Tales from the Ragged Edge

It’s a horrible mental image…stuck trying to get a locker combination to work in a school hallway, a building you don’t even know, and then you get hit with a premonition. No, not a premonition, but a vision that knocks you to your knees: fire erupting from the blacked brick doorway of a school, children running from the door, burning as they run. Maybe if you can get the locker open, you can stop it. Maybe you will find yourself trapped in the impending conflagration.

And still the numbers on that dial refuse to line up. The lock refuses to budge. And you’re trapped. Helpless.

Trust me from first-hand experience: having that play across your inner silver-screen first thing in the morning is a crappy way to wake up. But in telling the nightmare to a friend later that morning, she reminded me of something. “Yes, it’s a bad dream, but it could make a good story.”

Thank you subconscious. You give me horrors, I give you horror stories. Now to make it work…

This musical interlude is brought to you by a steady diet of Marty Robbins on my headphones recently. I sang the first line for this “interpretation” on the fly as I headed to my desk yesterday. It then turned into a full on song. I’m not partial to the word “filk,” but that’s painfully apt in this case. Sung to the tune of the Marty Robbins classic “Big Iron,” I present “The Word-slinger’s Ballad.”

The author he went writing, cup of coffee by his side
Looking for a plotline that would keep him satisfied
Eight novels lay behind him, many more he’d yet to write
And he knew that with his coffee he’d work late into the night
Late into the night.

He started with the characters in which to place his hooks
It was how he found the conflict to propel his early books
As he bound their fates together and gave them a shared past
A sound came from the kitchen; Mr. Coffee’d brewed his last.
Mr. Coffee’d brewed his last

That twenty dollar coffee maker, his companion through the years
It had seen him through the laughter, through the dialogue and tears
And even though it pained him, he knew he’d have to walk
To the late-night coffeehouse that was open down the block
Open down the block

He walked up to the counter to get a venti cup
Then the author found a table and fired his laptop up
If he wanted to get writing done, he knew he couldn’t stop
Drinking paper cups of coffee for which he paid two bucks a pop.
Paid two bucks a pop.

He dove into the writing, throwing words up on the screen
But several pots of coffee caught up halfway through the scene
And he knew he was in trouble, that his bladder was full up
And he’d have to use the restroom before he drank another cup
Drank another cup.

The author left his laptop and he scurried for the door
Of the coffeehouse’s bathroom that’d not been cleaned since ’94.
But after dealing with the restroom for as long as he could stand,
He came out to see a thief, the author’s laptop in his hand
Laptop in his hand.

It wasn’t just the hardware had him shaking like a pup;
It was the twelve unfinished manuscripts he’d neglected to back-up.
As the thief prepared to run, and crouched into his shoes,
The author made a quick assessment of what would his hero do?
What would his hero do?

The fury of the author is still talked about today
And if you touch his babies, then he’s sure to make you pay.
For if you take the written words that he has yet to save
Then with a scalding pot of coffee, he’ll send you to your grave.
Send you to your grave.

The author enters and looks at the assembled crowd. He clears throat once, then twice, before stepping up on the soap-box.

Print is not dead. You heard it here, folks. Printed books aren’t going anywhere.

Take a minute. Write that down if you need to.

Is digital media changing the playing field? Absolutely. Being able to download a book — a whole library — to carry around on a reader that fits in your purse is awesome. It might even get more people reading, and that’s great. But it isn’t for everyone. The idea that everyone who reads wants, or for that matter can AFFORD a digital reader, is tantamount to madness. That doesn’t even account for the book-fetishists who simply prefer the look, smell, and feel of a printed book; who love to read a book and then share it simply by handing it over on the bus.

My feeling is that those who cry “Print is Dead!” really mean that publishing as we know it is dead. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. Big publishing has largely tied their wagon to the homogenization of the novel, the lowest common denominator for the widest share of the market. That model requires a broad readership. And there is nothing wrong with that, except not EVERYONE wants to read the latest best seller.

As long as there are individuals who seek out the stories they want to read, there will be someone there providing it. Or, failing that, that individual might provide that material themselves. I started writing super-hero novels about 5 years ago not because I thought it was going to be a huge trend, but because they were the stories I wanted to tell.

