Van Helsing meets Scully & Mulder in the Old West

just a taste....


The werewolf roared, raising on its haunches, semi-human claws scrabbling at its side, and Trace let swing with the staff of firewood in both hands, a solid clout across the thing’s head. Its howl ended in a yelp and the beast fell like a toppled tree.

“Sum. . . sumbitch,” Boz gasped, half-winded by the crush. He sat up, and Trace took him under the arms and pulled him from under the thing. The beast rolled away limp, its muzzle open and lolling in the gravel. It was breathing fast, with a raspy, growling sound. “Bastard’s snoring,” Boz said in amazement.

“Yeah,” Trace said, and laughed. “You okay?”

“Just a scratch, here.” Boz’s shirt sleeve was dark with blood where the thing had clawed him.

“Better sear that with whiskey,” Trace said.

“Inside and out,” Boz agreed. He went to fetch the bottle from the saddlepack while Trace wound rope around the werewolf’s ankles. Boz helped him with the hog-tying, and they both had a drink, in celebration.

“That ought to make the witch happy,” Trace said.

this is what happens

when I don't take care of myself. I haven't been eating well, I haven't been exercising or taking my vitamins. I had terrible cramps yesterday. (Thanks for sharing, Holly.)

Yesterday, since I was home and largely immobile, I picked up Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin, a book that I pounced upon when it came out, then let sit in my bookcase, unread, for three years.

Margaret's a great writer. She packs her sentences so full of imagery, and her metaphors are dead-on. I generally prefer her short work to her novels, but I guess this book was a stiff dose of what I needed. It was a relief to be reading again. I guess I haven't totally lost the ability, after all. It seems more likely that I have simply been bored with what I was trying to make myself read. Still, it's a very lit'ry novel (take that, PNH) and I find myself skimming at times, wanting to get on with the story, already.

Also yesterday, I wrote a 4400 word crit on a 10 thousand word story. I was both general and specific, critical and constructive. Joy wrote me back a nice, polite thank you note. I can't imagine that she loved and agreed with every line of my crit, but I know it's nice to have someone lavish that much attention on your work. She's got a decent concept, I think: a cyberpunk, post-apocalyptic Little Red Riding Hood.

I keep getting crits on Galatea, too. I think I'm up to ten, now, which is respectable, considering how long that story is. So far, I have been told:

• Master Tan's broken English is great, very authentic/is stereotypical and inconsistent
  
• The conflict between Justin and Quinn is great, well done/there is no discernible conflict in the story
  
• The development of Quinn's character is moving and believable/she's a horrible, unsympathetic person
  
• She's a rip-off of Supergirl/Dark Angel/Kill Bill/Le Femme Nikita
  
• It's a strong, character-driven story/nobody's motivations make any sense.

I had to check to make sure I wasn't reading the Buffy message boards by mistake. The only thing they all agree on is that the writing is great. (Aside, I always worry about people who say that they don't understand the characters' motivations--I imagine such people as social cripples, unable to form stable relationships because they can't read other people. They certainly have no business writing fiction. The guy who complained the loudest is, according to his bio, a writer of computer programming manuals.) I sometimes get the feeling that these people get in there and try to tear down my characters or punctuation(?!?) because they're jealous of my style, which is certainly very strong. More often, I can tell that a critter has missed something (they often will admit that they're new and don't know what they're doing), and my instinct is to help, to instruct, but I can't exactly tell somebody they've missed something in my story without sounding defensive. At least five of my critters have raved about the story and want to know if there's more. Most of them are also catching on to the fact that this is a piece out of a larger story, but so far everyone seems to agree that it is complete, whether they like the ending or not. It is a difficult ending; essentially, Quinn gains self-confidence and inner strength by realizing she is good at killing people--and she likes it. No moral ambiguity there.

But I sha'n't worry myself about whether people like Quinn or not. Love her or hate her, but you can't ignore her.

resident of the week

As some of you may already know, I've taken a second, weekend job at the rental office of my apartment building. It's been a while since I've been in customer service, and I like to think I've acquired a certain Zenlike detachment from the rest of humanity. Armed with that, I am endlessly amused at the tragedy that is human intelligence.

I think I'm going to start cataloguing the more interesting encounters here.

This week, we have two stories, because I suspect I'll be hearing more about this second guy.

