Tag: come back

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Run Dark Alley

Day 454

Madrigar laces a canopy to the frame at the front of his stall then tightens the iridescent purple fabric by snugging up the bar that wedges it out from the back wall. His chappi stall languishes like a cat in a window.

The stall’s registered designation in the Vendor Bureau at the Merchant Ministry is SB. South side; second stall. But here in Run Dark Ally, the grand dam of all Tropulan’s ally fairs, it’s known eponomously as Madrigar. A cook’s assitant looking for fresh caught trout would find them on ice at Dromie’s at NE. A musician looking

In other alley fairs the best spot—usually the SB designation—is known as the madrigar.

Infrequent Run Dark patrons might ask directions to a particular

in the second space back from the entrance on the sunny south side of the alley. Everyone sees his

This is completely unfinished.  I just copied and pasted when I realized what time it was.

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Like ‘Be Prepared’ or ‘Semper Fidelis’

Michael would say he was interested in how things came apart.  Where other children were carefully architecting wooden blocks to stand in tall many-colored towers he snatched the cornerstone and enjoyed the tumble.  [increasingly destructive and aging appropriate incidents here; maybe with physical harm maybe not].  As an adult he termed his knack the Least Effort For Maximum Entropy.  He’d even written it out in a notebook like a motto, like “Be Prepared” or “Semper Fidelis“.  Sometimes the acronym would earworm him and he’d find himself muttering, “Lef’ me.  Lef’ me. Lef’ me.”  He could make it feel like betrayal though he’d never been wronged.

[Turn all the above into an awesome exchange between a psychologist and a police officer; but not now]

“We would call him an assassin,” said Dr Trunket.

“Don’t romance it up.  He’s a murderer.  Plain.  Simple, ” countered Detective Ralph Barnes. “But I still don’t get it.  Why’s he come out here to Okarche?  Can’t be the money.  Revenge seems unlikely.”

“Revenge isn’t even part of the equation…not his revenge anyway.  And there’s a better than fair chance he did this one gratis.”

“Old John had lung cancer.  You tellin’ me you think this was mercy?”

“Exactly.  I have a theory our international assassin does domestic charity work.”

Before I run out of time I need to say this is forming up in my head faster than I can capture it in the discussion format I was attempting to get across.  My knowledge of police detectives, psychologists, assassins, and Okarche are sort of holding me back.

The central idea forming here is of a Bourne/Bond type assassin who for potentially guilt-based reasons  operates in an alter ego of more of a Kevorkian/Equalizer role.  Helping loved ones go to the grave with as little suffering as possible—while still stirring up trouble.

Maybe the upside is the loved one gets offed in an acceptable insurance manner that allows those left behind to benefit, but the action typically results in feelings of transferred guilt for the unknowing.  Maybe this is the ‘destruction’ Michael likes/seeks.

In any case it turns out Detective Barnes ends up on the case and cracking the thing wide open.  And that I’ve unwittingly started writing a mystery which even has the feel of serialization to it.  Classic. Crap.

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Kameel Perd

http://gorillaartfare.com/2009/11/huntress/


I thought I’d have some luck cruising Gorilla Artfare for visual fodder for my textual habit.  I did.

This one is from a favorite of mine: Nonie.  I’ve written from her work in the past and bought a few cards from her site to support her and to say thanks.  Going from memory because I want to stay on target for my writing, she’s a illustrator working for game companies creating character sketches.  I dig that and am jealous.

Got lost in hunting down a suitable name.  I don’t like it the best, but I’ll go with a straight translation of ‘giraffe’ into Afrikaans: kameelperd.  This way I can get moving.  Also, gorget: collar armor; spaulder: shoulder armor.

I may look simple and confident in this picture: my Dam’s hoops gleaming at my ears; my Da’s hand-me-down armguards and turtle-shell spaulder fitting so well I felt like I was donning his pride as I put them on only three hours prior.  However, this is the moment the exhilaration of my [special] hunt stepped over the root to utter fear.

Rose was the assistant.  The photographer’s name was Guy Tetreault, a French-Canadian university student, on a semester abroad.  Stand over here. Your hooves to the bungalow, please. But turn your head to me.  Chin down just a wee touch.  More.  Bien.  Rose can you even out the bird’s tail feathers for her?  Merci.  Still too busy.  Can we lose the bow and quiver? Clean, sharp, excellent.  Now hand her the spear.

He didn’t know what he was doing, he got lucky—in everything.

As I’m back trailing how hard my life has been since that moment I like to imagine it was all his fault.  That he did know what he was doing.  That he purposefully derailed who I was to be and made me who I became.  True path is I accepted that bull’s spear the same way I’ve taken everything hence: arrogantly and willfully.

http://gorillaartfare.com/2009/11/huntress/
I thought I’d have some luck cruising Gorilla Artfare for visual fodder for my textual habit.  I did.

This one is from a favorite of mine: Nonie.  I’ve written from her work in the past and bought a few cards from her site to support her and to say thanks.  Going from memory because I want to stay on target for my writing, she’s a illustrator working for game companies creating character sketches.  I dig that and am jealous.

Got lost in hunting down a suitable name.  I don’t like it the best, but I’ll go with a straight translation of ‘giraffe’ into Afrikans: kameelperd.  This way I can get moving.

gorget
Spaulder

I may look simple and confident in this picture: my Dam’s hoops gleaming at my ears; my Da’s hand-me-down armguards and turtle-shell spaulder fitting so well I felt like I was donning his pride as I put them on only three hours prior.  However, this is the moment the exhileration of my [special] hunt stepped over the root to utter fear.

The photographer’s name was Guy Tetreault, a French-Canadian university student, on a semester abroad.  Stand over here.  Your hooves to the bungalo, please. But turn your head to me.  Chin down just a wee touch.  Marcie can you even out the bird’s tail feathers?  Merci.  Still too busy.  Can we lose the bow and quiver? Excellent.  Now hand her the spear.  He didn’t know what he was doing, he got lucky—in everything.

As I’m back trailing how hard my life has been since that moment I like to imagine it was all his fault.  That he did know what he was doing.  That he purposefully derailed who I was to be and made me who I became.  True path is I accepted that bull’s spear the same way I’ve taken everything hence: arrogantly and willfully.