Rice Paddywhack

agent_orangetan @ 2006-11-14T19:56:00

2006-11-15T02:56:32Z

I find myself wondering why I felt the need to move so far away from my family, particularly now that I am going to visit next week, and for such a short time, and then I have no idea when I'll see them again, as it costs bundles to fly from one end of the country to the other, and I don't have bundles.

I am posting this here, because it seems when I post things on my other journal about being lonely or upset for one reason or another, there is always someone who writes back that I ought to be more proactive about it, that it is my fault in some way (and maybe it is, but man that's not what I need to hear). Starting over is hard though, and while I knew partially that it would be, the reality of it is that I had no idea what I was in for. I know this is a passing mood, and that I'll be fine and ready to go at my goals again soon, but for now I'm a little ball of sad.

anyway, just rambling. if I don't get into school for next year, I really don't know what I'll do. I came out here to start my life, and grad school is a BIG part of that life that I want.

"Imagination without skill makes a lively chaos; skill without imagination, a deadly order." --DH

2006-11-10T19:52:08Z

I am on crack. My back aches from sitting slouched in front of my computer. I am poisoning myself with coffee. My fingers don't want to cooperate with my brain anymore. I don't feel like I'm cut out for this fiction thing, but I stupidly refuse not to try. It's like chasing the perpetual hanging carrot.

Two stories that I have NO clue where to go with. If I do Nano next year (unlikely if I get into MFA program), I am coming in with an outlined plot that I've worked on for months ahead of time. I just can't make my brain come up with things off the cuff. It craves complicated plot, and it craves many hours sitting in front of the same five pages for days at a time, and it just isn't possible for me in such a short time.

The only way I can salvage this is to roll these two stories up into a third that I've been contemplating. I was gonna wait til after Nano to start it, but this is an emergency, and the situation is startlingly similar to my own.

And damn it, because I keep taunting readers with half-finished plots, this one nobody's reading until it's DONE, dammit. Enough of this shit.

*self-flagellating in the corner*

merrrr

2006-11-09T23:07:57Z

Hi, I deleted my Craftmanship entries because I really like the characters and may someday want to make a real novel out of it.

So, copyright/publication rights prohibit me from posting any more of it.

If you would like to read from here on out, please let me know and I can email it to you.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

annoyed author from the age of complete idiocy

grits teeth, grits in teeth, ew

2006-11-08T02:58:19Z

Today I decided not to let the man get me down. Writing is supposed to be torturous, but it is also supposed to be fun.

I dug out my book-mentor today, Jasper Fforde and his book, The Well of Lost Plots. If any of you Nanoers have not yet picked up a copy of this, I suggest you do. Post haste. What Jasper does is point out, in hysterical phraseology, that all the agony we writers go through is a bit ridiculous, and that it doesn't even help in the long run. The best thing to do is...exactly what you want. How you please. Whatever. Wheaties.

So we are going to have fun tonight. I rename my Nano "Fever Dreams: A Novel Experiment," which is what it is essentially.

I was seven chapters in when it all came grinding to a halt. Two genres I had sworn never to write had swashbuckled my novel--horror and romance. They went absurdly well together, like Beauty and the Beast.

I was beginning to enjoy being Judas--traitors are rarely boring. I considered myself on vacation, and blithely stepped int a new, even zanier world--the Navy, through the eyes of an asexual, bipolar skydiver. I could have tried a bisexual, apolar dieskyver, but I don't think it would be as interesting. Also, I would have to define dieskyver.

National Novel Writers' Morgue--where bad stories come to rest and be examined, cleaned up, and gutted for healthy plot organs.

I leave you among the corpses while I go off in search of fictional alcoholic beverages.

Chp 6 and part of 7

2006-11-06T05:56:03Z

I'm going to write a little more tonight, but I don't think I'll post it. I managed to write chapter 6 and a bit of 7 (I apologize in advance for starting to write like a bad horror novelist, but hey, I'm going for quantity now, quality later), so the weekend hasn't been a total loss, but all in all I'm disappointed with my progress. I had set a goal of making it to at 25k, but I guess that was way too ambitious. In my defense, I had a rather nasty shock yesterday morning, which may prove disastrous if I can't iron it out tomorrow. I say that is what killed yesterday's word count. Today was just my own laziness.

6. In the Dark

Akasha sat very still as Niel told her what little he knew. She was very white. "First Sean, then Virginia. Oh god, I'll never be able to face him," she muttered.

"Your father?" he asked gently, sitting down next to her on the wooden steps. "This isn't your fault," he said.

"I'm responsible for her," she said, shaking her head. "I always have been. It doesn't matter that I wasn't there." She pressed her lips together and glanced at Niel. "I'm glad you were there to see," she said, her eyes filling. "I can't imagine what she was doing in there. That stupid biddy." She put her face in her hands.

"If you ask me, I'd say she was looking for the same thing we were," Niel said, shifting uncomfortably next to her. He patted her back, then thought better of it and took his hand away. She moved closer to him and pushed herself under his arm, so he replaced the hand on her back.

"How could that be? She didn't even know about Sean, or what Isabelle told us about the tunnels. What could she possibly be after?"

"Don't know," he said, "but what I do know is that one second she was standing at the bar, and the next she was gone. Just gone. She was far enough from the door to make it impossible for her to just have left. And that bartender...he acted like she hadn't been there at all." He frowned and found himself fingering the gun in his jacket.

"So we have to go in there and figure it out." Akasha pushed away and got to her feet. "If the tunnel entrance is there somewhere, there's a good chance whoever's behind this took Sean that way also." She glanced at Niel, who had remained on the step. "What are we waiting for?"

"We'll have to wait until the bar closes," he said. "Unless we can figure out a way to get past the bartender. He threw me out, and I'm not about to shoot someone in broad daylight without ample cause."

"Erikson's doesn't close until four o'clock in the morning," Akasha snapped. "That's too much time to waste dicking around out here. You can wait if you want to, but I'm going in. Now." She marched into the house, and Niel could her her running up the stairs. He resigned himself to waiting, but within minutes she reappeared wearing slacks, boots, and a worn men's overcoat. Her hair was pinned up under a felt broadbrimmed hat. Niel felt his jaw go slack.

"What do you think?" she asked, turning around.

"Have you been saving that for a rainy day, or something?" He grinned. She was perversely attractive in men's clothing.

"Every day is a rainy day in Portland," she said. "Now let's go."

*

Virginia fought against the nausea and struggled to sitting position. For a moment, she feared that the sharp pain in her head and the fact that she could see nothing indicated she had somehow gone blind, until her eyes adjusted enough to the dark to see the dim outline of a door directly in front of her. Her arms were not bound, but she found she could barely move--the room she was in, if one could call it a room, was the size of a refrigerator box. The air was musty, suffocating. She couldn't imagine how she had gotten there.

She ventured a timid, "H-hello?" and was frightened by the weakness of her own voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, feeling a surge of irritation counter some of the overpowering fear she had woken with. "Who the hell are you?" she yelled. The last thing she recalled was standing at the bar with Niel, and then the ground had disappeared out from under her.

Now she began to hear scuffling outside the box. She pressed her face to the dimly lit crack, trying to see out. "Hello, who's there?" she said loudly. A groan answered her.

*

It was approaching the dinner hour, and Akasha felt a flutter of nervousness watching the number of patrons going into and out of Erikson's increase by the minute. She followed Niel around to the back of the building. Garbage cans, broken bottles, and cigarette butts littering the area told her that they wouldn't have much time before someone came out. She tried the door--locked.

"Dammit. What about windows?" she asked Niel.

"Not that I could see leading to the basement."

"Dammit," she said again. "All we do it wait around and gab like a pair of grannies." She hunched forlornly into her coat.

"I don't see you coming up with a plan," he pointed out. "If you hadn't worn that getup, you could've charmed your way in. As it is..."

She glowered at him. "You don't think I can be charming like this?" She crossed her arms over her chest.

"I didn't exactly say--"

The door swung open, and they ducked behind the garbage cans. A man leaned just outside the door, lit a cigarette, and stood puffing smoke while Niel and Akasha struggled to keep from falling into his line of sight.

"Great," she whispered.

"No, this is good," he said softly. He crawled as close as he could to the door without being seen. The man flicked his cigarette away and stuck his key in the lock, opened the door and disappeared inside. Niel lunged forward and caught the door before it closed. He looked back at Akasha, who scrambled to her feet and ducked inside. He let the door close behind him.

"Now what?" she said. They were standing in a narrow hallway lined with cardboard boxes. Akasha could hear the laughter and music coming from the front of the bar.

Niel didn't reply. He was already pulling open every door he could see. "Stairs," he said, motioning her over. The cellar was dark, with only a single bulb hanging from the ceiling to keep them from misplacing their feet. Akasha held tightly onto the back of Niel's jacket as they went down, wincing at every creak in the stairs. From the little she could see, they were in a small storage room. Cases of beer and shelves full of liquor lined the walls, along with jars of onions and olives, cherries, and boxes of citrus fruit.

"I bet Sean could spend all day down here," he said, glancing around.

"Shh, don't joke," she hissed, giving him a little shove.

"Relax," Niel said soothingly. "We made it this far. Now all we have to do is find the entrance to the...ah, here we go." He shook her off his back and strode over to where the sound of music and laughter above was loudest. "This must be right under the bar, or pretty damn close." He looked up.

"I don't see anything," Akasha said. She joined him at the wall. Niel ran his hands over the bricks from ceiling to floor, then stopped and crouched low to the ground.

"There's some loose bricks here," he said, probing with his fingers. "There's no mortar between them." He stood up and positioned himself perpendicular to the wall. "Stand back a bit and watch for anybody coming down." Akasha moved away from him.

"What are you going to do?"

Niel braced himself and rammed his shoulder against the bricks. The whole wall gave way, and he nearly fell through, catching himself on a nearby shelf. "Bingo," he said, smiling grimly at Akasha.

"What happened? Your face just went completely white," she said, coming over to him.

"My shoulder," he said, groaning. "Stupid, shouldn't have done that."

"They were loose bricks. How could you hurt your shoulder on loose bricks?"

"Old injury," he said. "Have you ever put your shoulder through a wall? Forget it. Damn, should've brought a light." He squinted into the hole he had made and whistled. "Take a look at this." He moved out of the way so Akasha could see.

"It really is a tunnel," she said in a hushed voice. A low ceiling with pipes leading into the darkness stretched before them. The ceiling overhead creaked, and they both looked up. "We can't exactly hide this mess," she said, staring down at the pile of bricks. "Should we go in?"

"It's up to you," said Niel. "If we're going to go, now is the time. Someone's bound to find us down here."

Akasha took a cautious step through the hole and stood looking back at Niel. "Do you suppose they'll brick us in?"

"If they do, I highly doubt it'll be any more difficult to get through than the first time." Additionally, he thought, it was unlikely they'd find their way back the way they came. But he kept that to himself.

"I have to find Ginny," Akasha said. He shrugged and followed her through the hole, pulling his pistol out as he went.

*

The groans stopped abruptly. "Is someone there?" A groggy male voice that seemed to come from a far distance greeted Virginia. The voice had an accent and sounded vaguely familiar.

"Where are we?" she asked the voice.

"Bloody hell if I know."

As she became more adjusted to the dim light, Virginia could make out a tiny window in the side of her box, made of flat iron slats. She attempted to stick her fingers through.

"Hey, can you see my fingers?"

"I bloody well can't see a bloomin' thing. And those bastards took my shoes. My shoes, as if I had anywhere to walk to."

"Do you have any idea who they are?"

"Haven't a clue," said the voice, sounding peevish. "One minute, I'm standin' outside my pub, havin' a smoke, and the next thing I know I'm wakin' up in here. Clonked me on the head as well."

"Well, how many of us are in here?" Virginia was starting to get annoyed with the voice.

"As far as I knew until a moment ago, I thought it was just myself. So...two, I suppose."

"You're a lot of help," she said.

"Excuse me, but it's not as though I was able to take a head count when they threw me in here. Bloody women," the voice went on. "If half my girls were as querelous as you, I'd have to sell the place and commit myself to the funny farm."

She decided that whoever it was wouldn't be any help, even if she could reach him. "It must be connected to those men disappearing all those years ago," she said to herself. She groaned and rubbed at her neck; the box's low ceiling forced her to sit at an angle, hugging her knees. Virginia attempted to keep track of time as it passed, but she grew tired and soon gave up counting. Pressure was starting to build in her bladder, and she cursed herself for the drink she had accepted from the bartender. She wondered if somehow he had engineered her capture, and if so, why? A thin pulse of panic began to build in her chest; much as she tried to stay calm, the urge to scream until she went hoarse was getting stronger with each passing hour.

*

"Are you keeping track of where we're going?" Akasha said, as they inched their way along. She had been hugging the wall until it ran out, at which point Niel had taken the lead, for which she was extremely grateful. She was holding onto his jacket again as she went along behind him.

"Not exactly," he said. "From what Isabelle told us, these damn tunnels go for miles under half the city. Why the hell didn't we take that map of hers?"

"Because it's hers," Akasha said pointedly. "Let's see. We started under Erikson's, on 2nd Avenue...facing outward toward Couch...and we turned right awhile back...that would put us on track to..." She stopped walking, confused. Ahead of her, Niel stopped with a jerk.

"Don't try to figure it out, you'll break something in your head," he said. "You're holding onto my jacket," he pointed out.

"You bet your ass I am. I don't want to get lost!"

"As if I would leave you here in the dark."

"I barely know you. A girl has to take precautions."

"Come on, let's keep going." He tugged his jacket out of her grip and slipped his hand there instead. They were following a series of pipes they could just barely see in the dim light--there were lanterns hanging at intervals from the low ceiling, a fact that alarmed Niel. These tunnels were being used, frequently.

"Whoa, whoa," said Niel, stopping suddenly. "Look over here." His fingers had brushed something rusty, which upon closer inspection became a square of iron bars. There was no apparent way in. "What the hell..."

"It's like jail," said Akasha.

"Damn, you're right. Now that's just creepy."

"Oh god, what if Virginia's somewhere in here in one of those?" Her voice trembled, and Niel laid a hand on her arm.

"Try to keep it together," he said gently. He wished he could express his admiration for her; no woman he had known would have willingly set foot in this place.

She nodded and sighed. "This was a mistake," she said. "We'll never find her like this. We're just wandering around aimlessly--odds are we're going to get lost, and she'll just get farther and farther away..."

"You can't think like that. But maybe you're right. There's got to be some way to circumvent this maze. Chances are whoever's got her will use the tunnels as transportation, to cover their tracks, not keep her down here. We've got to figure out where they're going."

"What about the bartender, you said he was acting suspiciously. Maybe we could just..."

Niel glanced at her in the darkness. "Do you want to go back, wait for him?"

"It might be our only chance. Would you...how would you get him to tell us what he knows?"

"Oh, there are ways," he said grimly.

*

Someone was coming. Virginia could hear the gritty scraping of footfalls approaching outside her cell--she had begun to think of herself as a prisoner, as opposed to the temporarily-stumped heroine of an adventure novel she had been associating with some hours before. The footfalls stopped at her window. A pair of eyes blinked at her.

"Alive in there?"

She jumped involuntarily. "Oh god, you bastard! Let me out of here!"

"Haven't given up hope yet, then? Don't worry. You will. They always do, or so I'm told." The man had a gravelly voice that chilled her to the bone, but it wasn't in her nature to cower.

"You're bound to be disappointed, then," Virginia growled. She put her fingers through the bars of the window, trying to grab at whoever was standing there. The man seized her forefinger and wrenched it sideways, pulling it through the bars. She cried out in pain, tried to pull her hand back, but he held on. She heard the crack as it broke, screamed again. Finally he let go, and she fell back against the wall of her cell, holding her hand close to her chest.