Helpless Resident of the Week: Called to inform us that there was a dead mouse in the middle of her kitchen, and wanted me to sent the maintenance man to remove it. Now, our maintenance guy is on-call for emergencies on Sundays, but I doubted he would be ready, willing, or able to rouse himself for a dead mouse. I implied that Pat was tied up with emergency air conditioner fixings and suggested that she scoop up the corpse with a dustpan or piece of cardboard and throw it in the trash. She wasn't happy about it.

Creepy Resident of the Week:
There's a guy; we'll call him Barry. He's a very low-grade con artist who's been living scot-free in our complex for about two months now. He claims to be a psychic. He claims to be a lot of things. So far he has:

• Swindled a free apartment out of the leasing manager by promising free advertising for the complex;
  
• Told each of the women in the office (other than me) something "shocking" and "private" about themselves which he supposedly divined via his psychic ability;
  
• Charged at least two of my new co-workers $100 for a "private reading" session during which he "hypnotized" them and "took them back to a past life."
  
• Has failed to follow up on the ad thing (big surprise) and then got defensive and bullying when the manager tried to call him on it.
  
• Has solicited my weekend co-worker, Crystal (the name tells you everything you need to know about her--she's a sweet girl but as brittle as spun sugar) about being in a "limosine commercial," and tried to get her to go out with him, despite the 20-year age difference and the fact that he has no money, no car, no job, and is generally pretty creepy.
  

Now, all of these things except the last happened before I came to work there. This weekend, Barry came in on Sunday afternoon and tried to engage Crystal in conversation about the limo commercial. He pretended to make a couple of phone calls, making loud plans about filming said commercial, asking Crystal what size dress she wore, talking about cameras and locations, etc. Crystal and I both knew he was talking to dead air. The first time he tried to dial, he accidentally dialed into the office main line and it rang the intercom at my desk. Oops, dialed the wrong number, he said. Then he said, "Well, I'm off to detail a Ferrari," and left.

I am just dying for him to tell me some shocking and private thing about myself. I bet Crystal five bucks he wouldn't even come near me. That type never does.

If he comes in and starts tying up the phones and making himself a nuisance like that again, I'm going to throw him out. I've done it a couple of times before, at the title company. Been awhile.

giving blood

Today I attempted to give blood for the first time in my life. I have tried to participate in the blood drive at work for the past few years, but always I have been ill, or on vacation, or otherwise preoccupied. This year I was sick, too, but the sinus infection cleared up over a week ago, so I went ahead and did it.

There were about about eight nurses in the trailer (they didn't stand still very long so it was hard to count). All but one of them were bustling around very efficiently, cheery and competent. One of them (the sole white woman there, incidentally) was slow-moving and frowning in concentration. Naturally, she was my nurse.

Now, I have very fair skin and very visible veins. I don't know if they vanished under the iodine or what. You wouldn't think that a tube that big would go in with so little effort. I've heard that it takes less than a pound of pressure to cut skin. Obviously the needle was very sharp. It was kind of freaky watching my skin mound up over it. Didn't hurt. Felt weird, but didn't hurt.

What hurt was when she started digging around trying to find the vein. I guess it was rolling away from her. I know she knicked it, because blue started spreading under my skin almost immediately. She poked around some more, and I gritted my teeth and watched my fingers turn blue and cold. The tube filled with blood. The blue lake under my skin continued to spread and swell up. She pressed on the lump of subcutaneous blood with her fingers. I said, "Ow," which was demonstrating remarkable restraint on my part. She said, "I think we better just stop."

Fine. Whatever. I was disappointed. The bag was barely stained red. She clamped off the hose, capped the needle, and gathered up the tubing. She put an ice pack on my arm and wrapped it around with a neon-green elastic bandage. Then she cleaned up the drops of my blood she had spilled on the chair and the floor. That bothered me, seeing that she had spilled my blood, but not in a sickened way. I felt possessive of it. I was offended that she had lost some of it, especially since she hadn't drawn enough for somebody else to use.

And foolish me, I let her stick me in the right arm. So now I have a massive purple/blue/brown lump on the inside of my elbow, which hurts when I bend my arm. Typing and mousing are going to be most uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

One positive note on the experience: my blood pressure was 102/60. Pulse 60. Heh heh.