Taven Moore's Blog, page 10

Dead Heat, Part 9

Rose followed the two glowing fairies as they zipped at head-height through the gardens. They’d consented to lead her via human walkways, but their pace required her to jog. Not her favorite activity. “Can we slow down, please?”

Pansy’s response really wasn’t worth repeating, so she ignored him and slipped both pumps off her feet. She’d ruin her hose, but at least she wouldn’t fall and break something. She did flip him off. She wasn’t proud of it, but she did it anyway. He was really pissing her off, and she’d been having a crap day before he started in on her.

“There! It’s just on the other side of this bridge!” called out Poppy, his red glow zipping under an impeccably-painted bridge. Pansy’s purple glow followed him without hesitation. Her stone-paved walking path did not continue under the bridge. Instead, it wound its way upward through a patch of fragrant yellow roses and cheerful black-eyed susans before crossing over the bridge.

Rose stopped for a moment to catch her breath. She looked at the path wistfully, wishing she was going over it instead of under it. Granted, the bare trickle of water that remained of the stream it must have been built to bypass was at it’s weakest in this summer heat, but it was still going to be a marshy mess, dotted with water-rounded stones.

Worse than that, it smelled.

The moment she noticed the odor, the scent burst into full, choking life. Mud and rotting leaves and fish and frogs and darkness … and something else. Something dry and dusty, like old paper, with just a hint of carnival candy threaded through it. Too sweet, that cotton candy smell, and completely out of place. The spanish-influenced pristine white adobe of the bridge wavered faintly, as if she were looking at it through a heat-mirage.

She frowned at that spot. It was hot out, but only that portion of the bridge flickered. She gave a long, deliberate blink, as if the visual artifact were caused by something being stuck in her eye.

When she opened her eye, the world burst into fae glory, the sunlight sparking off of the yellow roses to send unnatural prisms of pale peach and dusky wine on the petals. The black-eyed susans glowed faintly. A bee, fat and businesslike, buzzed noisily past and landed on one of the daisy-like blooms. The petals immediately slapped shut and pulled inwards, dragging the bee partially into the stem and leaving the petals looking like a flower that hadn’t quite bloomed.

The bee struggled, causing the flower head to bounce heavily, and Rose gulped.

The bridge was no longer pristine. Something not entirely unlike spray paint in appearance (though she was certain it was completely unlike spray paint in composition) decorated the entire surface.

“KEEP OUT!” it shouted. “TROLL BRIDGE. NONE MAY ENTER HERE.”

The usual.

“Hey Pansy? Poppy? That’s a troll bridge!” she shouted.

Half a breath later, and Pansy reappeared from beneath the bridge. “Those lumbering idiots can’t hurt us! Help or don’t help, Big! It’s all the same to me!”

“You’re not paying–” she started, but he wasn’t listening. Of course he wasn’t. He was gone already, clearly having written her off as worse than useless.

And while she might agree with him some of the time, but just now? Just now she was getting awfully tired of his crap.

Part of her wondered briefly why she hadn’t seen the troll warning signs immediately. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen the guard’s aura, either. She’d never been able to turn it off and on before.

She blinked, willing the fairy view away. When she opened her eyes again, one of the roses bloomed visibly, petals spilling out to form a multi-tiered skirt for a fairy who looked at her, sniffed disdainfully, and flew off.

So apparently she STILL couldn’t turn it on and off at will. A headache-inducing power she had no control over. Par for the fricking course today.

She walked up to the bridge, pumps in one hand and carryall strap across her chest, then she bowed deeply. Clearing her throat, she began at a louder-than-normal speaking voice, “Good Sir or Ms. Troll, I apologize deeply for this intrusion on your territory. Please accept this gift.”

She dug into her carryall. Something, something, there had to be — ah! There! The sandwich and chips she’d planned on eating during lunch break at work. They weren’t much, as far as tributes go, but you didn’t just waltz through troll territory without being polite.

She placed the sandwich and chips on a wide, flat rock in the shallow shadows just under the bridge, then hesitated only a moment before adding her soda to the pile. It was the very best she could do.