"Most of them break in about eight hours. I give you ten, for spunk. Here's a little something to keep you company in the meantime."

Through the fog of her pain, Virginia heard a scrabbling sound close to her ear, and something dropped onto her shoulder. Something else hit the ground just next to her. She hadn't realized that the pipe hanging by her head connected to the outside of her cell. She brushed at the thing on her shoulder, and it fell into her lap. Against her better judgment, she picked it up with her good hand.

It was a human finger. She felt her breath coming in sharp gasps, and she hurled the thing away. It banked off the wall and landed close to her again, and she moaned. She saw movement near her feet and realized that the second thing that had dropped into the cell was, in fact, a rather skeletal-looking rat. It scurried past her feet and stopped to inspect the finger. After a moment, it began to nibble on the end that had been severed.

*

7. The Unholy City

By the time Niel and Akasha made their way back to where they had begun, Akasha was having second thoughts about the new plan. If the bartender had anything to do with what was happening, there would be others backing him. Niel might have lived through a war, but he was only one man.

"Don't be ridiculous," Niel said, when she said as much. "We can't turn around again. I'm sick of being underground. We'll get farther if we can see." The pile of bricks was still there, apparently untouched. On a whim, he looked up before he crossed into the cellar again. "So that's how he did it," he said quietly.

"What?"

"There's a door in the floor under the bar." He pointed. "A trap door."

"You mean to say that we were going the right way?" Akasha felt like crying.

"There's no telling how far ahead she is," he said.

"And now you'll never find out," said a third voice. "Step out where I can see you."

Niel and Akasha turned toward the voice. A policeman stood on the bottom step, gun drawn. Behind him, the bartender.

"I told you I heard someone down here," said the bartender. "What the hell are you doing in my basement?" He stared in disbelief at the pile of bricks at their feet.

"Let me handle this, sir. Step out where I can see you and put your hands on your head."

"I'm sorry, Akasha," Niel muttered.

"Not your fault," she said, her heart sinking. They would never find Virginia or Sean now.

*

At the police station, the officer put Akasha in one room, Niel in another. Before they were separated, Niel managed to slip her his pistol.

"Put it down your pants, if you can. They won't dare search you," he muttered, hoping they didn't contradict him.

A fat detective sat down at the table across from Akasha and handed her a cup of coffee. "Why don't you start by explaining what you were doing in Mr. O'Bannon's supply room."

She wondered whether she ought to tell him the truth about Virginia's disappearance, but quickly decided against it. The police hadn't batted an eye for Sean--why would they for her sister, particularly now that she had been caught trespassing? "What supply room?" she said, mimicking the bartender's tactic of complete and utter denial.

The detective sighed, then grinned. "Look, sister. Don't think you can play around with me. I know what you are, who you are, where you're from, and what you eat for breakfast. Your man-friend's smart. No matter what, eventually he's gonna err on the side of caution and lay everything in your lap, on account of him being a proper citizen, and you being a goddamned whore. So do us both a favor and get this over with."

"Forget it," she snapped, her face flaming.

"Do you know how I know what he's gonna do? I'll let you in on my secret. C'mere." The detective heaved himself up and motioned to the door. "Come on, I don't have all day." He grabbed her by the arm and led her through the door and across the hall. "Have a look through that window there."

Niel was handcuffed to a chair, and from the look of his face, the two detectives in the room with him were getting a sick pleasure out of interrogating him.

"Don't you think this is out of proportion to our...misconduct?" she asked, wincing as Niel doubled over a well-aimed fist.

"Ah, so you admit to it, then?"

"Admit to what? What are we being charged with?"

"Oh, for starters, breaking and entering, traspassing, attempted robbery, resisting arrest--"

"We didn't resist arrest! What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Oh, please don't hurt him anymore," she added. Niel sagged against the back of the chair.

"I tell you what. You go in there, tell him to give it up. If you cooperate, we'll go easy on the both of you. If not..." The detective opened the door. "Go ahead.

Akasha didn't know what to do. She glared at the detectives in the room, who grinned as she passed by, and knelt in front of Niel's chair. He wasn't moving, and his eyes were closed. "Hey..." she whispered, her hand on his leg.

Niel opened his eyes briefly to make sure he wasn't hearing things. "Don't say a goddamned thing," he said thickly.

"What are they doing to you?" She touched his face where it was starting to bruise. "I got you into this. I'll try to get you out," she said.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I don't know why they're going at us so hard, but let me take the heat for the both of us. Don't you give them an inch." He drank in the misery on her face. "It'll be fine," he said kindly, though at the moment, he wasn't terribly convinced on that score.

"God, Niel, don't you think we ought to just admit to whatever they want and get out of here? It'll be hours and hours this way..." she trailed off, realizing it would be harder for him than for her.

"No, dammit, because whatever's going on here, they've got a hand in it. That much is obvious. Come closer for a second." She leaned against him and tilted her head. "They keep asking me about a goddamned ship, to see how much I know. They're anxious about something. It's got to be important, could be where they've got your sister." He groaned.

"The ship, yes, of course," she began, but one of the detectives moved away from the window and started walking toward them.

"Time's up. You, out to the hallway."

"Niel, I'm sorry," she said. She planted a kiss against his cheek and started to get up.

"Oh, can't you do better than that?" he whispered, a half-smile curling his mouth. "I'm being pulverized here." He looked up at her hopefully.

Akasha couldn't help laughing. "You men are all the same," she said tenderly, and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were soft and warm against hers, and he made a sound of appreciation when she pulled away.

*

revised chapter 4, and chapter 5

2006-11-05T08:42:41Z

I realized I was stuck because my brain was rebelling against some inconsistencies in the plot. So because I am a teeny bit ahead, I took the time to fix them, and BAM, no more blockage. Plus, I did the Tunnel tour today so I can now write the tunnel chapter/chapters. Okay, on with the show.

4. The Shanghai Tunnels

Akasha awoke to the sounds of feet running in the hall, and Tarantella shaking her. "Wha-what is it?" she yawned, rubbing her eyes.

"Lydia's hysterical," said Tarantella. "She says someone came into her room last night and stood over her bed. Just stood there, in the dark! And it wasn't Sean."

"Of course it wasn't Sean. Why would he be standing over her bed? Did you tell her it was just a dream, like you're supposed to?"

Tarantella frowned. "Of course, but you know that only makes her worse. She thinks she's some sort of mystic. Won't you get up and talk to her? Please? She's inconsolable, and I don't know what to tell her."

Akasha pulled her bathrobe on. "How would you know? You don't read Psychiatry Today." She stood up and pulled back the curtains.

"Don't be sarcastic, Akasha. You know how her mother died. Perhaps she really did see someone. I believe in ghosts," Tarantella added, shivering and holding her arms.

"Now, don't get hysterical. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," said Akasha. But she dressed more quickly than usual. She wanted to talk to Sean about maybe putting some bars on the lower windows. There were known instances of men breaking into entertainment parlors and murdering the women in their beds. Akasha tried not to think about Jack the Ripper.

When she got downstairs, the bar was empty. Lydia and Rosalita were sitting in the breakfast room. Lydia was crying.

"What? What is it?" She put a hand on Lydia's shoulder and looked at Rosalita, who was biting her lip.

"I swear it was real this time, Akasha. I know you think I'm crazy, but there was someone in my room, oh god, just standing by my bed. Staring at me. Or at my window, I couldn't be sure, but you know, I couldn't look for more than a moment. I couldn't even call for help..." The girl was trembling.

"Have you told Sean?" Akasha asked, concerned. He won't like hearing that someone's been in the house unauthorized.

"He hasn't been here all morning," Rosalita said. "I haven't seen him since I went to bed last night at two."

"Did you check to see if he was in his room?"

"Yes, and he's not. His bed didn't even look slept in."

That was odd. "That doesn't mean anything. He could be out buying supplies."

"On Sunday?"

"Dammit." Most of the supplies involved alcohol, not available on Sunday. She was losing track of the days. Akasha felt a little light-headed, but she swallowed her worry. "Alright, let's not jump to conclusions," she said, a little too loudly. "He's bound to turn up midday with a pounding headache and some ridiculous story to tell. Am I right?"

"Who's bound to turn up?" said a masculine voice behind her, and she turned to see Niel Withers striding toward her, the Oregonian tucked under his arm. His eyes travelled from the sobbing Lydia, across Rosalita and Tarantella half-dressed in robes and muttering anxiously, to Akasha. Niel raised an eyebrow. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"We're in a bit of tizzy this morning," Akasha admitted. She noted that he had dressed more formally today and remembered their appointment to see Isabelle.

"What's up?" he asked, his face growing serious.

"No one's seen Sean today," she said. "It isn't like him, and we're a bit concerned." She decided not to mention Lydia's dream.

"What do you want me to do?" Niel asked immediately, and Akasha felt a rush of gratitude toward him.

"First? Help me do a quick search of the house to rule out his having passed out drunk somewhere."

"Okay. Then what?"

"Then I think we'd better stick to our plan and go talk to Isabelle Van Torrence."

He glanced at her sharply. "Why would she be next on your list?"

"I may have lied about knowing her." Akasha pretended to stare at something down the street.

"May have?" Niel was glaring at her.

"Look, not everyone is appreciative of Isabelle," she said. "She has to keep a low profile around here. She doesn't like it when her name gets around."

Niel sighed. "Alright. But why not just go to the police? Why do you think she'll be any help?"

"Talk and walk," said Akasha, and started back toward the house, still hoping to find Sean curled up in the cellar somewhere clutching a bottle of wine. "Because the police won't give a damn about a missing alcoholic brothel keeper, and Isabelle is a mystic. And she specializes in finding things--and people--that aren't where they're supposed to be."

*

In a matter of minutes they confirmed it. Sean Asbury was nowhere to be found.

Now Akasha was practically dragging Niel through city in her haste to get to this so-called mystic. Niel had little knowledge of--and therefore, tolerance for--the supernatural, but if this woman knew something about the orphanage, Niel was not about to jeopardize his chances for getting that information by opening his mouth. He was perfectly content to let Akasha do all the talking.

They were getting close to the hostel where Niel was staying, and it occurred to him that it might be more expedient to drive. "Where is this place, Akasha?"

"Over the Hawthorne Bridge. Why?"

"Because my car is just over there, and we--"

"Why didn't you say you had a car?" she practically yelled.

Isabelle Van Torrence kept shop in the privacy of her own home, overlooking a quiet neighborhood known as Ladd's Addition. Every street was interrupted by a diamond-shaped roundabout filled with rose bushes and park benches and quaint iron lampposts.

"Cute," said Niel, slowing the car to a stop in front of the small brown house Akasha pointed to. She touched his arm as he started to open the car door.

"Maybe you'd better stay here until I talk to her."

He sighed. "She's that skittish?"

"Just until I get a reading on her mood." She concentrated on her best doe-eyed, full-lipped pout.

"I'll just wait out here, then," he said, but his eyes told her he was onto her wiles.

"Thanks, Niel," she said, and got out of the car. "I won't be long."

He watched her hop up the porch stairs and make use of the knocker. After a moment, the door opened just wide enough for her to enter, and she disappeared inside.

Niel concentrated on not checking his watch every few minutes. It wasn't as though he had anywhere to be. Fortunately, she was true to her word; not more than twenty minutes had passed before she stuck her head out the open window and beckoned him in.

"This is all beginning to feel like a CIA plot," he said to himself. He found Akasha in the livingroom sipping a cup of tea across from a woman Niel guessed to be at least ninety years old.

"Niel, meet Isabelle Van Torrence. Isabelle, this is Lieutenant Niel Withers," Akasha said, standing up to introduce him. Niel stared at her.

"How did you--"

"Later," she whispered.

"How lovely to see you, young man. I always do enjoy meeting men of the armed forces. Their auras are so vibrant."

Niel cleared his throat. "Thank you for having me, ma'am. I understand you don't accept many visitors."

"I was just telling Isabelle about Sean," Akasha said, motioning for Niel to join her on the sofa. He sat down gingerly, and his thigh brushed hers.

"Yes, it is very peculiar, don't you think? The first thing to do is to pinpoint the exact locations of the missing person at the time of his disappearance. I find that, partically when there are multiple instances, certain patterns emerge that will shed light on the matter," said Isabelle, setting down her teacup. Niel noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. "Because one thing is absolutely clear--Mr. Asbury is by no means a singular disappearance. There will be others."

"How can you be sure, Ms. Van--"

"Please, call me Isabelle. It is so tedious to be referred to by one's surname, don't you think?"

"Very well, how can you be sure there'll be more, Isabelle?" Niel said, shifting away from Akasha on the sofa. He simply couldn't concentrate.

"Well, you didn't think this was the first time something like this has happened in Bridgetown, did you?" The old woman stared at him over the top of her spectacles.

"I'm not exactly a native, ma'am."

"Ah, but you are. Your mother was born here, of course." She looked at him very keenly until he managed to compose himself. He found that he was gripping the sofa cushions with both hands.

"I beg your pardon?" he said finally. Akasha lay her hand on his arm, and when he glanced at her, she smiled.

"You did come here to learn about her, didn't you? My boy, I have lived for a long time. Seen and done a great many things, some not so good. I have turned a blind eye in the name of keeping up appearances. But as you can see, there isn't much to my appearance now." She sighed. "I assume you tried to get in through the front door," she said after a moment.

"Get in?"

"To Augustina Kerrington's, of course."

"How...how did you...Akasha, did you--"

"I haven't said anything about it, I swear." She looked as awed as he felt. "I only mentioned Sean."

"It isn't magic, lieutenant. The disappearances, the orphanage, and a good deal more are connected by one simple fact of Portland's history." The old lady struggled to her feet, and Niel held out his arm to give her leverage. "Thank you, my boy." She walked slowly to the armoire against the far wall and selected a roll of paper from one of its shelves.

"And what fact would that be?"

She turned and went back to her chair. "This is a port city. Do you know what that implied in the 1800's? A constant influx of men--sailors, frontiersmen, immigrants. Without families, without ties. Which created the perfect opportunity for a very nasty sort of business. Do you know what lies under this city? Tunnels."

She spread the roll of paper out onto the coffeetable, and Niel and Akasha bent to look at it. It appeared to be a schematic of the city.

"This was drawn by a very dear friend of mine in 1887. Granted, many things have changed, many buildings are no longer there or have been rebuilt, but the tunnels are still very much intact. The majority of the entrances were centered downtown, close to the river." Isabelle pointed to a spot near the top. "This is the entrance to the tunnels from the orphanage," she said quietly. Niel looked up sharply. "Yes, you are beginning to see," she said. "The network is quite extensive. The tunnels run under every quarter--they are more dense under the bars and brothels, of course. I suggest you look for an entrance under the Clouds and the Rain, Akasha. If Mr. Asbury was taken, that would be the most likely location."

"So you think someone took him forcibly?" Niel said, and Akasha saw his eyebrow curve upward.

"Can you sense where they might have taken him, or who 'they' are?" Akasha added, her finger tracing idle paths over the schematic.

Isabelle sighed. "At the turn of the century, slave runners and press gangs used the tunnels most heavily. There are holding cells interspersed along the route to the river, scores of them. But now...it is difficult to say where he might be, or what intentions lie behind his disappearance. I am not altogether certain the missing will be underground for long." Her face seemed to sag.

"But you're sure the tunnels were used to transport them," prodded Niel. "You think the tunnels are still being used for some purpose."

"Yes, I'm afraid."

"Well, this is enlightening," Niel muttered, and Akasha jabbed him with her elbow. "You said there was a tunnel leading from Augustina's," he went on. "What does that have to do with all this?"

