So, I haven't been posting much...

...and this is the best way I can think to explain why that is:

Odd dreams, part whichever

So, I finished watching Cloverfield last night and came out of the back room to find that the Beautiful Woman was sorting laundry while watching Iron Sky. Basically, I went from New York being attacked by a giant monster, to New York being attacked by Moon Nazis.

So, naturally, when I went to sleep I dreamed I was being kept in this strange, slapstick Chinese prison.

Go figure.

Let It Go

Incidentally, if you haven't seen Frozen yet, go see it. It's awesome.

Thinking about taking a break...

I've been toying with the idea of taking a break for a couple of days now. There are reasons for it, of course. Chief among them is that I'm tired -- not of the blog itself, just in general. Updating the blog every weekday actually occupies a surprising amount of my time and attention, and I'm not sure I have enough readers that anyone would really notice if I failed to post on schedule.

On the other hand, it's not like that time and attention would be better spent elsewhere. To put that another way, the blog isn't keeping me from writing other things; if anything, it's the other way around. The blog is where I come to write when I'm not making progress on anything else. (See, for example, the scene with Werdeth and his uncle from yesterday: that's not a story that I'm even trying to work on right now, but I had a random little snippet of it leap into my head, so I put it there.) The blog is also where I come to explore thoughts, drop rants, or write down fun little things that amuse me - mad science, superheroes bar stories, and like that.

So, basically, if there's a sudden drop in my blogging, it's probably because I'm busy making progress on one or more of my projects. That would be awesome.

But I'm also thinking that taking a complete break, however brief, might actually be kind of helpful. Just... not trying to write, not thinking about writing, not bothering to add filler. (Though admittedly, I love my filler. Even if it's just a youtube video for a single song, it's on here because it's a song that I like and enjoy.) I don't know if that would help me with getting back to some of my longer (and longer-standing) projects. Based on experience, I seriously doubt it.

Also based on experience, I'm not at all sure I could actually do that. I'm pretty sure that I'd sit down, take two deep breaths, and suddenly be struck by an inspiration for something that I absolutely had to write out. Hell, I wrote out a four paragraph e-mail about two of my current work projects yesterday morning, just to help me think through where they were currently and where they needed to go next. Writing, in a lot of ways, is how I do my thinking.

So... I don't know. But if I suddenly drop off the face of the Earth Blogger, well... don't panic, okay?

Werdeth: Test of the Magi

"Light the candle," said his uncle, and Werdeth reached out with his mind to touch the wick with fire.

His uncle sat unmoving, and extinguished the candle without so much as looking at it. Setting the candle aside, he picked up a thin silver chain and let it dangle from his fingers. "Make it move," he said.

Werdeth considered the chain, then released a soft breath that set it to dancing.

Exchanging the chain for a shallow wooden bowl, his uncle said: "Fill it with water."

Werdeth thought about that, then reached out with his mind to draw water from the air around them. His sinuses tingled as the first drops formed in the center of the bowl.

The older man, square-faced and square-shouldered, regarded the water forming in the bowl. "Good enough," he said, and paused to study his nephew. Werdeth waited, alert but unmoving.

"All power," said his uncle, "comes from one of the two realms. Mine has always been dark, but you are not reaching through my portals. What is it that you're using?"

Werdeth shook his head. "I don't know."

"Come now," said his uncle. "There's far less difference between them than most people believe. When you go to set fire to a candle, do you reach out to the light, or to the dark?"

Werdeth was still for a long, long moment. "Neither," he said. "I don't feel... It isn't reaching out. I reach in, into myself."

He waited, while his uncle remained still.

"I once thought my sister had married beneath her," his uncle said at last. "It was only later that I came to suspect that she married far, far above her." He blinked, then rose gracefully to his feet. "However you do this, it's time I sent you to a school." He paused, looking down while Werdeth looked up. "If anyone asks the nature of your power, tell them it's none of their business. They'll think you're dark, but that will cause you far less trouble than if you tell them you draw from yourself."

Werdeth frowned at that. He wasn't ready to go school. He wasn't ready to be around people. Come to that, he wasn't ready to be people.

He wasn't ready to argue the point, either. His uncle was already stepping out of the room, so he didn't see the small nod that his nephew offered, but it was there. If his uncle thought he was ready to go to school, Werdeth would trust his judgement.