And guess what? People want to read them. Not the size of readership Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer draw, but that’s okay with me. With the growth of POD publishing and direct marketing through the internet and to local bookstores, I can satisfy that market easily. And sure, I can do digital downloads like the big boys, but I don’t have a digital reader. Don’t really plan on getting one soon, either. And I don’t feel the need to punish those who don’t by limiting their choices.

It’s not going to make me rich. But I’m not in it for the money.

I’m not alone in that. As long as no one throws a clog into the last printing press left on Earth, there will be someone using it to create a book.

Publishing, and print, is changing. It’s evolving into a leaner, more targeted creature. But it’s far from dead.

And that’s brilliant.

The author steps from the soap-box and returns to the anthology he is assembling — Cobalt City Timeslip. It will be available in print and digital download in October, 2010.

Writing is a lonely, solitary business — hovering over a keyboard, pouring ideas from head onto paper (or electronic equivalent, more often than not), immersed deep within worlds of your own creating.

Except when it isn’t.

True, most of us need some quiet time alone to get writing done. But some of my best writing is done at The Wayward Coffeehouse with the sounds of conversation, oldies rock, and espresso machine a constant cacophony. Comic great Warren Ellis writes at the pub. Future superstars Torrey Podmajersky, Jeremy Zimmerman, and Dawn Vogel also write at The Wayward. I know several authors who write at home while children race about the house. And don’t even get me started on the constant stream of interaction and influence afforded by Twitter!

Writing doesn’t have to be solitary, shut off from outside influence. In fact, having a network of writers in your area is not only a viable social outlet, it’s invaluable for networking, improving your craft, and perfecting your marketing.

Last night I almost bailed on an author’s party. Clarion West is in session, and there was a send-off party for Graham Joyce, the teacher for last week. I was already tired from a long week, and getting to the party meant a convoluted bus trip — time that could be spent working on the projects I have to get done by the end of the month. I ignored my more anti-social internal monologue and went. And, as I expected, it was fantastic.

See, that’s the thing. It’s always fantastic being surrounded by other authors from all ranges of experience. Getting to meet new creative voices, sharing influences, sharing what you’re working on, what you believe passionately about — there is nothing else like it. I was exhausted and ready for bed when I set off for the party at 8. I was energized, wide awake, my brain buzzing with ideas when I got home 4 hours later.

This morning, I could have hung out at my house and done the editing I have on my list. I went to the Wayward, chatted with Torrey before she headed out to the rest of her Saturday, and then got to writing. In a few hours, I’ll still be here when my friend Aarron shows up to do some writing as well. When it’s all done, I’ll go make dinner and have an hour or two of alone time before heading out again.

Where, you ask?

Forgotten Realms author extraordinare Erik Scott de Bie is having a birthday at a neighborhood pub. So after a day of writing, I will spend the evening hanging out, drinking, and shooting the shit with more him, the amazing author Rosemary Jones, and who knows who else?

See…the writing community is just that. A community. And at the end of the day, there is a quiet desk back at home waiting for you if you need a little solitary time.

Basilisk

“He strangled them.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Thirteen people strangled to death, and not one of them fought back.”

I fixed O’Malley with a hard eye. He didn’t back down.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m telling you, I saw the tape.”

“And I’m telling you bullshit. Ain’t no way a guy gets on a bus, chokes the life out of everyone on said bus, and no one says, ‘Boo!’”

O’Malley shrugged his thin shoulders. “Well, Frank, I guess it’s a good thing the chief called you in.”

I watched him walk away. Chomped on my soggy toothpick some more, wishing it was a cigarette. The toothpick didn’t turn into a cigarette, and I didn’t see the waving flag saying this was all a joke on Frank Sandusky. Well, crap. I guess the rumors were true after all.

I was getting close to my pension. Another three weeks, then I could get the hell out of Cobalt City, move somewhere warm, somewhere with fewer freaks. But freak jobs were my department here. And this baker’s dozen of death meant that I was on the clock.

I picked up the file O’Malley had left for me. He had written “Basilisk” on a blue sticky note on the front. I scanned the squad room and saw his head just the other side of the water cooler. “O’Malley! Why Basilisk?”

“Jesus, you lazy son of a bitch! Read the report!” Mick bastard didn’t even bother coming out from behind his hidey hole. Good thing, or I would have winged an apple his direction.

With a sigh, I flipped open the file and started reading.

