Morning Gunfight Dialogue

Firstborn: "I shot you! You're dead."
Secondborn: "I am NOT DEAD!"
Firstborn: "Just respawn!"
Secondborn: "Whoosh! I'm back! Pew! Pew! Pew!"

...I love that "respawn" has entered their running-around-games vocabulary.

Cowboys and Aliens and Bedtime

So, Firstborn (age seven-and-a-half) decided, when he turned off the video he was watching in his room, to sit on my lap and watch the video I was watching in the living room. This turned out to be Cowboys and Aliens, so he was treated to the big final battle and the exploding alien spaceship and whatnot.

This is of interest mainly because he had decided not to watch it earlier because it was too scary. Apparently the mental effort involved in Not Going To Bed Yet renders scary things a lot less scary.

I figure in another two or three years he'll be ready to watch Alien with me. At least, that was about the age where I first watched it with my parents, and under rather similar circumstances. Scary movies always > bedtime.

Filler: Taming Yesterday's Nightmares for a Better Tomorrow

I have nothing for today, so I'm going to send you all over to Peter Watts for an update on his research into Vampire Domestication. I'm sure you'll find it very educational.

The Dreamer's Prison

This is the fourth installment in A Haunted World. No, I still wouldn't count on it ever getting finished, if I were you.

There was a silver tray beside the narrow bed. Linda blinked and closed her eyes, tried to find a comfortable position on the narrow cot. After a few minutes she opened her eyes again.

The tray was still there. It was impossible; the cell had no doors, and the windows were high and barred. There was no way a wide silver serving tray could have been brought into this cell, but there it was: sitting on a wooden stand beside her cot. Was she dreaming all this? The thing in her closet, the horrible sense of being taken into darkness, her time in this cage? Or was it all some sort of trick? Had she been drugged and kidnapped? Was there a door here somewhere, carefully hidden?

She sat up and pulled the blanket around her shoulders, partly against the chill of the air and partly out of a fear that someone might be watching her, unseen. She approached the tray and tentatively extended her free hand. When nothing changed, she touched it: metal, solid and slightly cold. Encouraged, she lifted the lid from the tray.

Underneath it was a wide, shallow bowl. It was half-full; oatmeal, by the look and smell of it. Linda's stomach rumbled.

For a long time she just stood there, looking it at. Then she put the cover back down over it, picked the whole thing up (cover, tray, and wooden stand) and moved it to the far corner of the cell. She left it there, and went back to the cot. Even with the blanket, it wasn't particularly warm or comfortable, but it beat standing on the cold stone of the cell's floor.

She wanted to look for a hidden door. She'd been brought here, somehow; so had the food. There had to be a way in and out. Instead, she lay back on the cot and covered herself with the blanked. She wanted to see if anyone would react to her refusal to eat. The door, if there was one, would have to wait.

Later, when she looked back at that corner, the tray was gone.

The Hunter Prince: The Unbarred Door

"Did you take the bar off?" Cyjar looked at the metal door, then at the thick steel bar that was leaning in the corner beside it.

"No," said Morius. "It was like that when I found it. You can see there's still dust all over it."

Cyjar nodded. Janiva rubbed her nose, then asked: "And how in the world did you find it?"

"I was in the kitchen, getting a snack, when Jonquil came by."

"Jonquil?" asked Janiva.

"He's the wine steward," answered Morius, "but I didn't know that at the time. I was in the kitchen, trying to find a snack, and he came marching through with about six other servants behind him. He was wearing a serving coat, but one that very finely cut, and ones following him were almost as nicely dressed."

Cyjar nodded at that. He and his friends were too young for wine; the most they were permitted was a single cup of hard cider at the feasts. Jonquil, though... Cyjar had seen his father consult with the man about courtly dinners and visiting dignitaries, and not all of the discussion had centered on wines. Jonquil wasn't a spy, exactly, but as a high-ranking servant who came from a noble family, he carried some unique insights on events and politics.