Werdeth carried the knowledge that he could always withdraw, and it comforted him. He could return to the trees, the animals, the life of hunting and eating. He could, but he wouldn't yet: he missed the world of people, of talking, of ideas and artifice. He wasn't sure he could ever be entirely happy among people, but he wasn't sure he could ever be entirely happy away from them, either. So, while he explored that: school.

Music: Kerli

Walking on air:

Cobalt Carnage

I've got absolutely nothing for today. My brain is pretty much mush, and creatively I'm completely tapped out. But this... this amused me. So here you go:

On a related note, Cobalt Carnage would be an awesome name for one of those berserker-type superheroes.

The Hunter Prince: Containing-Crystals

Magister Hollint, who was responsible for the King's Menagerie, was an enormously fat man. He had the skin of the peoples of the western islands, dark brown with undertones that were almost gray, and enormous black eyebrows that emphasized the baldness of his head. He rose gracefully when Cyjar entered his office, seeming almost to float rather than to move. "My prince," he said , and offered a broad smile. "What brings you here? As you can see, you've caught me at my breakfast."

Cyjar would have expected an enormous plate of food: sausages and vegetable rolls, cooked eggs and pastries, fruits and sauces. Instead what he saw was a small plate, holding a single roll, two shimmer-berries, and a modest slice of meat. It was less than Cyjar would have eaten himself (had he been sitting to his own breakfast, instead of making a visit to the menagerie this morning). "I wanted to ask you a question or two," he said.

"I am at your service," said Magister Hollint, still standing behind his simple wooden desk.

Realizing, belatedly, that the man was waiting on him, Cyjar said, "Please, sit. Eat." The Keeper of the Menagerie was treating him as the crown prince, rather than a thirteen-year-old boy. Cyjar was more used to people who treated him as a boy in need of teaching, watching, and discipline - who saw him more as a child, and less as a prince. "This isn't urgent."

"Thank you, my prince." Magister Hollint drifted back down into his chair. "What is it you wish to know?"

Cyjar took the second chair, a simple wooden one that was placed in front of the desk. "I'd like to know more about the beasts that you store here: where they come from; how they're stored; how they're released. Things like that."

Magister Hollint swallowed a bite of his meat, and smiled. "You need help with your lessons?" he asked. "Or are you thinking of becoming a conjuror, like your cousin?"

...Like my cousin? Cyjar wondered. He took a moment to turn that over in his mind. "I didn't know Dabin had taken up conjuring," he said, puzzled.

"Dabin?" asked Magister Hollint. "No, not the older one. It was Seshil who came to me and asked to learn. He is a good pupil: talented, studious."

Cyjar thought quickly. If Seshil was studying under Magister Hollint, then he was almost certainly the source of the grabby-monster. It might even have been his own idea; Dabin and Seshil did everything together, and it was often hard to tell which of them was leading and which, following. Either way, though, it was almost certainly something the two of them had come up with, and not a part of any larger intrigue.

Should he tell Magister Hollint? Cyjar didn't want to, for the same reason that he hadn't called for the guards, or said anything about it to the wizard. He wanted to deal with this himself. He needed a better plan.

"Ah," he said, to cover his moment of thought. "No, I'm not ready to take up conjuring. What I wanted to know about was the spells for the containing-crystals. I have something I'd like to store in one of them."

"They are simple enough," said Magister Hollint, and took a bite of his roll. When he'd finished chewing, he added: "I have time this morning, if you wish."

Cyjar shook his head. "I'm due in the hall for blade practice this morning. Could I find you here this evening?"

"The pleasure is mine, my prince," said the Keeper of the Menagerie.

Toys

Secondborn has a dollhouse, which he got for Christmas. In the dollhouse is a treasure chest, from one of the Thomas The Tank Engine sets. A Happy-Meal version of Optimus Prime just discovered the treasure chest. Optimus Prime is hoping that it contains chocolate coins.

"The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame or blame." ~Thomas Hobbes

Anita and the Cat Lady

I'm completely tapped out, so I went and dug up an old piece of fiction for your amusement. It was written back in June of 1997, so... well, mainly, so I'm getting old. It's not one of the ones I'm especially proud of, but it did get a tiny bit of local publication, and I did get paid for it. So there's that...