At around ten in the morning, the killer boarded a number 3 bus for Downtown somewhere in the vicinity of The Hollows. He sat up front. A few people got on and off for a few stops, then something triggered him. The file didn’t say what. Said there was “a marked change of attitude.” Great. That was helpful. Then he stood up, said something to the driver, then calmly strangled him to death. All eyes were on him. No one moved.

Then he went through the bus, strangling each of the twelve passengers. Again. No one moved. They sat there and let him do it. When the last victim croaked, the killer walked to the front of the bus, opened the door, and stepped out into the street and was gone. Metro was working on getting traffic and security video from the street to see where he went.

The sicko called the murders into the station himself. Said he was sorry, but that the Basilisk took him over, that he had to do it. Said he tried to be peaceful, but the anger boiled over, and he couldn’t be held responsible.

Brass wanted to kick this thing out of the department, maybe to the feds, maybe to someone in the cape and cowl community. This wasn’t some guy with a knife or gun. This was a guy with something else.

Somehow the file made it to my desk. A last chance to prove the merits of my position on the force, maybe? Some officer somewhere in the chain who wanted this handled inside, by the police, the way things used to be done.

I felt the corner of my lips twitch nervously. Did I think I had what it took to bring this guy in? You’re goddamned right I did. Did it scare me? Yeah, maybe a little. But I’d be damned if I punted this one and live the rest of my life knowing I phoned it in at the end of my career.

“Ok, Basilisk, you sick twist. You’ve done and made me interested.”

It was almost disappointing when we found him so quick. He had used his bus pass when he boarded the bus. Cobalt Transit had his name to me twenty minutes after I asked. Martin Millinos, two arrests for aggravated assault, both dropped. Current address was at the edge of The Hollows, three blocks from where he boarded. He worked at Stardust Communication doing something technical involving micro-chips. Etching or engraving or something.

We had the son of a bitch nailed. If felt too easy.

I rounded up a few squad cars, told them to be prepared to shoot to kill if he so much as looked at them funny. The younger blue looked at me like I was a crazy old uncle telling tales of the boogey-men. The older officers who had been there when the whole Jeremy Red mess went down would correct that attitude on the car ride over. Moral of the story, you listen to Frank, you come home alive.

We made the grab after work. He had to change in a clean-room, and we could isolate him then. Keeping him away from more innocents was key. Had to control the situation. I had four officers, guns at the ready, stationed near the door he would come in through. I waited with four more officers, also armed. I carried a little something special – a scrambler that had saved my life once or twice. If he tried using any mojo or powers on us, all I had to do was push a button. The resulting psychic waves would drop everyone in the room, but it would drop him as well.

Martin Millinos didn’t look like much when he stepped into the clean room. 5′ 8”, bushy eyebrows over dark eyes, maybe decently strong, but no weight-lifter. He smiled when he saw us.

“Afternoon, officers. Did you want to talk to me?”

“We’re here for Basilisk,” one of the blues said. I hadn’t given them leave to address the suspect. I should have expressly told them to keep their mouths shut. But now it was out there.

“We’re here to talk to you about Basilisk,” I clarified.

His smile faltered a bit.

Got you, you son of a bitch, I thought.

He sighed, raised his hands as he lowered his head. “What did he do?”

“He killed a bus driver and a dozen innocent passengers this morning,” I said.

“Not innocent,” he said. He looked up and the timidity in his eyes was gone. Instead, his eyes were full of hate. “Mr. Carlotti beat his wife nightly. I could hear them in the apartment above mine. Ask her. Her husband is no innocent. Sammy, the teenager? He peddles drugs on the doorstep. I’ve called the police about it three times. They send a car around, he goes into hiding for a day, then he’s right back out there. Mrs. Taylor has been having affairs with at least three other men that I know about.”

“None of them deserved to die.”

“Maybe not,” he growled deep in the back of his throat. “But none of them were truly innocent, either. So they were meat for the Basilisk.”

“Shoot him,” I ordered.

No one shot. No one moved.

Calmly, Basilisk raised his thick hands to the throat of the closest officer. Without a trace of emotion, his sinews tightened, and he choked off the airflow. He didn’t fight it. None of us fought it.
I’d been with the force a long time. Made a lot of enemies over the years. I have seen hate burn in someone’s eyes before, but not like this. NEVER like this. This was distilled, refined, purified. This was the high-octane Everclear of hatred. It was both captivating and terrifying all at once. I was locked in his gaze, and I slowly came to realize that I couldn’t move. Like a bird caught in a cobra’s stare, I was dead.