"That is what troubles me most, of all that has happened," Isabelle said in a dull voice. "Those poor children. I should never have gone along with it."

Niel and Akasha looked at one another. "Gone along with what?" he asked. He hoped he wouldn't have to nudge her along with every question. The old woman was obviously deeply troubled, her eyes darting from Niel to Akasha and back again, hands trembling in her lap.

"Augustina Kerrington had many good intentions, but they were clouded by a persistent plague of financial difficulties. She became involved with a less-than-reputable...entrepreneur of sorts, one that had the funds and the means to help her stabilize the orphanage's crumbling finances. His fee was one-third of the children who came through her doors."

"What kind of man--" Akasha began, horrified, but Niel cut her off.

"What did he want the children for?"

"What else? Labor," the old lady said shortly. "The system was, at the time, foolproof. No one was in the least bit curious about the whereabouts of these children. They were either orphans, or abandoned. However, even the fortunate few that were fostered were not out of danger." She sighed again and took a sip of her tea. "I worked as a nurse in the orphanage for some time. I wasn't privy to everything that was happening, but on occasion I was given orders to give the children laudanum--in those days it was used to put someone to sleep. This began happening more frequently, and after a time, an appalling policy was put into effect. The orphanage began taking the children back after one year, under the guise of giving them a wider variety of familial opportunities. Some of the foster families rebelled, but many gave Kerrington House the carte blanche to do what we thought best."

"Do you happen to know where this...entrepreneur was taking them once they left the orphanage?" Niel asked, a hard edge to his voice.

"I wish I could be of more help, but to be perfectly frank with you, lieutenant, I am glad I don't know any more than I do. It does seem likely, however, that whoever it was had a ship at his disposal. I remember getting the impression of water around the building in the hour or so after he had visited us," she said.

"But something like that couldn't go undetected forever," Akasha insisted. "Surely..."

"In part, the threat of exposure was what prompted Elmira Kerrington-Avery to close the orphanage in 1925," Isabelle nodded. Niel jerked in his seat.

"Mrs. Avery closed the orphanage? She told me that she was never in charge of the place, only the store that replaced it," Niel said. "Figures. She probably authorized the burning of the records facility."

"That is likely. She was very aware of her reputation in society," Isabelle said.

Niel nearly laughed out loud--his mother would have been terribly excited by now. She had enjoyed a good mystery novel. "Let's recap," he said. "The orphanage essentially became a front for a child-labor scheme by unknown shadowy figure. There are tunnels under the city that were once used to kidnap people. And they could be occupied again. Terrific."

"I'm afraid I must ask you to leave now," Isabelle said. "I am not well these days. But I advise you to be careful. There is an energy in the air that I have not felt since before the war, and your activities will put you into its epicenter."

As they rose to leave, Niel ventured one last question. "You were right, when you said I came about my mother. Do you by any chance remember her? She would have been a young girl of two or three when she came to the orphanage. Adopted by a family named Hume."

Isabelle smiled. "I have lived a long life, and I am afraid my memory has not aged as well as I have, lieutenant. If she was adopted, consider her one of the lucky ones."

*

"So, we're no closer to finding anyone, my mother's family or Sean," said Niel, after they had taken their leave. He was disappointed, but not surprised. "We didn't even get our fortunes told," he added, unable to keep the grin off his face. Akasha elbowed him again as they got back into his car.

"Stop that! We may have more questions than answers, but at least we have a direction." Akasha quirked an eyebrow at Niel, who was shaking his head and frowning.

"Do we? I don't think she was completely straight with us, if you ask me. She's as edgy as Mrs. Avery."

Akasha smiled at him, and kept smiling.

"What?" he said.

"You're getting awfully invested in all this."

He blushed and kept his eyes on the road. "And why not? I'm not in any rush to go back to New York." He felt her eyes on him.

"You're from New York, too? Why didn't you say so before?"

"It didn't exactly come up before we...eh..."

She laughed. "True. So, there isn't anyone waiting for you back home?" She was hinting at things she had no business even mentioning, but since he had shown up asking for her help, she had been itching to learn a little about him.

He shook his head. "I'm blowing in the wind." They fell silent as he crossed over the Hawthorne Bridge again. "So, what's next?" he asked.

"I want to see if there's a tunnel under the C&R," she said. "And if there is, I want to buy an arsenal and go down there, guns blazing." She smacked the dashboard several times with her palm. Niel laughed. Simultaneously, he felt a throb in his groin, and he pulled his jacket closed.

"Well, the gun I can provide. I'm not sure about an arsenal though," he said, grinning.

"I forgot you were an officer," Akasha said.

"Who told you, anyway?"

"Sean, that night after you left," she said, her face growing grim. "He said you were in the Pacific, like him. Did you know, he was a POW in Japan."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Kyoto. That's where he got the idea for the house, and the kimonos. He really is very intelligent, even when he's drinking. He likes to talk. The other girls don't really understand him. They don't know how lucky we all are that he's..." She fell silent and stared out the window.

Niel wanted to say something to reassure her, but was at a loss for words. She changed the subject before he could think of something.

"What about you? Were you ever held captive during the war?"

He blushed again. "Well no, I...let's just say that by the time I got to where I was going, I had only just enough time to get my men in order before they all fell down like a stack of dominoes." He grimaced.

"You were injured."

"Yes. And subsequently out of commission."

"You survived," she pointed out. "You're not out of commission."

"True, but I'm not in the Army any longer, am I?"

Niel parked the car around the corner from the C&R, got out and popped the trunk. He pulled out a handgun and stuck it under his jacket.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," she said to his back. "I was only making conversation."

"You didn't upset me," he said. He pulled out a box of bullets and poured out a handful. It wouldn't do to run out. Then again, he didn't anticipate running into an army. He looked up to find Akasha standing quite close to him, a worried look on her face. "Really, you didn't," he said. "We need to concentrate, so don't start."

"Start what?" she asked sweetly, changing abruptly from conciliatory to mischievous. When she stepped closer, he felt a pull in his chest.

"You know," he said. "The sweet and innocent dame act. I've already seen you in action, you forget."

She grinned. "That's not the act I'm playing at, Niel." She leaned against his chest, and when he closed his eyes, he felt her hands slip under his jacket. "You're right, you have seen me in action. That's why I'm surprised at you." His eyes jerked open as she slid the gun out of his coat.

"Akasha," he warned. She moved away from him when he made a grab for the pistol.

"Just want to look. You don't keep it loaded?" She slid the safety off and pulled the barrel open.

Niel managed to catch her wrist, and she gasped and let go of the gun.

"Okay, okay. Enough fooling," she said, putting her hands up in defeat. "Let's get inside before someone shanghais us."

"The way things are going, I'd say there's a better chance of that indoors." Niel let her walk ahead of him, and when he was sure she wouldn't turn around, he slid his hand down to his jeans and adjusted himself with a groan.

*

5. Every Man, Each to His Own Way

"I don't understand it," said Akasha, leaning against the wall. She was breathing heavily, and there was smudge of dirt across her forehead. "It made so much sense. I was sure we would find something." They had scoured the cellar of the C&R, stomping and scratching at every inch of wall and floor, and for all their scrapes and dusty clothing, the only thing they found was Sean's personal stash of imported scotch.

"Well, one thing's for certain," Niel said, rubbing at his shoulder absently. "If there ever was an entrance down here, there isn't one now."

"Brilliant deduction," she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "With you hot on the case, we'll find Sean in no time."

"Look, I'm no detective," Niel growled. "I came here to find my dead mother's family records, give her poor ghost some peace, not to go tramping underground looking for an alcoholic brothel-keeper. Maybe you'd rather hire that fancy dick your sister dug up."

"You watch your mouth," Akasha snapped. They glared at each other. Inwardly, Niel cursed himself.

"Let's cut our losses and get some fresh air," he suggested in a softer voice, and she nodded slowly. He followed her up the stairs, and nearly fell backwards when she stopped abruptly at the top.

"Look, Niel. I think maybe we ought to split up. If we're going to get anything done, we'll need to cover twice as much ground as we have been. I think I may go to the police after all."

"You want me to go?"

She sighed, playing with the sleeve of her blouse. "Niel, I don't exactly know how to put this, but my world's going to narrow down to one simple fact very shortly, and that is that just as we girls are Sean's revenue, Sean is ours, and without him, The Clouds and the Rain will sink into the Willamette. I've got to spend some time preparing for the possibility that we won't find him."

"A little early to be giving up the ship, isn't it?" he said gently, touching her shoulder.

"I'm not giving up the ship! But I've got a bad feeling here, and after what we learned today...I just think that maybe now isn't the best time to make each other's acquaintance."

Niel coughed. "I'd say it's already too late for that," he said, and was relieved to see the corner of her mouth turn up into a smile.

"I'll see you around, soldier," she said softly.

It was a dismissal, and Niel knew better than to press his luck. "I'll be back," he promised. "For god's sake, don't go poking around anywhere on your own. Tell me you won't. Isabelle's right, there's something funny going on here."

"There's always something funny going on here," Akasha said. "Don't worry about me."

*

Portland's library reminded Virginia slightly of Barnard College, her alma mater. She was pleased by the wealth of information on Portland's vice industry available on microfiche. Apparently, a journalist by the name of Jacob O'Reilly had a deep-seated grudge against honky-tonk in the early 1900's. She found a whole series of articles railing against one bar in particular, Erikson's Saloon. Patrons ranged from sailors, loggers and farmhands to the wealthy elite, who preferred to sit above the riffraff in balconies, which afforded the best views of the stage where the “delightful ladies” performed. It sounded like the Clouds and the Rain, she thought, and was startled to realize that, in fact, they were next door neighbors. She squinted at the photograph. Yes, it was the same Victorian house. She hadn't caught it at first, as the evergreens were not tall enough to cover the outer pillars, as they did now. She didn't remember Erikson's from her visit to the C&R, but then she hadn't been paying much attention to her surroundings.

She kept reading, intrigued. O'Reilly had been a singular voice, pointing out the massive numbers of disappearing men from the vicinity of Erikson's and the other local pubs, brothels, and boardinghouses. Either people had turned a deaf ear to him, or he had been snuffed for his message, because the O'Reilly stories stopped abruptly in 1917. Virginia scanned several months-worth of obituaries, but was unable to find his name.

Virginia sat back in the hard wooden chair and pushed back onto two legs, thinking hard. She had been pursuing the history of Portland's pleasure houses for an entirely different reason, but this was even more interesting. She closed her eyes and forced herself not to think about her sister in that context. The frequency of the disappearances had tapered off after 1941, so there ought to be little risk in investigating the area. After all, as she had discovered, at the peak of the shanghaiing the C&R had been a boardinghouse run by a reputable woman, not a pleasure house.

She stood up and stretched, debating whether she ought to waste time and energy looking for Ellen to tell her this interesting tidbit, or to simply go to Erikson's and have a look around for herself. It might be a dead end, at which point her sister would assume she was just trying to scare her into going back to New York. That would be a step in the wrong direction, she decided. She scratched off her daily progress report to her father and dropped it into the library's post box.

"Information is power," she wrote. "Doing what I do best--research. Will be in touch. -V"

The interior of Erikson's was smoky and dimly lit, and Virginia had to fight the impulse to back out of the saloon, and her plan. But the bartender spotted her and nodded.

"What can I get for you?"

"Um, nothing to drink, actually." She dug into her purse and pulled out her New Yorker business card. "I'm doing a story on...North America's uh, favorite places to drink. Erikson's, uh, came up quite a bit in the out-of-state polls."

"No shit," said the bartender. He picked up her card and looked at it. "The New Yorker? Well, you're a long way from home. Here, let me buy ya a drink on the house." He leaned over the counter genially.

"Actually I was wondering if I could see your supply cellar," said Virginia. The bartender raised an eyebrow. "For my story," she said.

"Drink first, and I'll tell you all about it," he said.

*

Too much talk and not enough action, Niel said to himself as he wandered aimlessly. The years since the war had softened him. "Face it, Withers," he said to himself, "you want her to need you." Simply because she had cut off ties to her family did not mean she had none at all. Not like him.

He found himself walking along the river, as they had that first night, and staring out at the water. Except that, unlike before, the water was restless. Niel forced his eyes to focus.

There was a ship in the river. A wooden ship, stately, old. It appeared deserted, yet both fore and mainsails were full. Completely out of place in a world that had become comfortable with the existence of submarines. It seemed to be hugging the bank, although Niel could see no anchor of any kind holding it in place.

"That's odd," he muttered. He looked around, but the waterfront was deserted. No one to ask whether this ship was out of place. Niel felt himself falling into a contemplative trance, watching it, and he shook himself. "I need a drink." He ran a hand over his eyes.

He nearly went into the Clouds and the Rain, until he remembered that Sean wouldn't be behind the bar, and Akasha had sent him to go do something useful and probably wouldn't appreciate seeing him again so soon, particularly not in a state of inebriation. Instead, he ducked into the place next door; luckily, there were no end to pubs in Portland. He sat at the bar and ordered a beer.

"Well, small world," said a voice beside him, and he turned to find Akasha's sister staring at him with a sleepy expression. "This must be my punishment for consuming an alcoholic beverage."

"What are you doing here?" Niel had a feeling he would be sorry he asked.

"Didn't think Ellen would want me back in her house, so I came here," she said.

Niel laughed. "Seems like we have something in common," he said.

"We have nothing in common," Virginia hissed, her eyes sparking awake. "You are a prime example of everything that is wrong and disgusting about the male species." She slid off her barstool unsteadily and took a step toward him.

"Whoa, what did I do?" Niel took a large gulp of his beer and tried to keep in mind that Akasha would hate him if he accidentally murdered her sister.

"You reinforce her harebrained idea that she ought to make a living pleasuring your kind! It's...ridiculous. And another thing--"

"Another drink? Excellent idea. Bartender, another drink for the lady," Niel said, choking slightly over the word 'lady.' Virginia merely glared at him.

"I've already had enough, thank you. And if you don't mind, I was on my way to do something important, unlike you who are probably going to sit here all afternoon and then try to screw my sister. Which I can guarantee you won't happen once she comes to her senses."

"Don't worry. She's got more important things on her mind," he said grimly. He ran his hand over his face again and managed to knock over his beer. Groaning, he got up and went down to the far end of the bar to grab a pile of napkins.

"So've I. How about showing me the cellar now," she said, turning back to the bartender. Somewhere in the back of Niel's mind, her words registered as important. He swiveled to ask what in heaven's name she needed to see the cellar for, and found that she was no longer at the bar. The bartender hadn't budged.

"Where'd she go?" Niel asked him.

"Who?" said the bartender, now wiping down the counter where Niel had spilled his beer.

"What do you mean, 'who'? She was right there talking to you."

"I wasn't talking to anyone, buddy. I think you've had yourself a few too many."

"You're out of your mind!" Niel yelled. "I didn't even finish my beer."

"I think maybe you'd better leave," the bartender said, "before I call the cops." He reached for the phone, and Niel took the hint.

"I'm goin'," he said, and shoved the door hard, letting it pop backward to hit the doorjamb with a bang.

Something had happened to Virginia, but what? He had turned his back only for a moment. The cellar. Why was she asking about the cellar? He went across the street and studied the building. Next to it stood the Clouds and the Rain. He ought to run in and inform Akasha of what had just occurred. But it didn't make sense. What would she think?

Then he saw it. The two buildings were so close together they might as well have been one building. They hadn't found a tunnel under the C&R, but it was a house. A residential house. Erikson's was a pub and it had been a pub since the building had gone up.

He crossed the street again and went around the side of Erikson's. Perhaps there was a window or something that he could...no. He had to get Akasha first.

