I don’t want to alarm myself, but our bathroom walls have apparently sprung a leak. Yes, that’s right: our walls are leaking. It sounded like rain pounding on the roof – only we live on the first floor of a two-story apartment building. Which means that someone is raining above us. I can’t quite help myself thinking of The Shining whenever I see errant water. I mean, you got walls weeping one second, and the next thing you know it’s a blood floodмебели in your hallway. True!
Very tired tonight after battle with suck-ass wordpress theme re-writing. Urgh. Just a little bit, then I’m on my way to bed… Continue Reading
Day two of the write-every-day-athon. There is no formal direction to this writing: my usual m.o. Who knows what will happen to darling Finn? ;) Continue Reading
Finn sat on the park bench, basking in the sweet midday sun and shut her eyes. The crisp notebook she’d stolen (although was it stealing if nobody was there to stop you?) from Target sat in her lap, waiting expectantly for her to tell it the story of the last few months of her life. Tapping the pen to the corner of her mouth, Finn thought hard for an apt title for her story. She turned to her left and eyed her companion, who eyed her back, cocking his head slightly for a better look at her. Continue Reading
Dezember knelt by the body in the ditch, running her claws along the gnome’s pallid, quickly-cooling face. He was still alive – but just barely. She’d watched from her perch on the nearby cliff as he’d foolishly attempted to cross towards the farmhouse. The worgen had made quick work of him, tearing out his throat and effectively skewering him on a fence post before discarding of him where he lay now, breathing infrequent, rattling death-breaths.
They were wasteful, the worgen.
Not she. As soon as they had disappeared back through the misty field of trees, she’d silently climbed down and scampered to the prone body lying in the ditch.
His eyes wandered wildly, now dull, now sharp and alarmed, but when he saw her, she could see the revulsion and fear in his dying expression. In her past life, she might have felt pity for little man, might even have tried to save him.
But, she mused as she spread the wound on his neck wider and lowered her head to feed, that was all over now. She was hungry, and pity would not keep her alive.
If alive was what she was. She wasn’t sure. It had been only a few turnings of the sun since she’d scratched her way out of the shallow pit grave she’d woken up in. That hadn’t been fun. She’d woken up with a teriffic hang-over (if death could bestow hang-overs), and the ferocious need to feed. Pumpkins hadn’t fit the bill. She’d had some of them, and felt nothing. It was only later, when she’d found the arm near the back of the farmhouse here, that she’d realized she hungered for meat.
Ever since then, her food supply had plumpened. She’d not moved much, except to move further up the rocks when the worgen patrols came around. She’d never actually seen a worgen in her past life. They were much bigger and scruffier than she had imagined. Much sharper claws.
Despite her newly-undead state (which seemed to inure her to many of life’s little inconveniences, but not, alas, hunger), she was unsure of how she would fare against those claws. Even if she could not be out and out killed, she did not like the idea of being impaled, maimed, or otherwise ripped limb from limb by them. It would make eating meat harder, for one thing.
The sound of scratching came to her ears. She ducked below the bank, grabbed the corpse in her hand, and darted off towards her rock. A few minutes after she was safely back in the little alcove, she saw the normal patrol pair coming around between the trees. Curling up where she sat, Dez wrenched the gnome’s arm off his frame and chewed, keeping an eye out.
Presently, she could make out the customary pair of them loping slowly through the trees. The
It had been cold when she’d woken. Things dark and heavy obscured her vision, and it took a moment for her to orient herself. Something nearby was fetid, rotting.
Vague recollections of consciousness teased her from the edge of her memory, swiftly disappearing back into the shadows like thieves. She saw images of people, flames. Then there was nothing.
Ripping through the veil of her memories, a voice above her spoke impatiently. “You can’t just lie in there rattling forever – need to get up sometime, you know! There’s work needs doing!”
She jolted, causing a shower of dirt to rain down on her. A sliver of light bled through into the darkness, and Dez looked upwards.
No, that was not quite right. The sliver of light was being caused by the body behind the voice, working away above her. In only a moment’s time, she could see, a glowing orb of fire, and nearby it, the head of a loose-jawed corpse.