It had, reflected Anita, been one hell of a day. On the good side, she had managed to scrape together enough to pay for the coming semester’s tuition. Unfortunately, even at a junior college the cost virtually emptied her bank account, and she really wasn’t sure if she could make it to payday this time. Then, on the way back from the grocery store, her timeworn Dodge had broken down, leaving her to walk the rest of the way with her two carefully-stocked grocery bags, one in each arm. As a result, her arms were now aching, and her back was starting to join them. If I’d had enough cash to fill them properly, she thought, I’d never have made it. As it was, she was returning home later than she ever really wanted to be out, especially in this neighborhood.

As she made her way up the street, placing her feet carefully to avoid tripping on the uneven stones of the sidewalk, she saw him: a younger man in ratty clothes, his face made prematurely harder and colder by the street, with carefully greased black hair and a gold ring in one ear. He let his eyes wander insolently from her face to her feet and back up. Then he smiled.

Chilled, she turned and mounted the steps into her apartment building. As she cleared the doorway, she saw him cross the street, not hurrying, but definitely turning in her direction. She immediately regretted her outfit, but the short skirt and the blouse were an unwritten part of her job requirements. If being a secretary hadn’t turned out to pay better than most other jobs, and if she hadn’t needed the money so badly, she would have quit long ago. At least her shoes were sensible; she exchanged heels for tennis shoes every day, as a part of her after-work ritual.

* * *
She paused at the top of the stairs, looking back to see if he was going to follow her into the building, the weight of the groceries momentarily forgotten. For a moment the front hall was still. Then a figure moved through the doorway, the light of the single dim bulb revealing the younger man’s face. Though she had half-expected this, she started slightly when she saw him, causing one of the grocery bags to crumple. He looked up at the sound, smiling his predatory smile at her again, and started up the stairs.
Anita didn’t waste any time. She dropped both bags immediately, sending cans of vegetables rolling down the stairs, turned, and ran quickly up the hallway to her door. She had left it locked, of course, and there was a long, terrible time while she fumbled out her keys and unlocked the door. At any minute, he would come up behind her and...

But no. He reached the top of the stairs just as the door opened, his steps slow and almost lazy. His insolence and composure made her want to scream, in fear and frustration combined. If he was going to attack her, couldn’t he at least be nervous about it? Or guilty? Anything, anything would be better than this awful, placid calm. Stumbling into her apartment, she slammed the door behind her, shot the bolt and slipped the chain into place. Breathing deeply, she leaned back against the door and forced herself to be calm. The door was locked; she was safe; she could relax. She repeated this to herself like a prayer, over and over.

When he knocked on the door, she nearly leapt out of her skin.

“Can I borrow some sugar, miss?” The voice was smooth, even amused.

“Sure,” she shot back. “It’s out there by the stairs.” Immediately, she regretted speaking. “Pendejo,” she added under her breath.

“Let me in,” he said, his voice insistent. “‘S not polite t’ leave me standing out here.”

She didn’t answer, backing nervously away from the door. She knew she should call the police, but the police seldom came to this neighborhood. They would probably take their time answering the call, and by then it would be too late. Shaking her head as if to clear it of that morbid line of thought, she looked around for a weapon.

* * *
It was a cheap apartment, the only kind she could afford. In addition to its other problems— its location, the bugs she had persistently chased out, the occasional lack of hot water— it had a cheap front door. The intruder was a fairly big man, and his first kick broke away the wood around the bolt, leaving it hanging in the doorframe as the door swung open. The chain held it for a moment, but then a second kick ripped it free of the door as well, and he walked casually into the room. Smiling, he swung the door shut behind him, pushing a chair back against it to keep it closed. Anita’s kitten, Whisper, raised his voice in a low sound of warning, more groan than anything else, but he was only five weeks old, and too small to pose a threat.

While the intruder’s back was turned, she swung the baseball bat at his head.

He was faster than she thought — Too fast! Screamed part of her mind— and he managed to turn in time to ward the off most of the blow with his arm. He stepped in before she could swing again, wrestling the bat out of her hands and tossing it away behind him. She took a step back, and he backhanded her across the face.

The force of the blow brought tears to her eyes and set her ears to ringing. She fell back, landing gracelessly on her butt, her vision blurred and her wits fled. At that moment, someone else knocked on the door. Anita wiped desperately at her eyes, trying to clear away tears so she could see. The man hesitated, holding out a knife he had drawn from somewhere in his clothing. It was a hunting knife, not large, but smooth and extremely well polished; to Anita’s eyes, it looked very sharp.