*

He found her sitting on the porch steps, looking dejected.

"Niel," she said. "Tell me you've got something, because I sure as hell don't. The police, fuck 'em, had us fill out a missing person's report and sent us home. They're not going to do a thing." She looked ready to cry.

Niel felt his stomach drop. She wasn't ready for what he had to tell her. He bit the bullet.

"Well, I've got some good news and some bad news," Niel said. "The good news is, I think I've found the entrance to the tunnels. The bad news is, so has your sister. The hard way."

rest of 4

2006-11-04T07:35:53Z

well, I'm a little stuck plotwise right now, and dead tired. I only wrote about 2500 words today, which is 800 less than I did the first two days. Hopefully I can make it up tomorrow. I'm at 10037 total at the moment. Anyway here is the rest of chapter 4, and a wee bit of 5, but the rest of what I wrote today is just bits and pieces out of order, which I'm not posting here.

"This was drawn by a very dear friend of mine in 1887. Granted, many things have changed, many buildings are no longer there or have been rebuilt, but the tunnels are still very much intact. The majority of the entrances were centered downtown, close to the river." Isabelle pointed to a spot near the top. "This is the entrance to the tunnels from the orphanage," she said quietly. Niel looked up sharply. "Yes, you are beginning to see," she said. "The network is quite extensive. The tunnels run under every quarter--they are more dense under the bars and brothels, of course. I suggest you look for an entrance under the Clouds and the Rain, Akasha. If Mr. Asbury was taken, that would be the most likely location."

"Can you sense where they might have taken him, or who 'they' are?" Akasha asked, her finger tracing idle paths over the schematic.

Isabelle sighed. "At the turn of the century, slave runners and press gangs used the tunnels most heavily. There are holding cells interspersed along the route to the river, hundreds and hundreds of them. But now...it is difficult to say where he might be, or what intentions lie behind his disappearance and that of the others. I am not altogether certain the missing are still underground." Her face seemed to sag.

"But you're sure the tunnels were used to transport them," prodded Niel. "You think the tunnels are still being used for some purpose."

"Yes, I'm afraid."

"Well, this is enlightening," Niel muttered, and Akasha jabbed him with her elbow. "You said there was a tunnel leading from Augustina's," he went on. "What does that have to do with all this?"

"That is what troubles me most, out of everything that has happened," Isabelle said in a dull voice. "Those poor children. I should never have gone along with it."

Niel and Akasha looked at one another. "Gone along with what?" he asked. He hoped he wouldn't have to nudge her along with every question. The old woman was obviously deeply troubled, her eyes darting from Niel to Akasha and back again, hands trembling in her lap.

"Augustina Kerrington had many good intentions, but they were clouded by a persistent plague of financial difficulties. She became involved with a less-than-reputable...entrepreneur of sorts, one that had the funds and the means to help her stabilize the orphanage's crumbling finances. His fee was one-third of the children who came through her doors."

"What kind of man--" Akasha began, horrified, but Niel cut her off.

"What did he want the children for?"

"What else? Labor," the old lady said shortly. "The system was, at the time, foolproof. No one was in the least bit curious about the whereabouts of these children. They were either orphans, or abandoned. However, even the fortunate few we fostered were not out of danger. After a time, we began taking the children back after one year, under the guise of giving them a wider variety of opportunities. Some of the foster families rebelled, but many gave us the carte blanche to do what we thought best."

"Do you happen to know where he was taking them once they left the orphanage?" Niel asked, a hard edge to his voice.

"I wish I could be of more help, but to be perfectly frank with you, lieutenant, I am glad I don't know any more than I do. It does seem likely, however, that whoever it was had a ship at his disposal. I remember getting the impression of water around the building in the hour or so after he had visited us," she said.

"But something like that couldn't go undetected forever," Akasha insisted. "Surely..."

"In part, the threat of exposure was what prompted Elmira Kerrington-Avery to close the orphanage in 1925," Isabelle nodded. Niel jerked in his seat.

"Mrs. Avery closed the orphanage? She told me that she was never in charge of the place, only the store that replaced it," Niel said. "Figures. She probably authorized the burning of the records facility."

"That sounds like Elmira. She always was a brat," Isabelle said.

Niel nearly laughed out loud--his mother would have been terribly excited by now. She had enjoyed a good mystery novel. "Let's recap," he said. "The orphanage essentially became a front for a child-labor scheme by unknown shadowy figure. There are tunnels under the city that were once used to kidnap people. And we think they are being used again, once more by an unknown shadowy entity. Terrific."

*

"So, we're no closer to finding anyone, my mother or Sean," said Niel after they took their leave of Isabelle. He was disappointed, but not surprised. "We didn't even get our fortunes told," he added, unable to keep the grin off his face. Akasha elbowed him again as they got back into his car.

"Stop that! We may have more questions than answers, but at least we have a direction. And why didn't you ask more about your mother? She might have remembered her." Akasha quirked an eyebrow at Niel.

"Because we've got more important questions on our hands, don't you think? We can always come back."

She smiled at him, and kept smiling.

"What?" he said.

"You're getting awfully invested in all this."

He blushed and kept his eyes on the road. "And why not? I'm not on any deadline." He felt her eyes on him.

"No one waiting for you back home?" She knew she was hinting at things she had no business even mentioning, but since he had come seemingly out of the air to ask for her help, she decided she could afford to learn a little about him.

He shook his head. "I'm blowing in the wind." They fell silent as he crossed over the Hawthorne Bridge again. "So, what's next?" he asked.

"I want to see if there's a tunnel under the C&R," she said. "And if there is, I want to buy an arsenal and go down there, guns blazing." She smacked the dashboard several times with her palm. Niel laughed. Simultaneously, he felt a throb in his groin, and he pulled his jacket closed.

"Well, the gun I can provide. I'm not sure about an arsenal though," he said, grinning.

"I forgot you were an officer," Akasha said.

"Who told you, anyway?"

"Sean, that night after you left," she said, her face growing grim. "He said you were in the Pacific, like him. Did you know, he was a POW in Japan."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Kyoto. That's where he got the idea for the house, and the kimonos. He really is very intelligent, even when he's drinking. He likes to talk. The other girls don't really understand him. They don't know how lucky we all are that he's..." She fell silent and stared out the window.

Niel wanted to say something to reassure her, but was at a loss for words. She was so unlike anyone he had ever known. She changed the subject before he could think of something.

"What about you? Were you ever held captive during the war?"

He blushed again. "Well no, I...let's just say that by the time I got to where I was going, I had only just enough time to get my men in order before they all fell down like a stack of dominoes." He grimaced.

"You were injured."

"Yes. And subsequently out of commission."

"You survived," she pointed out. "You're not out of commission."

"True, but I'm not in the Army any longer, am I?"

Niel parked the car around the corner from the C&R, got out and popped the trunk. He pulled out a handgun and stuck it under his jacket.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," she said to his back. "I was only making conversation."

"You didn't upset me," he said. He pulled out a box of bullets and poured out a handful. It wouldn't do to run out. Then again, he didn't anticipate running into an army. He looked up to find Akasha standing quite close to him, a worried look on her face. "Really, you didn't," he said. "We need to concentrate, so don't start."

"Start what?" she asked sweetly, changing abruptly from conciliatory to mischievous. When she stepped closer, he felt a pull in his chest.

"You know," he said. "The sweet and innocent dame act. I've already seen you in action, you forget."

She grinned. "That's not the act I'm playing at, Niel." She leaned against his chest, and when he closed his eyes, he felt her hands slip under his jacket. "You're right, you have seen me in action. That's why I'm surprised at you." His eyes jerked open as she slid the gun out of his coat.

"Akasha," he warned. She moved away from him when he made a grab for the pistol.

"Just want to look. You don't keep it loaded?" She slid the safety off and pulled the barrel open.

Niel managed to catch her wrist, and she gasped and let go of the gun.

"Okay, okay. Enough fooling," she said, putting her hands up in defeat. "Let's get inside before someone shanghais us."

"The way things are going, I'd say there's a better chance of that indoors." Niel let her walk ahead of him, and when he was sure she wouldn't turn around, he slid his hand down to his jeans and adjusted himself with a groan.

*

5.

"I don't understand it," said Akasha, leaning against the wall. She was breathing heavily, and there was smudge of dirt across her forehead. "It made so much sense. I was sure we would find something." They had scoured the cellar of the C&R, stomping and scratching at every inch of wall and floor, and for all their scrapes and dusty clothing, the only thing they found was Sean's personal stash of imported scotch.

"Well, one thing's for certain," Niel said, rubbing at his shoulder absently. "If there ever was an entrance down here, there isn't one now."

"Brilliant deduction," she said, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "With you hot on the case, we'll find Sean in no time."

"Look, I'm no detective," Niel growled. "I came here to find my dead mother's family records, give her poor ghost some peace, not to go tramping underground looking for an alcoholic brothel-keeper. Maybe you'd rather hire that fancy dick your sister dug up."

"You watch your mouth," Akasha snapped. They glared at each other. Inwardly, Niel cursed himself.

"Let's cut our losses and get some fresh air," he suggested in a softer voice, and she nodded slowly. He followed her up the stairs, and nearly fell backwards when she stopped abruptly at the top.

"Virginia," she said. Niel glanced over her shoulder from the lower step. Her sister was standing in the doorway, holding a newspaper.

"I saw this and thought I would come by," Virginia said. It was the afternoon edition, and it listed the names of the missing.

"Let me see that," Akasha said. She took the paper and shook it out. "Looks like today wasn't the first of the disappearances. Look, Niel. They've been happening in two's and three's for weeks. That must be why the police reacted the way they did, so quickly I mean."

"They knew what they were looking for," he agreed.

"Which is more than I can say for us." She shrugged apologetically.

whee! day three!

2006-11-03T16:49:25Z

I am revved up! I'm on word 7512, which is right on track (I'm attempting to do 100,000 so that in the end I can feel ok about dumping 50,000 words when I edit, LOL).

One of my characters is missing, one is writing a play, the pirate ship is in place, there's palpable sexual tension, people are having their fortunes told and giving lap dances...my characters are clearly having the time of their lives!

My goal for this weekend is 12,000 words. That's 4,000/day. Not much more than I write during the week, but I'm doing the Shanghai Tunnel ghost tour tomorrow so I don't want to feel guilty if I don't write more than that.

How's everybody doing?

Displacement--chapters 3 & part of 4

2006-11-03T07:21:29Z

Keeping up the pace so far.

3. Sinners and Saints

Niel watched the girl as she slept, feeling uneasy but unable to drag himself out of the bed. He'd come looking for this "Akasha" for an entirely different reason than the one that had landed him here, naked and feeling slightly drugged, and he'd never gotten around to mentioning it. And now her hand was resting peacefully between his thighs, and there was no way in hell he was moving it.

She shifted in her sleep, and he shivered. The sky beyond the curtains was black now; he'd been there some hours. The sex had been exquisite, surreal, like something out of a wet dream. Unwrapping her kimono had been a bit like Christmas. The bartender had told him the place wasn't a whore house, so what was this, then? Would he be expected to pay her later? He felt a pang of disappointment at the thought. She stirred again, and sat up.

"Oh, you're still here," she said, yawning. "I have to go to work. What time is it?"

Niel squinted at his watch. "One-thirty," he said. "Listen, there was something I wanted to ask you earlier..."

Akasha pulled the sheets up over her breasts. "Oh, yes, I remember. Can you come back later today, maybe around eleven?"

"It's important. I..I'd pay you the difference." He blushed in spite of himself, and she grinned, touched his face.

"If I were any other girl, you'd have a black eye for saying that," she said. She slid off the bed and patted the ground for her kimono.

"Don't I know it," Niel said. "I don't usually..."

"Consort with women of the night? It's okay, baby. I don't usually sleep with my clients either. So up! Get dressed. I can't have a serious conversation with a naked person."

*

Niel followed Akasha past the late night customers at the bar and out into the street. He noticed the younger sister, Virginia, asleep at the table where they had been sitting earlier. The private detective was nowhere to be seen.

"Poor fool," Akasha remarked as they passed her. "She still thinks I'm going to go back."

"Speaking of, how did you wind up here?" Niel couldn't help asking. He followed her across the street as they headed toward the river.

"Nevermind about me," she said. "You wanted to talk, so talk." Out of the corner of her eye, Akasha saw Virginia come out of the C&R, get her bearings, and head toward them. "Let's walk down to the waterfront." She knew Virginia would follow them, but as long as she didn't try to overtake them Akasha didn't care. She liked this little exchange between her and Niel--it wasn't often that she chose to spend her time with someone outside of the C&R. And on his dollar, as well. "Clock's ticking, my friend," she reminded him.

Niel had fallen silent, staring out at the water. He coughed and summarized his situation.

"Sounds like this Mrs. Avery isn't telling you everything," Akasha said, frowning. The night air clouded around their faces. She shivered and pulled her coat closed.

"Of course she isn't, but until I hear from this Van Torrence woman, I won't be able to fill in the gaps. What do you say--will you talk to her?"

Akasha nearly laughed at his hopeful expression. "And here I was thinking you weren't all that invested in this--what did you call it? Goose chase?" She sobered, thinking hard. "I can't imagine why she thinks this woman will talk to me. I don't remember meeting anyone by that name."

"Did you buy anything from her? Mrs. Avery said she owned a shop. A mystic place, she called it."

"Christ, there are plenty enough of those shops around here. One pretty much looks the same as another. But you've got me curious now, so I'll tell you what. I'm going to catch some sleep, and I suggest you do the same. We can meet back here this afternoon and go together."

"Sounds fine. Say, about earlier...do I--" Niel found himself blushing again, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Owe me anything?" Akasha grinned. "You can buy me dinner later," she said after a moment. "I pretty much shanghaied you back there." She studied his face in the dim light of the streetlamps.

"Interesting choice of words." He met her eyes, and she held them. "Your sister is following us," he noted finally.

"Yes, she is. Maybe she'll get some juicy tidbits for her precious newspaper," she said sourly. Niel looked blank. "She writes for the New Yorker. Rather, she pours coffee for the editor, who throws her a bone every once in awhile."

Niel didn't say anything. Clearly, this was a bone of contention, and he wasn't sure how firm the ground he was standing on with Akasha actually was. They said good night and parted ways, he to the hostel, and she to the C&R. He watched her walk for a moment before he turned away.

She was quite possibly the most fascinating woman Niel had ever met, which automatically made her a minefield.

*

Virginia was waiting for her when Akasha returned to the house.

"Please, Ginny, I need to sleep." She paused in the doorway to look more closely at her silent sister. "Why are you here, really?" she asked gently.

"I want to know what is so horrible about New York that you had to leave. To leave, and do this. Did you really choose this?"

Akasha sighed. "Come in and have some tea. Then you're going back to wherever it is you're staying, and tomorrow you're going back to New York." Virginia opened her mouth, then shut it again and followed Akasha inside. Sean was wiping down the bar.

"Oy, where have you been all night? People've been asking for you."

"Family business," she said. "Sean Asbury, this is my baby sister, Virginia. Careful," she said, as Sean brightened and extended his hand, "she's a bit--"

"How can you live with yourself? It's a travesty, the way you're using these women. You ought to be ashamed to be making your living this way." Virginia walked around Akasha and sat down at a table facing away from the bar.

"Like I said, be careful." Akasha went around the bar and put the kettle on for tea.

Sean laughed. "Don't you worry about me, Kash. If I couldn't handle women, I wouldn't be in this business."

"Oh really? Then why aren't you married yet, Major Asbury?" Akasha smiled as Sean coughed and pretended to busy himself mopping a spill on the floor.