"It seemed like a good test of my magic," said Morius, "so I followed them. They came down here, past the pantries and into the wine cellar. I stayed out of the way, and none of them saw me." Morius' voice held a touch of pride at that. "So I could have followed them back up, but as they were working I noticed this door."

"You stayed because of a door?" asked Janiva.

"I stayed because of this door," Morius replied. "Look at it. Why is it here at all? The kitchens are on the ground floor, just behind the Great hall. The pantries are below them, in chambers carved out of the bedrock. The wine cellars are further down; they're almost caves. Wines are expensive, so they should be kept dark and cool and safe... so why is there another door here? And why does it open on a staircase leading even further down?"

Cyjar stepped forward and pulled the door open. As Morius had said, there was a short passage and then more steps, leading down. "So why did you bring us here?" he asked.

Morius hesitated. "I was afraid to explore it alone."

Janiva snorted. "That's not cowardice," she said. "That's just sense." She looked a Cyjar. "Well? Should we have a look?"

Cyjar felt himself smile. "I'll play if you will," he said, half-challenging. Knowing already how Janiva would respond to that (she was the daughter of the High Lord of the Western Marches, and in training to become a knight as a prerequisite to her inheritance) he turned and stepped through the door. He muttered a quick spell as he walked, calling a small, glowing light to float above his head. He could hear Morius and Janiva behind him.

He'd gone down sixteen steps when his light flickered and went out. The steps were regular, so he kept walking; but as he voiced the words to call back the light, his left foot found empty air and he tumbled forward.

The passage continued for three short paces, then turned downward. Cyjar set his foot on the first step and heard it creak. "Wood," he said.

Behind him, Janiva said: "Old wood."

...But Cyjar had already started down.

The stairs went down a long way, and they creaked with every step: his, and his friend's. He had just caught sight of the bottom, where dusty wood gave way to smooth stone, when something gave way with a loud crack. He stopped immediately, but it was already too late: the stairs were shifting under his feet, twisting and sinking down. Cyjar shifted his balance, and in the process lost his hold on his spell; the air above his head went dark. He had a brief moment to realize that the stairs were too dark, that one of his friends must have fumbled his or her spell also.

Then the last of the wood gave way beneath his feet, the last of the light went with it, and he was falling into the dark.

For a moment, Cyjar felt nothing but cold, paralyzing fear. Then he slammed into something hard, which pressed into his gut and squeezed the air from his lungs. A moment later something crashed into him from behind (or above) and the surface beneath him swayed alarmingly. Then there was another crash, and nothing but the sense that everything was falling in the darkness.

Frozen Metal

Making sculptures from mercury, using liquid nitrogen.

You see the consistency when he's pouring the mercury? The way the surface tension makes the liquid "stand up" much higher than water ever would? Molten lead acts like that, too.

Of course, casting things in molten lead requires an entirely different set of safety precautions.

Also, this:

Further Adventures in Minecraft

I just went back into the living room to find Firstborn typing something into the PS3 (using the very awkward on-screen keyboard that works with the game controller), while Secondborn helpfully suggests letters that have nothing to do with whatever Firstborn is trying to type. So I said, "Secondborn, let Firstborn pick his own name."

At this point, Firstborn informs me that he isn't actually typing in a name. Instead, he's creating a sign. More specifically, he's creating the inscription for a gravestone for his dead dog.

He finishes this explanation about the time he finishes typing, so I look... and sure enough, his Minecraft guy is standing in front of a gravestone... and the gravestone says:
R.I.P.
RoughRough, it seems, was the name of the dog. Rough, it seems, fell into the lava and died. Firstborn, it seems, has created an entire grave, complete with headstone, for Rough the tragically deceased Minecraft dog.

This is not creepy at all, except for the part where OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING, CHILD, ARE YOU ACTUALLY PUTTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVE YOU JUST CREATED AND WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?????

I have no idea. I think I'm just going to nod my head and back away slowly from this one.