“There you are. Wasn’t quite sure which pit you were in.”
Prologue: A Fine Jam, Indeed
Wrynne fidgeted under the gaze of the troll pirate in front of her. He was huge, even by troll standards. He was huge, and he was staring right at her, like she was a giant leg of lamb.
“Don’t you worry now,” he said, smiling fiercely. “The captain’ll be right out, and then you won’t have to be stuck in those binds any longer.”
Then, he licked his lips.
Next to her, Coreb Moonchaser piped up. “Very wise choice, my friend. Night elves are so much stringier than humans. You could probably use those thighs of hers for at least two solid meals. Maybe even – ”
“If we ever get out of here, I’m going to absolutely kill you, you filthy bastard!” Wrynne sneered.
The troll edged closer, laughing, and said, “Don’t worry, now, elf. Neither of you be going anywhere.”
Coreb chuckled nervously.
Wrynne gave a despairing sigh. She was going to get eaten by a tribe of outlaw cannibal pirates, and the last person in the world she would have with her was a mealy-mouthed, whiny night elf who’d just as soon sell her for meat as help her. She hated him. She hated him, and she hated herself for getting stuck here with him.
And just a week ago, things had been so…great?
Chapter One: Everyone Wants To Live In Tanaris
One week earlier
Wrynne was jarred awake by an irritating pressure on her belly. Still half asleep, she batted haphazardly in front of her.
“Go away!”
There was a foreign, guttural muttering, and she felt a weight lift off her body. Then, someone kicked her in the shin, hard. She yelped, sat up, and reached around her for something to grab to bash the hell out of –
“Hey! Long legs! It’s time to get up!”
Wrynne brought her arm up to shield her eyes, blinking sand out of her eyes. Buzzrek’s shrewd green face stared down at her. She couldn’t tell straight off whether he was displeased, or just hungry. With goblins, she’d found, it could go either way. Before she could ask him, his eyes narrowed and he levelled another keenly aimed kick right to her leg.
“Alright, alright!”
With a flurry of blankets, Wrynne wrenched herself off the floor and rose, glaring wildly at the menacing goblin in front of her. He snuffed with satisfaction.
“It’s about time! Work to do, work to do!”
Briskly, he turned and headed towards the doorway. Wrynne heard him levelling an even-mouthed criticism of hiring humans. When his footsteps sounded far away enough, she sunk into a chair, and hung her head back against the cool wall. Everything was pounding. Oh, god, the pounding. She actually had no recollection of how she’d even gotten back to her room last night. Whatever her gripes with the goblins were, she could not deny they were experts in at least two things: explosives, and alcohol.
Sitting there, nausea flowing through her while she stared around her at the pulsating red-striped wallpaper (complete with matching pineapples), Wrynne was not entirely convinced she hadn’t drunk a whole gallon of rocket fuel last night instead of alcohol.
But, then, she was in Gadgetzan, in the middle of the soul-sucking Tanaris desert, where the weather had two settings: Hot with Sand Storms or Hot Without Sand Storms. More often the former than the latter. No matter what geniuses the goblins may have been in inventing things, they had yet to conquer the problem of sand. There was sand everywhere, in every nook and cranny and – well, just everywhere. It had taken her a year to get used to it. Even if she left, she’d probably be breathing sand the rest of her life.
With her usual cheerful sand-induced mood intact, she made the climb up the few stairs leading to the main workshop door, and opened it. A gust of warmth blasted her in the face. It was barely daybreak, and Tanaris looked in rare form this morning for heat.
Grips, the manager of the inner enginerium, looked up from where he was hammering in a rivet and gave her a grunt.
“You look raggedy. Hanging out at Bexxar’s again?” And he laughed; a rough, cacophonous noise.
“He always asks! It would be rude to say no,” she replied, sinking into her seat. She regretted the swiftness of the motion. The world went spinning and she moaned, holding her face.