"So who's the bloke asking for you earlier?" he said from the floor. "Peculiar, if you ask me. Nice chap though, fought in the Pacific as well."

"He's a soldier? Didn't carry himself like one," she mused.

"A lieutenant. Must've thought he'd be better off keeping that on the down-low here, if you know what I mean." Sean picked up several pint glasses at once and dumped them into a sink of hot water.

"Everyone's got a secret in this town. Or if they don't, they make one up." She carried the tea kettle to the table and poured for herself and her sister, who looked as though she had been asleep again.

"Virginia, don't you have to get back to the New Yorker?"

Her sister stared into her tea cup. "I took a leave of absence."

"To come look for me."

"To come look for you, yes."

"You don't have to look so put-upon," said Akasha. "I didn't ask you to come." Virginia said nothing. "Well? What is it?"

"I just don't understand how you could leave without saying a word to anyone. You weren't going to come back, were you?"

Akasha was surprised. Virginia had never shown any signs of caring whether she was around back in New York, and she said so.

"But you're my sister and I don't think you ought to be...fucking for a living." Her sister was flushed, her eyes dark and troubled.

"I'm not, don't worry about that." In spite of herself, she patted her sister's hand. Virginia pulled away.

"That man tonight..." Niel. She was thinking about Niel.

"Niel didn't pay me, Virginia," she said gently. "We're...he's taking me to dinner later." It wouldn't hurt to stretch the truth a bit.

Virginia was silent for a long moment. "Whatever happened to your grand scheme?"

Akasha laughed. "You still remember that? It wasn't all that grand, just what you're supposed to do when you're a twenty-something woman. Find a rich man. Marry him. Buy things from Bergdorf's and wear them to glamorous parties. Have an affair with a handsome good-for-nothing. Besides, if you think about it, essentially that's what I have now, only without the marriage part." Against her better judgment, she allowed herself to grow serious. "Was Papa very worried?"

Virginia seemed to brighten at the mention of their father. She sat up straighter and clutched her teacup with both hands. "Oh yes! Until Nash came to us and said that he'd found you, he had half the NYPD out looking for you."

Akasha kept herself in her chair with effort. "You see how ridiculous that is? I had my own apartment! I'm twenty-six years old, and just because I haven't married--yet--does not mean I am incapable of taking care of myself." She scowled and nearly overturned her teacup. "You can tell him that I'm staying in Portland, and I would appreciate it if he didn't waste any more of his money on private detectives."

"You tell him yourself! I'm not going to be your go-between anymore. Personally, I think you're completely selflish for doing this. You don't care about how I feel, or how Papa will feel when he finds out what you've been up to--my God, I can't even...you always do exactly what you want, and who gives a damn about anyone else!"

"That's not exactly true, Ginny. Who do you think looked out for you while Papa was at the university? Who do you think made sure you got to school on time? Don't you think I wanted to go to university, too, or do you think I was content waiting tables and waiting for a man to take me off Papa's hands? And while we're on the subject, why do you suppose he doesn't push you in that direction? Why don't you ask him about that sometime, little sister?" She stood up. "This conversation is over. Do what you want--stay, go back to New York, marry Sean, whatever. But don't come hassling me about going back, or about Papa. And tell that private eye queen of yours to keep his mouth shut while you're at it."

Virginia stood up as well, hands up in a gesture of defeat. "If you're not coming home, what do you care if he tells Papa what you've become?" They glared at each other, then Virginia softened. "Ellen...be careful. It's just that I..." She pushed open the door and left before she finished her thought.

"You too, Gin," Akasha said to the closed door.

*

Virginia stepped out to find the sky lightening in pre-dawn glow, and a mist rising up from the river. She lit a cigarette, her long fingers cupping it to keep the stiff breeze from snuffing her match. Then she pulled the slim notebook from her coat pocket and scribbled a few thoughts. She had only one chance to get this right.

Hometown girl to star in playwright Sean Worthington's new play, The Clouds and the Rain.

*

4. The Shanghai Tunnels

Akasha awoke to the sounds of sirens and rushing feet, and Tarantella shaking her. "Wha-what is it?" she yawned, rubbing her eyes.

"The police are everywhere," said Tarantella. "They're knocking on every door--they say there's a kidnapping ring in town! Six people went missing out of the blue--it's on the front page of every paper."

Akasha pulled her bathrobe on. "How would you know? You don't read the papers." She stood up and pulled back the curtains. People were milling around on the street below, looking off at something out of Akasha's line of vision. "What, did it happen right where we're standing?"

"You know the Silver Saloon over on 3rd? They're saying one of the men was there before he disappeared." Tarantella shivered. "If grown men are going, poof, like that, what chance do we have?"

"Now, don't get hysterical. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," said Akasha. But she dressed more quickly than usual. She wanted to talk to Sean about maybe putting some bars on the lower windows.

When she got downstairs, the bar was empty. Lydia and Rosalita were outside in the street with the gathering crowd. Lydia was crying.

"What? What is it?" She put a hand on Lydia's shoulder and looked at Rosalita, who was biting her lip.

"It's Sean. Sean's gone! What should we do, Akasha? What do we do without Sean?"

"He hasn't been here all morning," Rosalita added.

Akasha felt a little light-headed, but she swallowed her worry. "That doesn't mean anything. He could be out buying supplies."

"On Sunday?"

"Dammit." Most of the supplies involved alcohol, not available on Sunday. She was losing track of the days. "I need to see those papers," Akasha said.

"You mean one of these papers?" said a masculine voice behind her, and she turned to see Niel Withers striding toward her. He handed her the Oregonian.

"Have you heard what's going on?" she asked.

"How could I avoid it? A couple officers even questioned me on my way down here. Suspicious foreigner that I am," he added, grinning.

Akasha was skimming the front page and looked up, frustrated. "They don't say anything about the missing persons. Were they all men? Does anybody know anything, or is it all just speculative bullshit?" She threw the paper on the ground.

Niel raised an eyebrow. "Did I miss something?"

"No one's seen Sean today," she said.

"Ah. And you think..."

"And no, I haven't seen Virginia either, and I didn't think to ask where she was staying."

"What do you want me to do?" Niel asked immediately, and Akasha felt a rush of gratitude toward him.

"First? Help me do a quick search of the house to rule out his having passed out drunk somewhere."

"Okay. Then what?"

"Then I think we'd better go talk to Ms. Van Torrence."

He glanced at her sharply. "Why would she be next on your list?"

"I may have lied about knowing her." Akasha pretended to stare at something down the street.

"May have?" Niel was glaring at her.

"Look, not everyone is appreciative of Isabelle," she said. "She has to keep a low profile around here. She doesn't like it when her name gets around."

Niel sighed. "Alright. But why do you think she'll be any help?"

"Talk and walk," said Akasha, and started back toward the house, still hoping to find Sean curled up in the cellar somewhere clutching a bottle of wine. "Because she is a mystic, as you said. And she specializes in finding things--and people--that aren't where they're supposed to be."

*

In a matter of minutes they confirmed it. Sean Asbury was nowhere to be found.

Now Akasha was practically dragging Niel through city in her haste to get to this so-called mystic. Niel had little knowledge of--and therefore, tolerance for--the supernatural, but if this woman knew something about the orphanage, Niel was not about to jeopardize his chances for getting that information by opening his mouth. He was perfectly content to let Akasha do all the talking.

They were getting close to the hostel where Niel was staying, and it occurred to him that it might be more expedient to drive. "Where is this place, Akasha?"

"Over the Hawthorne Bridge. Why?"

"Because my car is just over there, and we--"

"Why didn't you say you had a car?" she practically yelled.

Isabelle Van Torrence kept shop in the privacy of her own home, overlooking a quiet neighborhood known as Ladd's Addition. Every street was interrupted by a diamond-shaped roundabout filled with rose bushes and park benches and quaint iron lampposts.

"Cute," said Niel, slowing the car to a stop in front of the small brown house Akasha pointed to. She touched his arm as he started to open the car door.

"Maybe you'd better stay here until I talk to her."

He sighed. "She's that skittish?"

"Just until I get a reading on her mood." She concentrated on her best doe-eyed, full-lipped pout.

"I'll just wait out here, then," he said, but his eyes told her he was onto her wiles.

"Thanks, Niel," she said, and got out of the car. "I won't be long."

He watched her hop up the porch stairs and make use of the knocker. After a moment, the door opened just wide enough for her to enter, and she disappeared inside.

Niel concentrated on not checking his watch every few minutes. It wasn't as though he had anywhere to be. Fortunately, she was true to her word; not more than twenty minutes had passed before she stuck her head out the open window and beckoned him in.

"This is all beginning to feel like a CIA plot," he said to himself. He found Akasha in the livingroom sipping a cup of tea across from a woman Niel guessed to be at least ninety years old.

"Niel, meet Isabelle Van Torrence. Isabelle, this is Lieutenant Niel Withers," Akasha said, standing up to introduce him. Niel stared at her.

"How did you--"

"Later," she whispered.

"How lovely to see you, young man. I always do enjoy meeting men of the armed forces. Their auras are so vibrant."

Niel cleared his throat. "Thank you for having me, ma'am. I understand you don't accept many visitors."

"I was just telling Isabelle about the disappearances," Akasha said, motioning for Niel to join her on the sofa. He sat down gingerly, and his thigh brushed hers.

"Yes, it is very peculiar, don't you think? The first thing to do is to pinpoint the exact locations of the missing persons at the time of their disappearance. I find that whenever there are multiple instances such as this, certain patterns emerge that will shed light on the matter," said Isabelle, setting down her teacup. Niel noticed that her hands were shaking slightly. "But one thing is absolutely clear. There will be more."

"How can you be sure, Ms. Van--"

"Please, call me Isabelle. It is so tedious to be referred to by one's surname, don't you think?"

"Very well, how can you be sure there'll be more, Isabelle?" Niel said, shifting away from Akasha on the sofa. He simply couldn't concentrate.

"Well, you didn't think this was the first time something like this has happened in Bridgetown, did you?" The old woman stared at him over the top of her spectacles.

"I'm not exactly a native, ma'am."

"Ah, but you are. Your mother was born here, of course." She looked at him very keenly until he managed to compose himself. He found that he was gripping the sofa cushions with both hands.

"I beg your pardon?" he said finally. Akasha lay her hand on his arm, and when he glanced at her, she smiled.

"You did come here to learn about her, didn't you? My boy, I have lived for a long time. Seen and done a great many things, some not so good. I have turned a blind eye in the name of keeping up appearances. But as you can see, there isn't much to my appearance now." She sighed. "I assume you tried to get in through the front door," she said after a moment.

"Get in?"

"To Augustina Kerrington's, of course."

"How...how did you...Akasha, did you--"

"I haven't said anything about it, I swear." She looked as awed as he felt. "I only mentioned Sean."

"It isn't magic, lieutenant. The disappearances, the orphanage, and a good deal more are connected by one simple fact of Portland's history." The old lady struggled to her feet, and Niel held out his arm to give her leverage. "Thank you, my boy." She walked slowly to the armoire against the far wall and selected a roll of paper from one of its shelves.

"And what fact would that be?"

She turned and went back to her chair. "This is a port city. Do you know what that implied in the 1800's? A constant influx of men--sailors, frontiersmen, immigrants. Without families, without ties. Which created the perfect opportunity for a very nasty sort of business. Do you know what lies under this city? Tunnels."

She spread the roll of paper out onto the coffeetable, and Niel and Akasha bent to look at it. It appeared to be a schematic of the city.

"This was drawn by a very dear friend of mine in 1887. Granted, many things have changed, many buildings are no longer there or have been rebuilt, but the tunnels are still very much intact. The majority of the entrances were centered downtown, close to the river." Isabelle pointed to a spot near the top. "This is the entrance to the tunnels from the orphanage," she said quietly. Niel looked up sharply. "Yes, you are beginning to see," she said.

Displacement

2006-11-02T06:11:39Z

Well, here is my first two chapters. I think I did well today. 3802 words.

1. An Unavoidable Obligation

He wasn't going to go through with it. He wasn't. His mother, Patricia Anne Hume-Withers, was dead, and she wasn't going to get any benefit from him selling the brownstone to go on this dead-end goose chase, goddamned Grail hunt, on the other side of the country.

"Don't you want to know who your family was, Daniel? Don't you want to know who I was?"

She had continued her campaign to enlist his help even during the war, answering his letters about promotions and skirmishes with subtle hints and suggestions that they move to Portland when the war was over.

He could never understand why she had been unable to find this information herself, and she had never allowed him to accompany her on her fact-finding excursions in the past. It was a personal affair, she said. The cancer had changed things, made her urgency immediate, then doubtful, then impossible.

Perhaps it was the reason Niel had found himself going through with it, calling the realtor on autopilot, selling odds and ends, lubing the car, getting a jumpstart on the mission. He grimaced. It wasn't the prospect of the trip that bothered him; in fact, a nice long drive could be relaxing. But what to do when he finished his business? He anticipated that it wouldn't take more than a day or two to sort out the whole affair, wheedle the orphanage to let him into the file system and find his mother's records. Perhaps he would stay on the west coast. It wasn't as though he had anything tying him down in New York.

Admittedly, the rain bothered him. The ache in his shoulder was excruciating, a dull spark that radiated outward as he hefted his duffel bag out of the trunk and trudged toward the hostel. It occurred to him that he ought to have waited until winter was over. A woman with a dismal face showed him to his bunk.

He was feeling woozy from all the driving--he'd made the trip in four days, gritting his teeth through the hard mountain driving in Colorado--but it was still early enough for the orphanage to be open, and he wanted to get on with it. He debated whether he ought to wear his old uniform--it might get snappy service. Then again, it might be over the top. He decided against it, threw on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt, and pulled his Army jacket tightly around him.

Augustina Kerrington's, named after the founder in 1887, stood stark and grand on the corner of Stark and Grand, on the east side of the river and far enough north to keep the more respectable suburbs free of errant children running through their yards. Niel pulled up and stopped in the gravel driveway, squinting at the address on scrap of paper he'd swiped from his mother's journal. It was the right building, but the sign out front said, "Augustina Kerrington's Thrift Store & Cafe."

"Crap," he said. He suspected that it was only the beginning of his troubles. The ache in his shoulder seemed to swell as he pushed through the heavy wooden doors and looked around for someone old enough to possibly know something about the old orphanage. He stepped around tables covered with boxes of old clothes, dented cooking pans, chinaware, silver tea-things, hats, ratty dolls and rusted roller skates, and headed toward the back of the foyer, hoping to find an office. Instead, he found the cafe, a cheery yellow room filled with white wicker tables, and bay doors that opened to an expansive courtyard. The whole place was more like a castle than an orphanage, and certainly not a thrift store.

Niel realized that he must have been standing with his mouth open when the woman behind the counter smiled warily and said, "What would you like, sir?"

"Oh, I'm not here for lunch. I was wondering if there was a back office, or a manager around I could talk to." He looked around again.

"Oh, is Mrs. Avery not out front? She usually is. She's what you would call a manager, I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Well, she's not a manager per se, but she is the old headmistress' daughter. She owns the building and likes to wander around the store and talk to guests."

"Sounds about right. You said she'd be out front?"

"Yes, but if she's not there, I don't know where she'd be."

"Thanks," he said, already turning to go back the way he came.

"You look cold," the woman said to his back. "Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?"

He looked back and grinned. "Sister, you don't know how cold I am. Maybe I'll take you up on that when I find what I'm looking for."

Niel walked back through the store and went out the front door again, then doubled back around the building. He ought to have realized that asking to talk to the manager in a thrift shop would seem odd, but something else was going on here. The counter lady's eyes kept shifting over to the bay windows overlooking the garden. Sure enough, when he followed the building around to the courtyard, he almost stumbled over an older woman crouched in front of a fence of bushes, clipping branches and placing jars over some delicate-looking stalks. She looked up as he approached.

