more than that, it meant that whatever took men was maybe four closer to taking me.  I did not want to know what happened to those men, not personally.

I skulked down the street I tried to keep my eyes averted while waiting to cross the road; people like to stare at men who are unescorted and it's always made me uncomfortable.  They watch but always stand a bit apart from me, just in case my woman came and thought another was making a claim.

When the shadow bathed me in a breath of cool, I looked to my left because it was different.  What was casting the shadow made me stop breathing.  

I think it was my sudden stillness that caught her attention, like a wolf or a weasel detects a rabbit freezing.  I could smell her suddenly, the moment I was no longer lost in my desire to be unnoticed.  She was more than carrying the perfume of spice, leather and sin; she was those things.  Her skin had no shine to it, a matte reflection of sunlight that suggested suede, making the shine of her eyes all the more noticeable.  irises were a sunlit finely aged cognac or a red tea. . . but she was not so tame as tea, which had to be why she had reminded me of hard liquor.  There was the impression of bold bronze scales around those eyes, coy copper flecks around the scales, the warmth of sienna in her skin.  

And then she spoke, ruining the momentary shock that comes with registering their inhuman qualities.  The voice was low in tone, shedding scorn and boredom the way an Akita sheds fur: in massive quantities.   "What do you want, human?"

"Safety and freedom, Spicer.  Want a job?"  It was out of my mouth before I could consider the fact that I was looking to vent and had found a creature that would probably kill me for it.

The Spicer only looked at me.  She did not stare at me, she did not snarl at me.  All she had to do was look with no change of expression in her surreal features and I was nearly undone with fear.  When a person lashes out at you, your normal reaction is to be angry or afraid.  Correction: The human reaction is fear and anger.

She was not human.  She did not react as a human did.

". . . Perhaps."  There was a sense of finality in the tone, the Spicer choosing now to tilt her head slightly to the right.  The slight angle change highlighted her features, the light bouncing off of the scales around her jaw and cheekbone that peeked out from behind the shadowy hair.

"'P-Perhaps?'"  I had maybe done something interesting to her.  I wasn't certain that was a healthy thing.  And to look so directly at her without quickly averting my gaze was distracting.  It was hard to take all of her in, to hold her in my mind.

"Perhaps."  The tone was surprisingly businesslike.  Looking over her shoulder, to the old sign for the barber behind her made it easier to focus on what she said and on not shaking with reaction.  "I will consider your request and compensation I will require in return for my services."

"W-what?"

"Do all of your kind have that stumble-stutter in their speech or is it just you?"  The Akita was stalking back into her tone and I was too shocked and, honestly, disturbed by her agreement to fight back.  Any other woman would be too concerned with landing little ol' me to consider insulting me.  The Spicer, clearly, did not care.  At all.

It was equal parts frightening and reassuring.

Just like that, the Spicer started walking away.  I wondered briefly about what sound those large, taloned feet would make but the sounds of commerce were too loud.  I waited until she was out of earshot before muttering, "And just how will I even find you again?" while knowing my tone reeked of unmanly sulk.

The Spicer paused on the sidewalk and half turned, the sweep of her tail making a sinuous sine curve of spine and appendage.  "Don't worry, human.  I will find you."  I saw her lips move and I should never have been able to hear her.  Regardless of what the natural world and I thought, the Spicer and her voice had a different opinion.  It was as if she were breathing the words over my shoulder.

She probably saw my eyes widen and my skin drain of color, compliments of the heaped servings of shock she had served me over the course of the past few minutes.  The Spicer turned and kept going to. . . wherever it was she had a mind to go. God himself would likely not stop the likes of that one.

What had I done?

Pound of Flesh

"A girl after my own heart."

She gave a light laugh, the sound shivering around me.

"Of course I'm after your heart.  They're tasty."

It was always difficult to tell if Pim was making a joke of it or not.  There was no obvious evidence that she was serious but one could never be certain.  So many men disappeared these days and I was not keen to be one of them.  That was why I employed her.

'The enemy of my enemy. . . '  And Spicers were just about everyone's enemy, maybe because we didn't understand them.  They were frightening, you never quite knew what they would do.  You never quite knew what they were capable of.  And no one certainly understood half of why they did what they did.

But I knew for certain that I would rather not die or disappear or whatever it was that was happening.  So I employed Pim.  That was months ago and I can still remember the chill that skittered down my spine while I tried to convince Pim to work for me.  How does one convince a Spicer to work for you. . ?  No one knew what they valued, not really.  But we both had known what I had wanted.  I had wanted safety. I had wanted freedom.  And I had been willing to bargain with a Spicer in an attempt to get it, though Pim warned me that there was a possibility that she was not a fool-proof protection (and that I was quite a fool).

"We should probably leave soon, shouldn't we?"  I wanted my freedom, but here I was at an evening tea party.  The tea parties were open to men and to the more elite of our smaller society.  Getting in was difficult for women.  For men, the hard part was getting out.