“You should go get wake-up juice from next door.”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
Even as she said it, she could feel the vomit rising in her throat. With her last cogent thought, Wrynne realized that if she threw up in the enginerium, Buzzrek would probably fire her. He wasn’t one for messes, especially if they weren’t fixable with a hammer or a wrench. Vaulting herself forward, she covered her mouth and dashed outside.
A sand-storm whipped her face as she disgorged the contents of her stomach onto the flat behind the workshop. Dizzy with the effort, she knelt on the ground, momentarily stymied.
“Mmm, very pretty.”
Wrynne didn’t have to turn around to recognize the voice of the Arena Battlemaster, one of the few other humans dumb enough to hang around Gadgetzan.
“Go away, Max. Vomit is a dangerous projectile, and I’m not above using it on you.” But even as she said so, she sunk closer to the ground, the pounding in her head dangerously close to the surface.
“Sure, Wrynne, sure. I was just passing by, thought I’d let you know you threw up all over your hair.”
And sure enough, when she looked down, goopy strings of – what the h
by ME!
Chapter 1 : A Proper Beginning
Chapter 2 : The Missing Person
Chapter 3 : The Other Missing Person
Chapter 4 : Women Are Trouble
Chapter 5 : No Rest For The Weary
Chapter 6 : Monsters and Demons
Chapter 7 : Dr. Shackleton, I Presume
Chapter 8 : Police Business
Chapter 9 : Cracked
Chapter 10 : Delphi Bound
Chapter 11 : The Search
Chapter 12 : Comeuppance
Chapter 13 : Denouement
Dec 1: Although I did hit the NaNo guideline words before the 30th, the story itself was not finished until today. Ridiculous, extraneous, and yes: just a little bit glorious, if only because it is the first real story with a beginning, middle, and ending that I’ve ever written, and it even won me $5.00.
Nov 29: I KICK ASS: 50,000, DUDES!
Nov 25: Nearing the end. Must reach 45,000 tonight, somehow. Then, only 5,000 more. And just think, at the end, I’ll have made $5.00 for only 30 days work! I can make these two promises regarding the plot, although everything else is basically at the whim of my very tired fingers: Jill will punch someone out by the end of the story.
Nov 20: I’m tired. But I must do another 2000 words tonight. Can’t be hard, right? Uhghghgh…
Nov 16: Plot is now completely unintelligible, but I am determined to win.
Nov 14: Made a few changes to Chapter 1 in order to sate my inner editor’s continuity fix.
Nov 11, Later: Dude, I’m so close to playing the zombie card. NEED. PLOT.
Nov 11: I’m making shit up left and right, and sometimes my brain just goes on cruise control and does this stream-of-consciousness-fiction crap. I’m behind, but still in the running. Or, just delerious. Tally-ho!
Nov 7: Titles are largely whimsical, and highly subject to change (much like the author). The first chapter title used to be “Sweet Betsy From Pike”. Oh, the directions an unfettered mind will take! ;)
Nov 6: The original Denby is a character I wrote up three years ago. These Denbys are not quite so dashing as the first, but then they do what they like once they are born and I hardly have control (especially when I’m supposed to just write for word count).
Nov 6: Behold: I am behind. 880 / 50,000, whee!
Nov 1: Someone is re-writing my passages, so if this never gets done, it isn’t my fault.
Harold’s eyes, normally downcast, away from all things garish and brightly lit, cast desultory eyes upon the place. He waged a mental battle against its cheery kitsch, its brazenly gauche decor. What kind of people would eat in such a place? And he knew what kind, would know even without looking: the kind of people who threw caution to the wind and filed their own taxes. The kind of people who never itemized. The kind who made charitable donations and never kept the receipts.
Harold dismissed them in his mind, but secretly ached. In his deepest heart, he, too, wanted to be cheery and devil-may-care. The corners of his mouth wilted. What good had it done him to be so proper and clever all these years? What good, when life – the bright and exciting kind, announced in neon! – had passed him by, again and again?
Suddenly deciding to be bold and unexpected, Harold put both his hands on the hard red door of the diner, and gave it a determined push.