"Yes?"

"Are you Mrs. Avery?" Niel offered a hand, and she brushed the dirt from her hands and stood up.

"That's right. I thought I would come out here and trim down some of the plants for winter. And who might you be, young man?"

Niel wasn't sure how quickly to come out with it. He decided to be straight with the woman. "My name's Niel Withers, and I was hoping to find someone who could tell me about the old orphanage."

She made a small noise of surprise. "I take it you're not from around here," she said, not unkindly. "What exactly would you like to know?"

"I just need to look at some records. You see, my mother spent quite some time here as a child, and she wanted me to find her family. My family," he corrected. He saw something indistinguishable cross her face, and she shook her head.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she said, glancing down at her butchered bushes. "When the orphanage closed, all the records were taken to a secured storage facility down in Eugene--that's a couple hours south of here. We've only just learned that the facility has since burned down." She sighed. "It's too bad, really, it's just too bad. We've had to let down so many people."

"And nothing was saved?" Niel felt an anxious stirring sensation under his ribs, as though he were preparing to run from a rabid dog.

"The fire was quite intense." She seemed surprised that he was still standing there. "Is there anything else I can help you with? I'm frightfully busy this time of year." She picked up the clippings from the ground and began walking toward a large garbage can already filled with plant debris.

Niel followed her, struggling to keep his disappointment out of his voice. "But you must have been around when she was here," he said as the thought occurred to him. "She was adopted around 1918. I'm sorry, I don't know what her name was before, but her--my grandparents named her Patricia Anne Hume."

Mrs. Avery shot him a sharp look. "Mr. Withers, I was a young woman in 1918, newly married, and it was not my custom to keep track of the children who came through these doors. I did not start working here until after my mother passed away just a few years ago, therefore I would have no reason to know anything about your mother. I am terribly sorry, but I can't help you. Good day." She was walking very quickly now, back toward the front entrance.

He caught up with her just as she reached the door. "Please, Mrs. Avery, I'm sorry I've upset you, but this was my mother's dying request. Isn't there anyone around who might remember something?"

She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. "There is one woman. I think she's still in town. Her name was Van Torrence. Isabelle Van Torrence. I believe she's opened a..." a look of disgust crossed her face, "...mystic store in the historical district downtown. Tarot, readings, that sort of thing. Becoming popular here, you'll find, all that devil-worship. But there's only one person in this town she'll talk to, and I wouldn't bother asking her for help."

"What's her name?" Niel asked quickly.

"I only know that her first name is Akasha. Ask around on Burnside, across the river. And now, I'm late for the afternoon tea. The ladies will be so disappointed." She glanced at him over her shoulder, then pulled open the heavy door and slipped inside.

"Thank you for your help," Niel called after her, but the door had already closed. He shrugged and walked back to the car. He was beginning to see why his mother had been unsuccessful.

*

2. An Exquisite Lust

When summer and autumn collided in a puff of cold mist, the pirate ship would be in the rivermouth, coming out of the fog like a black dog slavering at the mouth. Akasha watched for it now as she walked along, watched for signs of its billowing grey sails materializing under the bridge, its grubby wooden belly stuffed with god-knows-what. It was a tourist attraction now, and even those who were still wary of anything seaworthy--what with the U-boats coming so close and all--found themselves clambering aboard and helping the crew tie the mains'l down, for fun.

But there were days when the ship would appear unexpectedly in a spot on the river unsuitable for tours, say, under the Burnside Bridge, and sit for days, motionless except for the gentle bob of the current. Akasha swore the thing was beginning to look lived in.

She followed it as it slowly drifted with the current, apparently of its own volition. It was idling northward, which was convenient as she was headed that way, back to work with her purchases from the Saturday market. She was anxious to catch sight of someone disembarking, but to this day she had been unable to spend enough time trailing it. She sighed as it slid out of her view behind the tall waterfront buildings, then turned inward and headed back up Burnside.

Akasha had very little time to devote to thinking about pirate ships. On any given day she would be found swinging her hips and working up a sweat at The Clouds and the Rain--what Sean the proprietor called a hanamachi house, like the geisha villages in Japan where he had spent most of the war as a prisoner. One of the lucky ones, he said. Akasha didn't think it was lucky to be held prisoner, but then, she was essentially a prisoner herself, and found that she didn't mind in the slightest. Dancing in a glorified whore house, regardless of how glamorous her costumes were, was a far cry from her nunnish existence back in New York. The Big Apple, a big pain in the ass. Akasha swore as often as she found occasion, now that she had an excuse not to be ladylike.

The Clouds and the Rain--an apt enough name for Portland when you considered the weather, and a popular euphemism for orgasm in Japan--resided in a ramshackle two-story Victorian house on the west side of the river Willamette. Four white pillars stretched to the flat roof like the pale arms of a goddess, the outer two demurely covered by a pair of evergreens so tall Akasha assumed that they were planted in the early 1800's. Two stately lions, carved on either side of the red brick front staircase, gave the place a foreboding appearance, which the scattered clumps of rose bushes hugging the sides of the house did nothing to lessen, and there was a wide second-story porch that opened out of two bay windows and two French-style doors to look out onto the street.

The house was not far from the business district and government buildings, which meant that a certain percentage of Akasha's clients was bound to be of society's finest. The remaining percentage consisted of river rats, men from the meatpacking warehouses on Water Avenue, and out-of-towners. She saw a fair number of veterans from time to time, but these came mainly to gawk at the verisimilitude of Japanese culture and to shoot the breeze with Sean while drowning their sorrows in a flood of home-brewed lager.

The absence of a madam--and the ubiquitous presence of the British proprietor, Sean--caused a great deal of speculation and suspicion among the C&R's wealthier clients. They were accustomed to the comforting anonymity, the raunch and filth of the standard brothel, standards that put the C&R at a considerable disadvantage. Sean charged outlandish prices for his girls, and they weren't even required to take off their clothes, much less go to bed with clients--all that was extra, and left entirely up to each individual dancer.

But they came anyway. The secret, Sean told anyone who would listen, was in the presentation.

Akasha enjoyed the routine. Her dressing table sat in the corner by the window, reserved for the newest dancer. It was meant to intimidate, as the curtains were filmy and not much use for blocking the view from the street, but Akasha took a perverse pleasure in it. She felt her power over men, felt it rising up out of the floor boards each time she danced, felt it in the gaze of the passersby below her window. She felt it in the silk of her stockings--they were finally getting silk again, Rosalita said, now that the war was well and truly over--as she rolled them over her toes and up to the top of her white thighs. Next came the costume, which depended on what sort of performance she would give. Oh, those dresses! Akasha had never seen such glamorous and sensual things, except in the Broadway productions she had seen. There were red cocktail dresses with lace edges, full gowns with revealing necklines for private parties, and cabaret-style undergarments for the more sensational shows. Best of all, at least in Akasha's opinion, were the kimonos, real silk kimonos that Sean had ordered directly from Kyoto, complete with susoyoke undergarments, and obi to hold them in place.

Sean didn't care much for accuracy, so the kimonos were not intricate twelve-piece ensembles--that would have run him into debt by thousands of dollars, and the effect would have been lost on his clientele. It was his whim from the beginning to buy them at all, but the delicate Asian designs and formality increased Akasha's pleasure, and so she was glad he did cater to his whims every once in a while. He wasn't a bad fellow, for a man. He had come over to America after the war--he told her in a tete-a-tete soon after she arrived, a bottle of whiskey between them--and settled in Portland after a grand poo-bah tour of the country, because it was rainy and damp and reminded him of England. "Derbyshire," he said. His one fault--aside from opening a pleasure house--was his tendency to get into his cups and stay there, to the detriment of the books. Akasha had taken the liberty of balancing the ledger whenever he started "gettin' thirsty," as he called it, as she was the only other person at the C&R who knew anything about mathematics.

On this particular day, however, Sean was behind the bar, not in front of it. Lydia and Tarantella were making the rounds in some of the fuller dresses--too early for cocktail slips. She set the box of scarves down next to the stairs and went up to her room to change. Kimono night, she decided.

*

It was the girl standing by the bar that caused Akasha to stumble on the last step down. She righted herself and turned to go back upstairs before Virginia noticed her, but the fall had hurt, and she paused to take the weight off her ankle. Then it was too late.

"Ellen." Virginia stood staring solemnly at Akasha's outfit. "What in the name of all that is holy..."

"Don't call me that here, okay? It's Akasha now. How in blazing hell did you find me?" Akasha was finding it difficult to stand. She leaned heavily against the railing.

"Papa hired a private detective when you disappeared. When he found you, Papa sent me to come get you. What are you doing here, Elle? This is a...a brothel." She whispered the last word.

Akasha rolled her eyes. "A private detective? Ginny, this is why I left. Alright, where is he? I didn't notice anyone." She looked around, uncomfortable. Her sister smirked.

"That's why they pay him so much money. Nash, I want you to meet Ellen Beckett." She motioned to a young black man sitting at the bar, who stood up and made his way over to them. He nodded.

Akasha couldn't help but grin. The man was wearing bright blue eyeliner and a taffeta shirt. "Well, no wonder I missed you. You fit right in here."

"You could say that we share a taste for boldness, Miss Beckett," he replied, and the deep masculine quality of his voice contrasted sharply with his appearance. He made no attempt to alter it, and the effect jangled her. She turned to Virginia, who was gawking at Tarantella in what she called her 'madam' dress.

"What do you expect, that I'm just going to leave with you and go back to New York?"

Virginia turned her eyes back to her sister with effort. "Essentially, yes. Ellen, how can you live like this? Are you...selling yourself?" She was gawking again, in that wide-eyed baby-bird way she had. Akasha suspected it was an act Virginia put on to lull their father into a false sense of security.

"Oh, don't be a wet blanket," Akasha said, peering over her head toward the door, which had just opened to a man wearing an Army jacket. He had a lovely face, she thought. "Let's have a drink," she said to Virginia, when she saw him make his way over to the bar. He leaned over it and started talking to Sean.

"I don't really think that I should--" Virginia began.

"Of course you should," Akasha said. "Go sit down at that table in the corner, and try not to make any trouble for me."

She was wearing her favorite autumn kimono, the burnished gold one with the red obi, and she knew that she would stand out above the other girls, who were dressed in the more conventional gowns. "Sean, could I get two glasses of whiskey, please? One with water."

"Startin' a bit early today, are we, Kash?" Sean teased as he poured.

"Speak for yourself, mate," Akasha grinned. She angled herself so that she was facing the man at the bar. "You look thirsty yourself," she told him. He looked over at her, startled. "Why don't you join us at that table over there?"

"You're Akasha?" the man asked.

She managed to keep her face neutral. "You're in luck," she said, raising an eyebrow in Sean's direction. What are you telling people about me? she wondered.

The man looked relieved. "I'll join you then. I've been looking all over town for you." He followed her with his glass to wear Virginia and the private eye were sitting in the far corner.

"I'm not sure whether I ought to be flattered or worried," she said, throwing a coy glance backwards. "Am I in trouble?"

He laughed, then pulled out a chair for her. "I don't think so. My name's Niel Withers. Just in town for some family business."

She was about to ask what she could possibly have to do with his family business when Virginia spoke up.

"Yes, well, I'm here on family business as well, and I was about to tell my sister here something very important. So if you don't mind..."

Akasha frowned, but Niel shrugged. "Go right ahead."

"In private, please."

"Virginia, Mr. Withers is going to stay right here, so you'd better get on with what you're going to say." She glared at her sister, still having a difficult time believing she had been found.

Virginia sighed. "Fine then. Elle, Papa's going to disown you when he finds out what you're up to! You have to come back with me now. I won't tell him, but I don't think Nash here is going to keep anything back. He's well-paid." Nash made a dismissive sound in his throat and sipped his beer.

"Did Papa tell you that he was going to disown me?"

"Well, no. He was afraid you might have been kept here against your will. But I can see that's obviously not the case," she trailed off as Akasha got up from the table.

"You're damned right it's not the case." She took out a small paper fan from a hidden pocket in the folds of her kimono and started a slow, hypnotic dance next to Niel's chair.

She could tell he was very aware of her. She fluttered the delicate fan close to his ear, so that the breeze touched his face like a caress. Yes, she knew how to move a man. His eyes followed her around the table, though the rest of him remained motionless. She admired his restraint. Virginia's eyes followed her, too, aggrieved. Akasha moved in a way that caused her kimono to curl around her ankles, and noticed the way Niel shifted in his seat.

Partly for the pleasure of shocking Virginia, and partly out of a growing curiosity, she touched his shoulder lightly. "Shall I entertain you...privately?"

Virginia's eyes grew even wider. Akasha watched Niel struggle with himself, but he got up slowly and extended his arm.

"I'd be honored."

She smiled. "I wouldn't wait for me, Ginny," she said.

"Pig, you pig," Virginia said softly. Akasha wasn't sure if her sister meant the words for her or for Niel.

poo.

2006-11-01T16:03:17Z

aha. off to a wonderful start. NOT.

I had intended to take a quick nap last night at 9pm and get up at midnight to write. Nope. Slept through that. Intended to get up at 5am. But I was having an amazing dream about Dean and didn't want to risk losing it. See, he, Sam, and I were off doing something, not sure but it involved a car. Dean and Sam were arguing about something, and then suddenly all 3 of us were sitting in this room around a table with the people from Navy:NCIS. Dean was looking rough--we must have been in a fight, because he was all bruised around the eye and face. He hadn't shaved because it was too painful, and he had this major shadow goin' on. *grin* Very cute. Sam was just sitting there laughing at him because Dean didn't want to share any information with the NCIS people, but we had to.

Anyway, this means that I have a LOT of writing to do when I get home today. Going to also try to do some at lunch.

Nano random

2006-11-01T03:14:23Z

I have made 3 tiered goals here.

1. Nanowrimo: 50,000 words. This is the bare bones. 1,667 words/day, or about 7 pages.

2. Book length: 100,000 words. This is my ideal length. It's about 3,333 words/day, about 11 pages.

3. The Limit: 150,000 words. 5,000 words/day, 16.4 pages. I doubt I could achieve much more than this without going insane (I don't understand the people gunning for 1,000,000 words in 30 days--bums don't work!!)

I'm really anxious to begin tonight, but I'm already tired and it's 7 already. Maybe I'll lie down for awhile and hope I don't fall asleep with my laundry in the dryer. I am also debating whether I should start tonight or not. I don't want to start off tomorrow exhausted from being up too late.

NY Times

2006-10-31T21:28:44Z

Op-Ed Contributor
Ghosts in the Machines
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By NEIL GAIMAN
Published: October 31, 2006
WE are gathered here at the final end of what Bradbury called the October Country: a state of mind as much as it is a time. All the harvests are in, the frost is on the ground, there’s mist in the crisp night air and it’s time to tell ghost stories.

When I was growing up in England, Halloween was no time for celebration. It was the night when, we were assured, the dead walked, when all the things of night were loosed, and, sensibly, believing this, we children stayed at home, closed our windows, barred our doors, listened to the twigs rake and patter at the window-glass, shivered, and were content.

There were days that changed everything: birthdays and New Years and First Days of School, days that showed us that there was an order to all things, and the creatures of the night and the imagination understood this, just as we did. All Hallows’ Eve was their party, the night all their birthdays came at once. They had license — all the boundaries set between the living and the dead were breached — and there were witches, too, I decided, for I had never managed to be scared of ghosts, but witches, I knew, waited in the shadows, and they ate small boys.