The look she gave me in response to my question told me beyond a doubt that the Spicer was female.  Only females can manage an expression that informed me that I was so daft that she was surprised I could breathe without detailed instruction.

Of course, Pim had emphathically informed me that I seem to be incapable of following instructions.  I couldn't say she's wrong; neither could my mother.

War Dance of the Weasel

The cadence of the chopper blades broke the silence.  

There should have been sirens, there had been sirens but the mechanical wails that were drowning out the wails of panicked people had long since run down.  Batteries only last so long.  Horror only lasts so long.

And then came the silence, gravid with the weight of the waiting.

The San Fran Shake had shamed the planet's 1906 attempt, opening the ground in great bites, swallowing heritage homes, main roads, valuable art and priceless lives. The bridge supports slept beneath the water now, the metal cables reaching skyward like revealed ribs of a massive carcass.  Only recently had the dust and smoke cleared enough to allow for the air support people could distantly hear.

Taylor had been waiting, directing on the authority of something that was not even human.  In the middle of the madness, the Precinct-patrols were unable to contain the mass panic.  The best she and what able-bodied Donned could do was to assess and organize the willing.  After all, if people were bent on losing their minds, there wasn't much to be done about it except stay out of their way.  

The individuals with the devices on their hands had done their best to conserve power, but three days of heavy usage was too much.  Two days ago, Seattle had told all precinct-patrollers that Taylor was the Region Commander and had essentially left her to it.

Taylor had no idea why.

Unlike the Precinct-patrol personnel, the Donned, Taylor was untrained in any of these things.  Why Seattle had put her under Disaster Response when Taylor wasn't even rostered with the elite group was no small mystery.  But the command structure and the voice that had cut through crackling city speakers had been quite clear: Donned were to clear their actions and receive orders from Taylor Forge.  So either Taylor said something or did something or none of them would be permitted to act.

What had happened here was far, far beyond a single person or even an elite group of people.   So Taylor had spoken with what available personnel there were in a brief meeting through the comms HUD on the hand devices.  These people were trained.  But it was like anyone taking a first aid course; just because you were trained and knew how didn't mean you were prepared to implement that training.

It had been easy for Taylor to give much of the power associated with leadership away.  The woman hadn't wanted it in the first place, certainly hadn't needed it either.  She, like everyone else, was in just as much shock by what had happened.  The ground was supposed to be solid, steady, the thing that never failed you even when childhood dreams and life partners did.

She was just as prone to the nightmares, when she slept at all.

Don't die.

It would not be long now.  The waiting was nearly over.

And then there would be war.  Taylor had no idea what it was, but something had changed.  The moment she had emerged from the remains of her small apartment building, she could almost smell it.  It was more than the smell of smoke that signaled fire eating up worldly possessions, more than the gritty dust clogging her eyes and nose.

The breaking of the silence was just one more thing that whispered to Taylor.  Things had changed.  And so had she.

Time-blind

I swear I'm doing things in my corner.  Not all of them are writing or particularly creative. . . unless you want to include work that means I get to purchase foodstuffs which means I get to bake or cook. . . 

In which case, I suppose I sort of am being creative.

I'm also being creative with my packing.  You see, I'm traveling halfway across the world in less than a week to participate in a wedding.  This takes a fair bit of energy, both the preparations for travel and sorting my workload so my office partner/boss doesn't drown while I am away.  I have a nice boss.  I don't want her to drown in invoices.

What I'm getting to is this: I will soon be a number of timezones away from where I currently am and may not get an opportunity to update in as regular a fashion as I might wish.  I will try, that is certain (Oh god, there are so many little drafts running around here).  But I'm also going to be all over my home state for 2.5 weeks.  In this time, I will probably be able to mostly adjust to the timezone.

Aaaaand then I will leave and go back to Australia, thereby starting the sleep disturbance process all over again.  

I will effectively be time-blind for the next few weeks.

Here.  Have a draft image related to something Justin is working on!

. . . oh god.  This was forever ago.  I'm so sorry.  Please, please don't gouge out your eyes.  There are so many delicious books to read.

Jamie's Giant Veg Rösti, Poached Eggs, Spinach & Peas

When I said I was spooked by cooking, I wasn't kidding.  It doesn't mean that I don't do it though.  I just. . . do little things!  Like this one.  It's a bit labor intensive so you'd need a bit of time to set-up.  But so deliciously worth it.

Jamie's recipe includes some good tips where the eggs and the potatoes are concerned and that was fortunate for me.  They're things I think you learn as you get further along in cooking.  I'm still sort of getting there.  Therefore!  Useful!  There's even a video of someone doing the recipe if you want a really detailed briefing.