The door did not budge. Harold blinked, nonplussed. And then, sheepishly, he beheld the “PULL” sign to the left of the handle, and, looking about to make sure he hadn’t been observed, entered.
How well he still remembered the first, deep whiff of the place! Whatever shortcomings there were in decor was more than made up for by the sweet, warm, succulent smell of waffles that filled Harold’s nostrils when he walked through the door. Like a rabbit testing the air, Harold remembered lifting his head, nose twitching in anticipation. His senses led him straight towards the counter, which was fairly busy, even given the lateness of the hour.
There was a large, scowling man behind the counter, eyeing Harold unpleasantly. He wore a nametag that said My name is Theodore, how can I help you?
“Well? What do you want?”
Taken aback, it took Harold a moment before he found his voice. “I – I would like to see a menu, please.”
A smirk brightened the corners of the Theodore the Goon’s mouth. “Menu? What d’you think this is?”
He moved one hand over his shoulder and jerked a beefy finger towards the wall. “There’s the menu, fella.”
Harold’s eyes moved to where Theodore’d pointed. A large, bright yellow placard posted boasted four items:
1 Waffle
2 Waffles
3 Waffles
Wally’s Wonder Waffle Special Combo Supreme– VIPs ONLY!!!
Harold looked around himself. The people around him were eating, most of them one or two waffles – he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to eat three. But what was a Wonder Waffle? VIPs Only!!!, huh? Probably some ridiculous birthday promotion, Harold decided. When he looked back to order, Theodore’s back was turned to him.
“Ah – excuse me.”
Theodore turned. “You made up your mind?”
“I’ll have a waffle. The one. Please.”
Theodore smirked at him, eyes moving up and down him, sizing him up. “Yeah,” he said finally. “One’s about your speed.”
Harold Mumford sat in the dark booth by the restrooms of Wally’s Wonder Waffles and dreamt of revenge.
Sally had passed his booth three times already, twirling her hair, looking down at her feet, sorting menus – anything to avoid looking at him. Once, while she had been waiting on the people in the booth across from him, he had managed to catch her eye. She’d turned red, and quickly retreated back to the safety of the kitchen.
Harold had felt a pang, watching her go. The bitter bile of betrayal rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down, a sneer of contempt curling his lips.
So, Sally. You’ve abandoned me too? Very well, he thought. Very well.
Oh, he knew it wasn’t her fault, but she was standing up with the enemy. There could be no mercy. Harold knew what would happen if he budged.
He would not budge. Instead, he dug in his heels underneath the Formica table, straightened his glasses, drew his raincoat closer about him, and waited.
It had all started a week ago.
No! Harold thought vehemently. No! To understand, it had to be taken back further!
It had all started four years ago, on a rainy night just like this one. Harold was trudging home in the rain, weary and bedraggled from having to spend long hours at work preparing last minute tax returns for one of his chronically dawdling clients. People always waited until the 14th to remember how much they didn’t want the government to come after their money – they always waited around, and expected him to bail them out.
And he always did. Because Harold was a bailer. He spent all his time helping others fix their crooked numbers, and he was good at it. Harold could thwart an IRS auditor in the blink of an eye. His clients waxed poetic on his god-like abilities with the State and Federal tax codes, praising him, idolizing him. That was, until April 16th rolled around. Then, he became just another name in their address books. Tossed aside. A nothing.
Yes, he remembered sadly, his thoughts had been very gloomy that night, indeed.
The rain that night was particularly heavy and cold. It was not long after he’d left his office that he was forced to seek shelter in the doorway of a brightly lit, garishly red, white and blue diner-type eatery.
Harold goes in despite the fact that he does not like waffles, does not like decor, and finds himself obsessed with their waffles. he goes home. Tries them. Tries lots of recipes, lots of irons, and cannot reproduce it. he finally goes back, swallows his secret shame at having to go to the waffle house, and has another. They are wonderful. But then one day, Wally is gone. There is a new cook. The new cook doesn’t make them the same way. He burns them. Over and over. And wally seeks revenge. At the end, he is taken away to jail, and on the first day there, they serve waffles. They are perfect. Harold is happy.