“What are you?”

“I’m the Basilisk,” he said. The first officer dropped and he moved on to the next. “I am the ugliness that kills ugliness.”

I blinked back tears, fighting to push the button on the scrambler in my pocket. I couldn’t even twitch. He moved one to another to another, saving me for last. I held his gaze and waited for the inevitable touch of his thick hands around my throat.

This was spawned by a well-phrased and timed IM comment by a loved one. We’ve often commented on Hipsterism. She finds it funny. I recognize that it’s frequently funny, but do so while freely admitting that yes, I myself am a hipster.

She asked me, “How does it feel to identify strongly with a subculture transitioning to mainstream?”

Here is my answer, lifted from the following conversation, only slightly edited:

That’s complicated….it’s like being in line, how the best place in any line is “next” — you’re almost there, you’ve completed the journey and are drunk on anticipation. Any second, a window will open up, and you get to step up to the teller window or something. But once you do, your journey is over, and you have to start all over again. So as long as you can maintain that position, ride just ahead of that wave of what is mainstream, it’s euphoric. In my view, or how I embrace Hipsterdom, it’s surfing culture — just out in front of that wave, always looking for the next one, doing it because we love it, love finding something to love — a thing, a movement, a sound — that the mass consciousness isn’t really into. So, there’s they long answer.

She followed up with, “… I’m glad I asked that specific question. I had a slightly more smart-ass tinged one as I started typing but it transformed. I was originally going to ask “How does it feel to identify strongly with a subculture?”

This sounds like a hipster thing to say, but Hipsterism is almost an anti-sub-cuture sub-culture. When I think sub-culture, I think of a group that has a strong core, like fandom. The sub-culture of football fans, or gamers, or Trekies, for instance. Their sub-culture is kind of defined by certain behaviors. It’s fandom, but in a group. And I’m not that big of a fan. That kind of attachment to a sub-culture has no interest to me. The strong identification with the Hipster sub-culture is that it’s almost by definition non-exclusive, and a little less non-group oriented. You make your own rules, you change them when you want, you follow your passion — whatever it happens to be at the time. it’s more lead, less follow.

So there you go, gentle readers…my thoughts on my what it is to be a hipster. Play along at home. It’s easy. Follow what you love without apology. It can be as diverse as you want. In my opinion, the more diverse, the better. But don’t lose yourself in it. Let your love define your interest instead of having your interest define your life.

And cool facial hair doesn’t hurt.

It’s taken me a few days to really put this into words. It might be too soon even now.

A very close friend of mine died on June 11th, while he was in Texas to receive medical treatment. I found out about it Thursday morning, minutes before leaving for work. While he had changed his name to Roger a few years ago, he has always been Bill to me. Part of me thought he might live forever. Even after he tested positive for hiv/aids a few years ago, I don’t think I was ready to believe he was mortal.

Bill was my Merlin.

Only eight years older than me, he took me under his wing, shared his wisdom and compassion, and helped to make me a better person. Bill was a shaman in the Native American tradition, and ordained as a minister in the Progressive Universal Life Church. Back in Durango where I grew up, he was the only person to help me make sense of the greater spiritual world. When my son Phillip was born, he was the only person I wanted to be his godfather.

Bill was larger than life, even as he got sicker and thinner, he possessed a spirit that could not be diminished. It is no small wonder that in all the things that I’ve written over the years, Bill has turned up as a character more than anyone else I’ve ever met — two stories and a screenplay, to be exact. In my stories he has been, in turn, a confidant, a ghost-hunting shaman, and an accidental murderer (sorry about that one, Bill.)

I had not been a very good friend to him the past year. The last time I saw him was at my son’s graduation, May of ’09. Though we talked a few times after that, I always found it difficult. Quite naturally, the subject kept getting turned back to his health, or regrets about people I didn’t know. I should have been a better listener, a better confidant, a better friend. But I just couldn’t do it. And now it’s too late.

So I’ll honor him in my heart, remembering him honestly — both his good and bad qualities. And I’ll light a candle, pour a drink, spark some incense, and hope that it is enough to guide him to wherever he is going next.