I did not believe in witches, not in the daylight. Not really even at midnight. But on Halloween I believed in everything. I even believed that there was a country across the ocean where, on that night, people my age went from door to door in costumes, begging for sweets, threatening tricks.

Halloween was a secret, back then, something private, and I would hug myself inside on Halloween, as a boy, most gloriously afraid.

•

Now I write fictions, and sometimes those stories stray into the shadows, and then I find I have to explain myself to my loved ones and my friends.

Why do you write ghost stories? Is there any place for ghost stories in the 21st century?

As Alice said, there’s plenty of room. Technology does nothing to dispel the shadows at the edge of things. The ghost-story world still hovers at the limits of vision, making things stranger, darker, more magical, just as it always has ....

There’s a blog I don’t think anyone else reads. I ran across it searching for something else, and something about it, the tone of voice perhaps, so flat and bleak and hopeless, caught my attention. I bookmarked it.

If the girl who kept it knew that anyone was reading it, anybody cared, perhaps she would not have taken her own life. She even wrote about what she was going to do, the pills, the Nembutal and Seconal and the rest, that she had stolen a few at a time over the months from her stepfather’s bathroom, the plastic bag, the loneliness, and wrote about it in a flat, pragmatic way, explaining that while she knew that suicide attempts were cries for help, this really wasn’t, she just didn’t want to live any longer.

She counted down to the big day, and I kept reading, uncertain what to do, if anything. There was not enough identifying information on the Web page even to tell me which continent she lived on. No e-mail address. No way to leave comments. The last message said simply, “Tonight.”

I wondered whom I should tell, if anyone, and then I shrugged, and, best as I could, I swallowed the feeling that I had let the world down.

And then she started to post again. She says she’s cold and she’s lonely.

I think she knows I’m still reading ....

•

I remember the first time I found myself in New York for Halloween. The parade went past, and went past and went past, all witches and ghouls and demons and wicked queens and glorious, and I was, for a moment, 7 years old once more, and profoundly shocked. If you did this in England, I found myself thinking in the part of my head that makes stories, things would wake, all the things we burn our bonfires on Guy Fawkes’ to keep away. Perhaps they can do it here, because the things that watch are not English. Perhaps the dead do not walk here, on Halloween.

Then, a few years later, I moved to America and bought a house that looked as if it had been drawn by Charles Addams on a day he was feeling particularly morbid. For Halloween, I learned to carve pumpkins, then I stocked up on candies and waited for the first trick-or-treaters to arrive. Fourteen years later, I’m still waiting. Perhaps my house looks just a little too unsettling; perhaps it’s simply too far out of town.

•

And then there was the one who said, in her cellphone’s voicemail message, sounding amused as she said it, that she was afraid she had been murdered, but to leave a message and she would get back to us.

It wasn’t until we read the news, several days later, that we learned that she had indeed been murdered, apparently randomly and quite horribly.

But then she did get back to each of the people who had left her a message. By phone, at first, leaving cellphone messages that sounded like someone whispering in a gale, muffled wet sounds that never quite resolved into words.

Eventually, of course, she will return our calls in person.

•

And still they ask, Why tell ghost stories? Why read them or listen to them? Why take such pleasure in tales that have no purpose but, comfortably, to scare?

I don’t know. Not really. It goes way back. We have ghost stories from ancient Egypt, after all, ghost stories in the Bible, classical ghost stories from Rome (along with werewolves, cases of demonic possession and, of course, over and over, witches). We have been telling each other tales of otherness, of life beyond the grave, for a long time; stories that prickle the flesh and make the shadows deeper and, most important, remind us that we live, and that there is something special, something unique and remarkable about the state of being alive.

Fear is a wonderful thing, in small doses. You ride the ghost train into the darkness, knowing that eventually the doors will open and you will step out into the daylight once again. It’s always reassuring to know that you’re still here, still safe. That nothing strange has happened, not really. It’s good to be a child again, for a little while, and to fear — not governments, not regulations, not infidelities or accountants or distant wars, but ghosts and such things that don’t exist, and even if they do, can do nothing to hurt us.

And this time of year is best for a haunting, as even the most prosaic things cast the most disquieting shadows.

The things that haunt us can be tiny things: a Web page; a voicemail message; an article in a newspaper, perhaps, by an English writer, remembering Halloweens long gone and skeletal trees and winding lanes and darkness. An article containing fragments of ghost stories, and which, nonsensical although the idea has to be, nobody ever remembers reading but you, and which simply isn’t there the next time you go and look for it.

Neil Gaiman is the author of the novel “Anansi Boys” and “Fragile Things,” a collection of stories.

Next Article in Opinion (7 of 13) »

agent_orangetan @ 2006-10-25T09:56:00

2006-10-25T16:56:29Z

occasionally, I find myself wishing I could reboot my brain, or perhaps have amnesia for awhile. one of those weird, sci-fi things like Total Recall. I'd like to see what I would write about, what the theme would be, if I started fresh. I could try to do it from my current headspace, but I doubt I could psyche myself into believing it, and thus doubt any readers I might have would believe it either.

I've been thinking lately

of clocks, they all have names, living breathing time, clocks we look up to like gods, always there, always moving even when they've stopped. time is circular, different hours have a flavor

but I'm not going on vacation remember
a vacation from me

snip the conversation short so you don't know who's talking

reading version

2006-10-22T02:23:54Z

1.
we pick a fine scotch together,
because drinking peat is always a good idea.
Moving to my train
I hear life, whirring in the background

2.
The world is safe for spying
Can you see
--What eyes? (you say)
Spy, I suppose, means save and lock under
Hold your clothes together, I say, disgusted.
You tell scotch tape to work
because your buttons won't close anymore

I run and hold the track with my feet
You are behind me on my run,
complaining
--What, no more scotch? (you say)
You can’t like track--it's against your ideology.
Tracking you afterwards,
you lock on my eyes
you see it--I know.
can I lock you down?

3.
I see you there, under a spy
I’m thinking, tell me afterwards
what clothes you wore.
See life recording--
lock it up
Before I can see it.
--What clothes? (you say)
how like a fledgling liar.
can life tell what I’m seeing
can you
I’m running I can’t

4.
my eyes are a train track
let's tell my spy together
tell how, on much scotch, I’m like clothes
--Empty--
I’m with you, about the moving train
The life tape I see recording
I hold here, and
I’m all scotch afterwards.

(oh you are so blind)

You can’t see with my eyes
think, spy
Life tapes our eyes together,
can't look away
but can't see anything
you were moving life forwards
and the afterwards
was us together (or ought to be)
--about that tape…(you say)
it can’t, can it?
life means moving
but what life
is worth this?
don’t tell--
What my can can’t, don’t suppose
You can

5.
there's a train!
It eyes my scotch
Save the record of that
together
your eyes tell it,
tell lies about it.
together
let’s tell it together,
Save moving
See life jump the train
Lock my track or I'll jump too--
Save moving--
(oh you are so blind)

6.
Here’s To Tracking Life Like Scotch
See spy, I can’t hear you
Spy, I track you, run you down:
Can you hear life thinking about it?
whirring about the track
jump, of course, means afterwards.
all I can see is
you under the train--

afterwards, there's the jump record,
I run all transmitters--
recording You, recording You
what to think on scotch afterwards
much held, I held you
we jump much track together, locked together,
held eyes
I held my eyes under you
A tape I can see to
held behind life
while you Held life
Run tape, all I can see
I’m recording
as you run behind, ever behind
Tell me I can’t
Tell all,
much held behind my eyes

7.
All life means exactly clothes
pick a life,
Jump it run it
Tell my love what life means
What it means--
Lock it track it
I run whirring
run
run the tape
recording You,
you, all whirring, held my eyes

for Robbie ;)

2006-10-20T23:39:22Z

1.
My afterwords are afterwards
You’re not supposed to see the record
But what you hear you like
You hear see all--perverted
I’m about to see moving record, living breathing

You pick a train
tracking my tracking you
But you can’t track my train
It runs on life
My my my, do tell
we pick a fine scotch together--
because drinking peat is always a good idea--
Moving to my train
I hear life, whirring in the background

2.
The world is safe for spying
Can you see
My eyes save you
--What eyes? (you say)
Spy, I suppose, means save and lock under
Hold your clothes together, I say, disgusted.
You tell scotch tape to work
because your buttons won't close anymore

I run and hold the track with my feet
You are behind me on my run,
complaining
--What, no more scotch? (you say)
You can’t like track--it's against your ideology.
Tracking you afterwards,
you lock on my eyes
you see it--I know.
can I lock you down?

3.
I see you there, under a spy
I’m thinking, tell me afterwards
what clothes you wore.
See life recording--
lock it up
Before I can see it.
--What clothes? (you say)
how like a fledgling liar.
can life tell what I’m seeing
can you
I’m running I can’t

4.
my eyes are a train track
let's tell my spy together
tell how, on much scotch, I’m like clothes
--Empty--
I’m with you, about the moving train
The life tape I see recording
I hold here, and
I’m all scotch afterwards.

(oh you are so blind)

You can’t see with my eyes
think, spy
Life tapes our eyes together,
can't look away
but can't see anything either
you were moving life forwards
and the afterwards
was us together (or ought to be)
--about that tape…(you say)
it can’t, can it?
life means moving
but what life, my spy
is worth this?
don’t tell--
What my can can’t, don’t suppose
You can

5.
there's a train!
It eyes my scotch
Save the record of that
But about the supposed train--
you spy, I on you
together together
can scotch see it all?
your eyes tell it,
tell lies about it.
let’s tell it together,
Save moving
See life jump the train
Lock my track or I'll jump too--
Save moving--
(oh you are so blind)

6.
My think is scotch
See spy, I can’t hear you
Spy, I track you, run you down:
Here’s To Tracking Life Like Scotch
Can you hear life thinking about it?
whirring about the track
jump, of course, means afterwards.
all I can see is
you under the train--

afterwards, there's the jump record,
I run all transmitters--
recording You, recording You
what to think on scotch afterwards
much held, I held you
we jump much track together, locked together,
held eyes
I held my eyes under you
A tape I can see to--
held behind life, life lock
while you Held life, hear life-
Run tape, all I can see
I’m recording
as you run behind, ever behind
Tell me I can’t
Tell all,
much held behind my eyes

7.
All life means exactly clothes
pick a life,
Jump it run it
Tell my fledgling love what life means
What it means--
Lock it track it
I run whirring
run
run the tape
recording You,
you, all whirring, held my eyes

Roundtable #1

2006-10-19T04:13:22Z

For my general edification (and your amusement), I had my Nano characters drop by for a roundtable, get-to-know-you session...also to see if I could swing the 1667 word count in an hour. I found out many things, not the least of which is that I can, in fact, swing the word count, as long as I don't edit. In fact, the word count here is 1823. *congratulates self*

You'll have to excuse them. They're sequestered at the moment and a bit cranky. And horny.

*NOTE* None of this is going into the actual Nano. That would be cheating. This is prewriting to help me get to know my characters and general plot before November 1st, so I'm not just drooling on my keyboard. On to the general mayhem. Enjoy!

[the Displacement Parade is sitting around a table]

Me: Ok, I've called you all together a little early so we can get to know each other and figure out who's going to start us off November 1st. Let's start by introducing ourselves. I'm Rose City Sorcha, your Author. Let's just go around the circle, shall we? Who wants to start?

Niel: I have a question.

Me: Yes?

Niel: How come only some of us have last names?

Me: Because it only matters to the plot for the main characters.

Niel: Don't you think that's a little...prejudiced?

Me: Why don't you just introduce yourself? Say your name, location, and time era, if you please.

Niel: Hi, I'm Daniel Hume Withers, Portland present day, and I'm a Main Character. You can call me Niel. [makes eyes at small dark girl sitting next to him]

All: HI, Niel!

Me: Ok, let's not be facetious RIGHT off the bat. And why are you here, Niel?

Niel: I'm on a quest to find my mother's biological family. It was her dying wish. [tries not to make an audible sigh]

Me: Very nice. I wish you luck. Next?

Virginia: Hi everyone, I'm Virginia Beckett, NYC 1950's, and I'm also a Main Character. [makes eyes back at Niel]

Me: And your purpose here?

Virginia: I'm looking for my older sister, who disappeared from home some months ago.

Me: Ok, why don't you go next then? [looks at blonde waifish girl next to Virginia]

Ellen/Akasha: Yo. I'm Akasha, formerly known as Ellen Beckett, this punk's sister. I live in Portland in 1890. Supporting Character, and not too happy about it to tell ya the truth, Author.

Me: [clearing throat] Well, I'm sure that will be resolved sooner or later. Next? You with the hat.

Sean: Cheerio, mates. I'm Sean, also known as Sean the Brit, though to be honest I'm not sure I like that title.

Me: You are British, correct?

Sean: Well yeah, but I'm also a phenom on the footie field. Spike, now that's a nickname.

Me: Tell us where you are, Spike...er, Sean.

Sean: I'm in Portland as well, present day. [nods to Niel] Looks like we'll be neighbors, eh?

Niel: Only until I get my own place, MATE. That hostel sucks.

Sean: It's not that bad. Lots of pubs nearby, and chicks.

Niel: [rolls eyes]

Me: How about you, sir?

Homeless Bill: They call me Bill on the Burnside Bridge. [shifts eyes mysteriously & holds up a sign that reads, "you can shoot me down but never butter me up, unless I'm wearing pancakes"]

Me: What is that sign you're carrying there?

HB: It's part of a tutorial I'm holding under the Hawthorne Bridge. You may have experienced one of my students' final projects: "Klingon—Will Fight For Food."

Me: Don't think so, no. Were the Storm Troopers yours as well?

HB: No, those costumes cost too much.

Me: Next?

Jacob: [mumbles rhythmically]

Me: Pardon?

Jacob: Hi, my name is Jacob. I have a job, making fobs for a ghoul who eats corn on the cob, I sob...nightly, unsightly, wandering the riverwalk holding tightly to the edge, in the dark, aardvark—

Me: I take it you're a poet of sorts?

Jacob: Of sorts? [blushes] You don't like my style, do you? Neither does Elizabeth, but I don't want to make a scene.

Me: [sighs] Ok, we're getting off topic here. Where are you, Jacob?

Jacob: Portland, present day.

Me; A lot of those, I see. Good, good. Okay, who hasn't gone yet? [looks around] You, with the makeup.

Nash: Ohmigod, like, my name is Nash, and I'm like, sooooooooooo excited to be here, guys! [swishes] I'm in Portland, and the rain does terrible things to my do, you know? [pats weave] Like, my last boyfriend TOTALLY left me because of my hair, so I cut it off. But now I spend all this money on wigs, so it's a lose-lose situation. But they're so smokin hot, don't you think?

Virginia: Oh, completely amazing! You really go out in public with blue hair?

Nash: Oh honey, you have so much to learn!

Me: Sorry to break it up guys, but save the chit-chat until we're done with introductions.

pdxzombie420: I'm next, I believe. Just call me PDX. Or Zombie. Whichever you prefer.

Me: And where are you, PDX?

PDX: in your computer.

Me: ...

PDX: I moderate the online conference "DamnPortlanders," okay?

Me: I see. Do you have a real name?

PDX: Not that I'm going to disclose to you. I have minions, you see. I have to maintain my anonymity or people will question my advice on all things Portland.

Me: Is that because you're not really in Portland?

PDX: I told you, that's classified information, Lady.