After a moment the door swung open, the chair sliding across the bare wooden floor in front of it. The man shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where he could watch both Anita and the door at once. Whisper made his low, yowling sound again.

* * *
When the hunched, ragged figure shuffled into the room, Anita wanted to cry. Mad Maggie was no threat to anybody— just a harmless old street person, scrounging her living out of the dumpsters and alleyways. She must have left her cart in the front hall, Anita thought wildly. She was never without her shopping cart, and the twin grey cats that rode in its front. Pouncer and Yowler, she called them— she would speak to the animals from time to time, but almost never to people. The two cats sat in the doorway at her feet, eyeing the room disdainfully.

Anita had met Mad Maggie during her second day in the apartment. Maggie did her scrounging in the same block as the apartment building (she probably had a squat somewhere nearby), keeping strictly to her territory. The residents knew her by sight, and sometimes gifted her with bits of food or worn-out clothing. Given food, Maggie invariably divided it among the dozen or so cats who followed her— a constantly changing group, though Yowler and Pouncer seldom left the cart— and ate no more than the animals did.

Anita had found the woman interesting, in a peculiar sort of way. She had tamed her as she would any other wild animal, giving her food when she could afford to, keeping her movements slow and careful so as not to alarm. After a time, the old woman seemed to become accustomed to her, and after Whisper came to live with Anita, Maggie proved willing enough to teach her the names of the other cats as well.

The intruder turned, emitting a low chuckle, and gestured with the knife. He was almost twice her height, straight and strong against her hunched, elderly frame. “Get lost, old woman,” he said. His voice carried the unmistakable hint of a threat.

Mad Maggie said something— Anita couldn’t tell exactly what— and shuffled easily into the room, raven-sharp eyes glancing easily around. When she stopped, she was not quite between Anita and the intruder. She lifted her head, peering out from beneath the shapeless cloth hat, absently brushing away a tangle of unruly grey hair. “Jordan Thomas,” she said suddenly, and the young man jumped. Her voice was surprisingly clear and penetrating.

* * *
“Ain’t no thing,” said the man, who apparently was named Jordan, with a small shrug. Then, with a sudden, vicious movement, he lunged at Mad Maggie, driving his knife deep into her ribs. She let out a strange sound— a whuff!— and folded over, collapsing onto the floor.

“Crazy old woman,” he said, turning back to Anita. “Ain’t nobody goin’ t’miss her at all.”

The sound cut him off, rising up from stillness to fill the room. It was an eerie sound, an inhuman moaning cry from a chorus of feline throats. Unnoticed, they had followed Mad Maggie into the room, spreading out along the walls, perching on the table, the windowsill, the desk which held Anita's battered old typewriter, the edges of chairs— everywhere. A low counterpoint rose beneath the sound: some of the cats were growling as well.

Jordan Thomas turned back in disbelief as Mad Maggie straightened and rose. No longer hunched, she seemed to gain height as she drew herself up. For a moment she regarded him, something ancient and cold and regal and powerful in her eyes.

“My boy, my boy,” she pronounced. “You’ve done it now. I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to... and I don’t.”

He looked from her to the circle of cats. Anita saw more of them coming in the door every minute, filling the room in a steady stream. Slitted pupils glared coldly. She recognized some of them— Snowy, who belonged to Mrs. Moore down the hall, a tabby who lived upstairs— and realized that every cat in the building was here. No, she thought, realizing how many she didn’t recognize, more like every cat on the block...

They parted as the came around Anita, furry bodies brushing easily up against her. She might have been part of the furniture, save that they never stepped on her. Jordan spun, disbelief turning to panic as he looked for a way to escape. There were none. The windowsill was guarded, by Yowler and Pouncer and Whisper and others. Other cats were still arriving through the front door, and for a moment Anita could imagine a steady flow of them reaching all the way out to the street.

* * *
A set of claws raked his arm, and he cut at a cat with this knife. It dropped easily away, avoiding the blade, and large tomcat latched onto his achilles tendon. Before he could stab it, an orange tabby had sunk its fangs into his hand, forcing him to drop the knife.

It was over in minutes.

“There now,” said Mad Maggie, putting out a hand and drawing Anita to her feet, even as her age seemed to reassert itself. “That’ll be better. A kindness for a kindness. Best if you don’t say anything about this, though,” she said, watching the last of her children stroll easily out of the room. Anita nodded, her muscles slow with shock. Then Maggie patted Anita on the arm, and shuffled out the door behind that long, impossible stream of cats.