Jamie's Giant Veg Rösti, Poached Eggs, Spinach & Peas

Ingredients:

• 600g potatoes
• 3 large carrots
• sea salt and ground pepper
• 1/2 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 1/2 a lemon
• extra virgin olive oil
• 100g frozen peas
• 100g baby spinach
• 4 large eggs
• 50g feta cheese

Method:

1. Preheat the oven to 180C (350F).  
2. Peel the potatoes and carrots, then coarsely grate them in a food processor or by hand on a box grater.  Add a good pinch of salt, toss ad scrunch it all together, then leave for 5 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, mix the mustard, a good squeeze of lemon juice and a couple of lugs of extra virgin olive oil with a small pinch of salt and pepper in a medium bowl.  Set aside.
4. Drizzle a really good lug of olive oil into a large bowl and add a good pinch of pepper.  Handful by handful, squeeze the potato and carrot mixture to get rid of the excess salty liquid, then sprinkle into the bowl.  
5. Toss in the oil and pepper until well mixed, then evenly scatter it over a large oiled baking tray (roughly 30cm x 40cm).
6. Roast for around 35 minutes, or until golden on top and super-crispy around the edges.
7. Meanwhile, blanch the peas for a minute in a large pan of boiling salted water, then scoop out, add to the bowl of dressing and pile the spinach on top.
8. Just before your rösti is ready, with the water gently simmering, crack in the eggs, poach to your liking, then carefully remove with a slotted spoon.  
9. Serve the rösti with the eggs on top.  Quickly toss the salad together to dress it and scatter in piles on the rösti.
10. Crumble over the feta cheese and serve.

TIP: Poached eggs can be a little finicky.  Use the freshest eggs you can.  But seriously?  Don't worry that much.  It's all tasty!

Source: http://www2.woolworthsonline.com.au/Shop/PrintRecipe/3041

Color Recognition

I love listening to people talk.  

I've come to find that not everyone thinks the same way.  When I was seven, I explained that I loved my Uncle Justin's voice; it was a smoky blue.  

My mother peered at me with a confused expression and asked in her orange, roughed-up tone, "What on earth does that mean?"  

I didn't know what she didn't understand, so I just blinked back with my own puzzled expression.  I had tried very hard to find the right word to describe the kind of blue.  I had even gone to a big book for it.  It had sounded right.

I'm older now and realise that not everyone can get a sense of colors from hearing people talk.  I don't mention it to people because it'll generally just confuse them, the way it did my poor mother.  Granted, my high school English teachers thought I was extremely clever with poetry.  

This was a stroke of luck because I needed a good grade to escape that prison of an institution.  

I can suppress it to some extent when I have to.  The city can be a riot of tones, colors, shapes.  It's brilliant for inspirational purposes but unfortunately I've never been able to use the knack to actually make music.  I'm not bitter about it; just a bit put out.  Musicians who make it big get fame and fortune.  And probably all of the really good food.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  Listening to people talk and colors.

There's one minor advantage that I have, sensing colors where sound is involved.  The same sounds tend to evoke the same array of colors and . . . well, they aren't images.  I can't call them images.  Dashes, bursts, jagged and gyrating lines. . ?  It all depends on the situation for me.  Find someone else who has the same 'condition' (like what we have is an illness; it's not), you'll be told different colors.  At least, this is from what I've read.  I've never met another person like me, though we're something like four to ten percent of the population, depending on what you read and who you ask.  Somehow, you're far more likely to come across a left-handed person.

Or maybe, like me, people just don't think saying, "That woman's tone is super pink and fritzy" is a very good conversation starter.  I certainly never told the medical officer about it at any point; we get enough pych screening as is, thank you.

But it's those very same qualities - the colors, the movement - that allows me to identify people's voices more accurately.  I don't have to see your mouth moving to know it's you.  I hear you and, after a fashion, I'll still see you.  Just not a you that you know about.

Keep that in mind, kids.  It might be important, later on in my story.

Colder. You're getting colder.

Life got a little complicated somewhere along the way.

I mean, you have simple things to consider simply to stay alive and that's naturally at the top of the list. Physiological things according to some guy named Maslow.  I need to breathe, I need to eat, I need water (or something stronger these days), I need to sleep, I need shelter.  

Arguably, I need sex too, but the good Lord hasn't seen fit to end that dry spell either.  Points to Maslow for putting that at the most basic level of requirements, though.  He knows the way to a girl's heart.  If I had stopped at the bottom of the pyramid, life would have likely been way more simple.  

I am coming undone because of that heart that Maslow might have had, but he's a bit dead to claim it.  Not because I'm in love or anything so fortunate as that.  But rather, physically I am coming undone because of my heart.  My heart of gold.

I am hanging on for dear life myself these days and I'm terrified of looking down.  Each time they bleed me, I feel myself cool a bit more, I feel the fingers of apathy start creeping in.  It was never like that when I pricked myself, knicked myself, scored myself.  Maybe they're taking too much.  Maybe it's simply too often.

Maybe I always gave too little.

I've lived a life where I don't even know the rules of my self, let alone anything else.  I always assumed that no one would find me out, that it would be okay, that I would live a life of beautiful obscurity in the Court.

I thought very, very wrong.

And I am getting very, very cold.