Me: But...I'm the author! I ought to know what my characters are up to!! [miffed]

PDX: Well, I'll tell you in November, ok? [whispers in ear]

Me: [sigh] Anyone else? No? Well then, I'll just mention the silent types in the corner over there. We have the captain of the pirate ship Lynx [pause for a brief nod from the tall man with eyepatch in business suit], and his pillaging hoard. Then we have the Ghoul from the Corn Maize [semi-opaque being with burlap on his head nods]. Next we have the old ladies of Augustina's orphanage, now a thrift store and cafe. [decrepit waves, complete with knitting]

Great. Introductions only took...3 pages. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves and eat cookies while I think of a topic you crazies could all participate in. [paper rustling]

Niel: So...err, Virginia. Nice tits.

Virginia: Excuse me? Wait, I have to share a NOVEL with you? Author!

Niel: Hey, relax! I'm not really like this in November.

Virginia: Ellen, you sit here.

Ellen/Akasha: Whatever, it's Akasha now, okay? And I don't want to hear about it.

Virginia: Some sister you are.

EA: You were an accident, okay? Everything was great until Mom got knocked up again by that guy from Alabama.

Virginia: Wait, what? You mean Dad...

EA: ...and they gave you my toys, too! She totally had him whipped.

Virginia: [gapes]

Me: Uh, come on guys, no giving away plot before the story starts, ok? Let's get back to business, ok people? We need to discuss who's starting off the Parade. And how we'll keep track of one another once everyone goes off to their places. Beepers? I don't want you accidentally walking into the Interludes or something.

Homeless Bill: I suggest scene signs. We can wear them over our clothes.

Nash and Akasha: You won't catch ME wearing cardboard!

Niel: As for who's starting this shindig, of course it'll be me. You introduced me first, anyway.

Virginia: That's because you butted in with a question! [glares]

Me: Now, kids, don't fight. After all, you're supposed to be star-crossed—

Virginia: If you say 'lovers,' I'm firing you and finding another Author.

Me; Hey, who's writing this dialogue, you or me?? [outrage] You can't rebel yet, this is still Pre-writing.

Sean: Why don't I start it off? I'm bloody pissed all the time anyway, I won't even remember in the morning if one o' these chaps wants to rough me up out of jealousy.

Me: Hmm, you might have something there, Sean. Sort of a narration voice-over thing. Only with drunken stumbling?

Sean: [nods sagely] And footballs. And bagel breakfasts. [has a fondness for bagel breakfasts]. Now, where did I put my hat? [looks around]

Niel: You lost it when that drunk kid walked in, remember?

Sean: Oh yeah! That is when I last sawr it.

Niel: Saw, not sawr.

Sean: It's how we say it in Britain, mate. Get used to it. And I get the bottom bunk. Might fall off the top in the middle of the night and die, you know.

Me: Ok ok. If we start with Sean, it'll either be at a pub or the hostel. Any other ideas?

Homeless Bill: You want to make sure you start in the middle of the story. Maybe an Interlude would do the trick. Or perhaps the pirate ship. That way, you don't get these guys fighting like kindergartners.

Me: Good point.

Niel: Who's a kindergartner?

Virginia: That would be you, numbnuts. I think I should start off. After all, the sooner I get started, the sooner I can find Ellen and get her home.

Ellen/Akasha: I'm not going anywhere! Particularly not with you. I like Portland, and I freaking LOVE 1890. All I have to do is hike up my skirt, and I get all the sex I can handle! Plus, they PAY me for it!

Virginia: Slut. You're WHORING yourself! You do realize that, don't you??

Akasha: Of course. Little sister, some girls just need it more. And you can't get it worth a damn in 1950.
Niel: [flushed] I think I might be barking up the wrong tree. [adjusts himself] Author, are you sure I'm attracted to Virgin here?

Me: Yes. Just wait. She might surprise you.

Virginia: Hell if you're getting anything out of me! [to me] Please don't make me hook up with him.

Me: Niel, you might want to be a wee bit less of a jerk. After all, you've got things to do as well, and you're preoccupied. Plus, what would your mother say?

Niel: [hangdog] You're right. She's right, Gini. Truce?

Virginia: I didn't say you could call me Gini.

Niel: [to me] You see what I mean? Stiff-necked and frigid.

Virginia: [decks him]

Niel: [groans] Great, now I have to start off with a lump on my forehead.

Virginia: It's your own fault, smartass.

Nash: Hey! Ignoring the transvestite here!

[everyone starts talking at once. chaos ensues]

Me: HEY!

All: WHAT???

Me: Shut UP.

All: [silence]

Me: Better. Now then. All in favor of Sean the Brit starting us off, say Aye.

All: [silence]

Me: umm, okay. All in favor of the pirate ship starting us off, say Aye.

All: AYE!

Me: Interesting. Good idea, Homeless Bill. Oh look, it's time for Supernatural. For those of you in eras without television, it's like a play, only a play you can watch in a small box in your apartment. Ghoul, you might actually have made an appearance once. Did the Winchesters come to Portland, do you know?

Ghoul: [moans pathetically]

Me: [anxious] What?? Are you okay??

Ghoul: [moans pathetically]

Me: Does anyone here speak Ghoul? What is he saying?

Jacob: I think he might want chocolate.

Ghoul: [moans emphatically]

Jacob: Yep. He wants chocolate. Guittard, in particular.

Akasha: How do you know that?

Jacob: Um....

Me: Okay! Do we want to meet back here tomorrow night?

Niel: Fine by me. I'm just eating Chinese food and masturbating to motel porn every night until this gig gets started, anyway.

Virginia: Ugh. As long as you don't seat me next to him anymore.

Me: Great! Same time, same place. Good work tonight, you guys!

[exeunt]

good wisdom from the Nano page

2006-10-18T18:34:36Z

"...mostly I think people quit--I don't like "fail"--because they have high expectations. This is only about word count! Don't worry about spelling or grammar or punctuation. It doesn't have to be perfect, or good, or even coherent. That's what rewrites are for. It's OK to suck. All of our ms suck. Maybe here and there a moment of brilliance, but mostly they suck. My motto is "I can fix it later."

So relax and have fun and just try to keep going, no matter how bogged down things get. If you hit the wall, write about the wall. Just keep writing. In many rants about the wall I have found bits that made for interesting dialogue.

One thing that helps me--as I write, I jot down ideas for other scenes. I keep a running list, don't worry about a timeline, etc. (That's why God made cut and paste...) Then when I can't think of what to do next, I pull out the list, pick a scene that looks like fun, and go for it.

And this is the best advice anyone every gave me--if you don't know where to go, look at where you've been. But don't edit while you're there! There be dragons..."

I need to keep this in mind: I WILL NOT EDIT, DAMMIT!!!!!!!!

no no no, no editing. *slaps hand*

This is the one stumbling block I've never been able to get around, as a writer. That is why I want to do Nano in the first place--to see if I can use it to break my goddamn inability to just...let...go. "I can fix it later" is a GREAT motto! I need to start chanting that, or perhaps tape myself saying it and then play it back under my pillow at night...hmmm..

too long for no cut

2006-10-13T22:53:53Z

1.
The fledgling can hear whirring I can’t record
Can track it
Can you see
What about you
My eyes save you
--What eyes?
Hold your clothes together
You tell scotch tape to work
But tape can’t train
I run and hold track (with my feet)
don’t all run together

My afterwords are afterwards
You hear see all
The world is safe for spying
You’re not supposed to see my record
But what you hear you like
I’m about to see moving record
Transmitter can’t tape it
You pick a train
tracking my tracking
But you can’t track my train
But scotch means you can can’t the can’t
Can’t don’t it with less jump--
It runs on life
Can’t tape the tape, think
Save it all to tracking
Tell what’s behind the record
--clothes
My my my, do tell
We can pick a scotch tape together
Moving, moving, run about to pick my eyes
Moving to my train
but hear life
whirring
about a fledgling

2.
Spy, I suppose, means save and lock under
my moving life held together with tape
means exactly clothes
What, no more scotch?
Think about whirring much
You are behind (me on) my run
You can’t Like track
Tracking you afterwards
I think I hear much in the recording--
you lock on my eyes
you see it
can life lock it down
like you
can I lock you down
what, fledgling, what think
--less jump less life
so don’t save it
transmitter life whirring, whirring afterwards
under, behind the lock
but fledgling don’t

3.
(I see) you under a spy
I’m thinking on think, tell me afterwards
What clothes (you wore)
See life recording
You scotch together the don’t
What clothes? my hear is a don’t-see afterwards
Tracking it on much scotch
(how) like a fledgling
You see you
You held your own record behind it
can life tell what I’m seeing
can you
hear fledgling track it
I’m running I can’t, fledgling

4.
my eyes are a train track
let's tell my spy together
tell how, on much scotch, I’m Like clothes
--Empty--
You, I’m with you, about the moving train
The life tape I see recording
I held here, and
I’m all scotch afterwards
I spy on my clothes
I track eyes
You spy I, you eyes
(oh you are so blind)
You can’t see with my eyes
think, spy
I lock, but can see afterwards
afterwards can train
But tape together your eyes, My fledgling,
Life tapes our eyes together
track about, Tracking the means, track whirring
you moving life and the afterwards
is a together (or ought to be)
--about the tape…
it can’t, can it
don’t run under life
life means moving
but what life, my spy
I’m under the record
I’m don’t tell
I’m don’t
Suppose I’m under a think-see
What my can can’t, don’t suppose
You can

5.
Fledgling, a train!
It eyes my scotch
Save the record of that
But about the supposed train--
don’t think about the track,
my you
you spy, I on you
together together
can scotch see it all?
I pick behind the eyes
My I, tell eyes about it
You see, let’s tell it together,
Save moving
See life jump the train
But fledgling, you, my train
Lock my track--
Save moving--
But record it, please
Behind the supposed afterwards
What and what
Fledgling see
(oh you are so blind)
Don’t see much life like eyes

6.
My think is scotch
What I’m supposed to save, held supposed
I can, I’m the tape
See spy, I can’t hear under you
Spy, I track you, run you
I the all
I the train
Here’s To Tracking Life Like Scotch
Can you hear life thinking about it?
whirring about the fledgling held to (the) track
jump means afterwards,
and you under the train--
save my train!
afterwards moving the jump record,
my afterwards supposed
I run all transmitters
recording You, recording You
what to think on scotch afterwards
much held, held you
spy I my fledgling clothes
we jump much track together, lock together,
held eyes
I held my eyes under you
what's together, my supposed--
A tape I can see to--
Lock held behind life, life lock
Held life, hear life--don’t
Run tape, all I can see
You I’m recording
You behind, behind run held
Under much much
Tell my under I can’t
Jump XscotchX train
Tell all, Tell all
tell with fledgling means
What fledgling means
There is much held behind my eyes

7.
All life means clothes
You can tell:
to pick a life,
Jump it run it
tell fledgling what life means
What it means--
Lock it track it
Whirring, spy, I run whirring
I run run
recording You, record, record, record
on with my whirring
and fledgling
run the tape
think it--
you, all whirring, held my eyes

early draft of new thought work

2006-10-05T18:46:10Z

announcements medieval

I have the black plague
Thoughts drift in and out, ghost sailors
Amidships, there’s a crack
Sea spawn opens to buoys, boys
Clamber where men dare not go--
Too big for their shoes.
Answering questions asked before
I was born, misty opening over X

The black plague has me
Webbed into a corner
With sticky hands, cottonmouth
And a silk dress
I move like butter through time.
I’m melting, witch
Which proves I am one
Conjuring the waves to swallow
Them, hapless drawn to me

Black me has the plague,
Plague me black plague me back
Back to the plague
Years, when the whole house died
They all touched the door,
The hearth
Heart of home, poison Rx
X’s for eyes
Cross my heart, arms tired,
Tied down and sightless

Plague years have me near
Me don’t come near me
Boutonnières
Refrigerated
Gales of a glee-time, sea-rhyme
Me time
Rolling thunder Roman candles
Gods and battles
Doorknob rattles
It’s you, like a fax machine
Announcing your presence,
Cover sheet shroud over your face,
You died of the plague
I have, I gave you
Flowers on your face, in the cracks,
Growing out of your cold stone face.
In your face, I am in your face,
I hide my face to save face.
Don’t give me that face, I don’t
Want it.

I have the black plague,
The black plague has me.
It’s all that I have and it keeps me
To myself.

teatime of the imagination, with Trudy and Anne

2006-10-05T03:48:48Z

Waldman writes of Gertrude Stein, of her "ballets" of concepts, or perceptions. I like the idea of thoughts and phrases on a dance floor, on stage, pirouetting in harmony and accordance with the carousel of images and sounds and interactions that whirl by in daily living.

Waldman puts herself in the driver's seat of her poems. She does not hesitate to take the wheel in her poems.

"I'm the fiery building I'm the blazing building
I'm the conflagration
I'm the wildfire
I'm the church in flames
I'm the holocaust
I'm the bonfire
I'm the true beacon
I'm ashes smoldering
I'm tongues of fire"

This is right. This is true. She battles against the Buddhist concept of giving up everything and argues, honestly: "Don't you need personal history in order to write? I do. Don't you need conflict to give rise to creativity? I do."

I do, too.

Jump-cut dreams of late, of people other than myself, others than those I know, in situations that seem real, could be real, could be visions from another place and time, and it's more interesting to see them that way.

Had an idea for a poem or series of poems, list oriented, as in random bits and bobs from life and necessities of the rat race. See if they look so necessary all laid out cut-up style? They won't, I can tell already. Our daily imperatives will look ludicrous in a poem.

Exercise freeing up my harried brain cells, like before. Can feel myself returning to a state willing and able to give up my "life" in search of the real drug--pounding out line after line of work that doesn't nauseate me and make me wonder what in the name of hell and hot dogs am I DOING, assuming that, just because I escaped my prison cell and hid myself somewhere pleasantly insane, my work will blossom and spawn perfect, wobbly little works to follow it around and mimic its every move, outgrow it and go on to bigger and better things, overshadowing it but making it proud, coming home again in the end to nourish it and keep it comfortable in its old age, surrounded by the generations of works it helped to create.

Don't want to know what I'm talking about anymore.

night vision

2006-10-03T17:27:53Z

The first cup of coffee of the day is always the best, simply on the virtue of how badly you need it.

I’ve decided that my dream self is encouraging me—-no, pressuring me—-to write, by spinning more and more detailed, entertaining, somewhat disturbing yarns. I can never quite remember them when I wake up, just vague impressions, but I remember that they were extremely detailed and realistic at the time they were happening. I think the way that I dream is changing as well, the type and subject matter, all becoming darker, but not in that nightmarish way of childhood dreams, just dark as in the way that reality can be and often is dark.

I ought to start waking myself up to write them down. Sleep has always been that high priority for me that I have never wanted to sacrifice, even for my art. I need to be able to sacrifice more for my writing—-this will be the key, the thing that helps me to morph from a mediocre, lazy, half-assed poseur to a real, true-blue writer.

agent_orangetan @ 2006-10-02T21:21:00

2006-10-03T04:28:46Z

so this is my other, OTHER journal. the one nobody knows about, and the one I know nothing about. it's where I spill things that don't make sense, the one that doesn't fit. the one where I resurrect my dead life that no one wants to know about, the one I don't want living but am too hung up on to let go. there isn't anything anyone can say or do that makes any difference or any sense here, I'm just talking, just spilling my guts to an empty room. you can't trick me here, and you can't arouse me here, and you can't anger me here, you're just not here at all, it's only me.

and if you do manage to track me down and pin me to it, well, what does that serve? my days of admitting to things are over. it's the year of the fiction, and you won't get a truism out of me until January 1, 2008. yeah, I'm posting early for this, but my years still start in September, old hangover from school.

so who are you? I want to know. survey says everyone's got secrets, or if they don't, they want secrets. Lies are glamorous until they get you into trouble. So is romance. So is war.

agent_orangetan @ 2006-09-30T20:34:00

2006-10-01T03:36:46Z

eh. it's flashback time.