Behind her, on the window sill, Anita heard Whisper meow. When she looked over at him, he licked his lips, then put his head down and settled into a long, contented purr.

Of the man who'd attacked her, there was nothing left but bones.

Training Montage

So, yeah. I'm still in training. On the plus side, I'm feeling a lot better informed about the software I'm supposed to be administrating. On the minus side, my brain is tired. It's a pity we couldn't just compress the whole thing into a training montage...

The Hunter Prince: The King's Menagerie

The King's Menagerie occupied a sprawling courtyard on the west side of the castle. Caijar had visited the public exhibits many time when he was younger; as a boy, he'd enjoyed looked at the plants and animals, many of them from distant lands. His favorites were the fluff-bears, whose fur was so thick that it served as a kind of armor. They were large and fairly sociable animals, and lived in family groups. Some of the tribes of small near-men in the western hills of Dartland were said to have trained them for riding. Caijar had always wanted to ride one, but his parents had forbidden it. Now he was almost too big to try it.

The King's menagerie was much more than just the animals in their little courts, though. The larger building on the far end, where the keeper had his office, was a veritable library of plants and animals. Some were common and some were rare; some were local and others were exotic; some were natural, while many were conjured. They were kept in golden containing-crystals which protected them from the passage of time and held them ready for any need that might arise.

It was only in the last year that Caijar had realized just how important the King's Menagerie was to the kingdom's military. A conjuror on the battlefield could summon three or four fighting-beasts, at most. A conjuror whose beasts were were already held in keeping-crystals could command dozens, even hundreds. And that, as his mother had noted, left aside the importance of the seed crops that were also stored here in case of famine, plague, or some other disaster.

Saisha had been absolutely right. The wizard said the grabby-monster couldn't have been conjured. Caijar supposed that it could have been smuggled into the castle unnoticed, but that seemed very difficult, if not impossible. No, the only place for someone living in the castle to obtain one of the beasts was here, in the King's Menagerie.

One of those days...

This post is going to be more than a little whiny and self-indulgent, so feel free to skip it. Also: I'll be cursing.

Secondborn woke me up at four o'clock this morning. He, of course, managed to go right back to sleep. I, naturally, did not. Admittedly, it could have been worse; I deliberately went to bed early last night, because I'm in training this week. So this works out to about the same amount of sleep I would have gotten normally.

That isn't too bad, but:
A. I wanted more sleep than that.
B. My day has now started rather earlier than I wanted it to.
C. This training is fairly important; I don't think it's going too far to say that my job security depends on getting a good handle on this software.
D. I now have a couple of hours to myself while everyone else is asleep, which ought to be the perfect opportunity to do some writing, except I can't seem to actually do any writing. (Except this. Which is not at all the sort of thing I'd like to be writing.)
E. I don't think we're going to be able to move out of this house.

This has put me in One Of Those Moods. The kind of mood where I'm forced to confront the fact that I pretty much suck as a writer.[1] The kind of mood where I can't help but fixate on the fact that I've been paying for a storage unit - for nearly a year now - which has apparently been a complete waste of money and effort.[2] The kind of mood where I can't seem to focus on the fact that actually, we're pretty well off... because I'm utterly fixated on my inability to make any progress on any of the projects that matter to me.[3]

So, y'know, fuck it. Yeah, sure, in the grand scheme of things, we're doing pretty well. This is all pretty minor - First World problems, as it were. I don't care. I'm just going to take a little time and indulge my frustration and my melancholy. And maybe just sit in a hot shower for a little bit.

[1] In fairness, it's not that I think my writing is bad in itself. I suck as a writer because I can't gorram finish anything. And yes, I know, it's all a matter of Making Writing A Priority and Getting It Done, but there are only so many fucking hours in the day, I only have so much energy and concentration, and there's a lot of other shit that needs to get done, too.

[2] We started looking at selling this house and moving to a larger one last February. That means I've been renting the storage unit since March or April. At this point, I honestly don't think moving to a new house is feasible. We can't afford a house that fits all of our criteria, and even if we somehow could, we can't manage to get this house ready to sell. Short of a winning lottery ticket - which would be tricky, since I don't buy lottery tickets - we can't move, and the beautiful wife won't allow any of the stuff in the storage unit back into this house. (And, yes, a fair chunk of it is hers.) So, really, I should have just sold, trashed, or burned all that crap, and saved myself the thousand-or-so bucks that I've spent so far to give it a "temporary" home.

[3] Yeah, welcome to my brain.

The Hunter Prince: A Chest Full Of Grabby-Monster (Version 2)

Caijar returned to his room before dinner. It was quiet, and Caijar wondered if the grabby-monster was still alive. The chest where he'd trapped it had only a single keyhole for air, after all. He carefully unlocked the chest, and slowly lifted the lid...

It jumped at him.

Caijar had been half-expecting it to attack, so instead of wrapping itself around his torso, it ran head-first into his fist. A moment later it dropped back into the chest, thrashing angrily. "Stop that," Caijar snapped.

The beast went still.

"That's better," he said. He wasn't sure if he was talking to the grabby-monster, or to himself. "Well... You lasted this long. You can stay in there until I puzzle out something better."

He tucked a couple of stray tentacles into the chest and closed it again. Then he sighed, and stood. It was going to be a busy evening, and he was already tired, bruised, and sore from laughing.

He was halfway to the door when someone knocked on it.

Caijar opened the door to find Saisha standing outside. "Janiva and I were going to take our dinner out to the western wall. Are you coming? I think Morius was planning to join us."

Caijar hesitated, but only for a moment. The hallway was empty, and Saisha was a good person to ask. He motioned for her to step inside.

She followed him in and closed the door behind her. She looked around the room, then settled her attention on him.

Caijar drew himself up, in deliberate imitation of Lord Jasrad. "As your prince," he intoned solemnly, "I must require you to speak of this to no one. What you are about to hear is a matter of utmost secrecy."

Saisha giggled, and Caijar grinned. Lord Jasrad might consider himself the very incarnation of dignity and decorum, but everyone else considered the man a pompous windbag. Then Caijar nodded at the chest. "Someone left a grabby-monster in my room."

"Oh," said Saisha, and then fell silent.

Caijar waited. He knew she would do her thinking first, and her speaking afterward.

"...So that's why you were late," she said.

Caijar nodded. "I went to talk to the wizard. He told me it couldn't have been conjured here, and that it wouldn't have come here on its own."

Saisha blinked. "Does he know it's here?"

Caijar shook his head. "No. He seemed to think that someone had been scaring me with stories."

Saisha nodded silently; he could almost see her fitting that piece of information into the rest of the puzzle. "So how...?" She stopped, blinked again, and nodded sharply. "You should check the King's Menagerie."

It took Caijar a moment to get the measure of that idea, though he knew from the way Saisha said it that she was probably right. Then he nodded. "I will." Then he started for the door. "Dinner first, though?"

Saisha raised an eyebrow. "Eating is more important than finding out who put the grabby-monster in your room?"

"Not exactly," he said, as they stepped into the hall. "I was hoping that if pretended like nothing had happened, whoever did it would get curious, or maybe worried. After all, if the grabby-monster somehow got out of my room before I got there..."

There was a brief pause: Saisha was thinking, again. "I like that," she said at last. "It's simple, and it might actually work."

What day is this again?

Owing to the way the holidays fell this year, I've spent the last two weeks on a very on-again-off-again schedule. Like, Weekend, day or two of work, day or two of holiday, day or two of work, weekend, day or two of work, holiday, day or two of work... Anyway. It's Friday now - at least, I'm pretty sure it is - but it feels like it ought to be another casual day.

Next week, barring any amusing new illnesses in our household, we ought to be back to a regular week of work.

I hope.

We'd better be, come to think of it. I'm supposed to be in training, and I'm going need the entire week for that.

Anyway, no idea what blog entries are going to look like for the next week or two. Usually when I think there's going to be a lull, I still end up posting. The times when the regular entries get interrupted mostly seem to come when I thought everything was going to be fine. If I can, I'd like to do those updates on The Hunter Prince, and maybe another Superhero Bar Stories or Notes From The Mad Science Lab.

We'll see.

Happy New Year

Yeah, I know, I was supposed to do this yesterday. It's been a little busy around our house. On the plus side, everyone seems to be clawing their way back to being healthy. So, no resolutions, no looking back to take stock of 2013, and no great words of wisdom. I hope the new year is a good one for everybody.