Then? She ran. Thankful that she wasn’t wearing the heels any more, she hopped from rock to rock through the too-dark shadows that lurked under the bridge, trying very hard not to breathe in the awful smell and even harder not to peer too closely at the shadows themselves. Maybe the troll was sleeping.

The way her day was going? The troll was totally not sleeping.

Feeling the icy trickle of Something Watching shiver down her back, she burst into the sunlight on the other side of the bridge, gasping. overhead, the bridge itself was only two, maybe three people wide. It had taken her almost five minutes to pass beneath it.

She really hated the fae realm.

A green clearing, bounded on one side by a bald cypress whose roots thrust up like knobbled knees all along the banks of the weak stream nearby and on the other by a magnolia tree whose blooms should have been finished months ago, but whose pale pink flowers spilled their heady scent into the air regardless.

Only magic could do that, but Rose didn’t have time to investigate. In the center of the clearing, a small army of glowing lights struggled. They heaved and the overwhelming scent of magnolia was tinged with something else. Something darker and too-sweet, rounded by bitterness.

Fear. Poppy had smelled like that when reporting to Pansy. Below that, roiling with a slow darkness like molasses, was something else.

“Just let us die!” called out a tiny, weak voice. The call was echoed by a dozen other throats, all sobbing or wailing.

Despair, Rose thought. Despair smells like blackstrap molasses and I wish I did not know that.

And through it all, the scent of rotted candy pervaded the entire clearing. A troll net, just like Poppy described.

She ran forward, careful to watch her step. The net that encased the fairy troop was invisible.

Rose blinked and her vision warped gently, like tweaking the focus on a computer monitor. Not invisble, but almost. It was like … well, if someone took jellyfish tentacles and wove them into a net, it would look rather a lot like this. She couldn’t see the net so much as see the light reflect oddly through it.

Poppy hovered at the edge of the clearing, sobbing. “My lord Pansy, no!” Rose followed his gaze and found Pansy’s purple glow. It flickered erratically, like a light with a bad short in it, and she saw that his toothpick-sized blade was out, sawing frantically at the sticky strands of net nearest another fairy. Even as he struggled, the net clung to him, wrapping itself around one of his legs and trailing towards his torso like the tendrils of a climbing plant.

The fairy he attempted to save called out weakly. “No, Lord Pansy! Save the others! They need you.” Her voice rang like tiny bells, a comparison Rose had never actually heard make sense before. This new fairy was predictably beautiful, her gown made of pure white petals edged in a mottled wine pattern. Her ankle-length hair matched the wine color perfectly, and would have been a jealousy-inducing sheet of glossy glory if it had not been snagged and yanked into a snarled mess by at least four strands of sticky, clinging net.

No need to ask which of the fairies was the Queen, then.

“Nobody’s dying here today, not if I can help it your Majesty,” Rose said as calmly as she could, moving forward and kneeling beside the net.

“You shall address her as Your Royal Highness!” shouted Pansy.

“Don’t you have enough to do without wasting time correcting my grammar?” she snapped.

“I heard that, Big! When I get out of this, I shall personally court martial you for your impudence!” The tendril snaked up his leg and snagged one of his wings, causing him to crash to the ground in a way Rose was absolutely certain he would not like for her to have noticed.

That molasses-thick smell spilled outward from him, nearly masking his floral scent. His voice rose in a morose wail, “My Queen! I have failed you!” he called out. She could hear the hopelessness in his voice and smell it from him like a wave of darkness. He sobbed, and suddenly Rose was even angrier.

She didn’t like Pansy, but rude and argumentative seemed to be his personality. Taking that away from him using magic was wrong. Period.

He wouldn’t appreciate her pity, though. Rose called out to him, keeping her tone sharp and businesslike. “None of that, Pansy! Don’t give up on me yet. I’m sure you’ve got all kinds of lectures you need to give me before you kick the bucket. Don’t let that net get the best of you.”

His molasses smell faded, just slightly. “You shall address me as LORD Pansy!”

“See, already found something new to fuss at me about. Keep trying, I’m sure you can find more,” Rose muttered, barely paying attention. If he responded, she didn’t hear it. By now, she had her bag at her side and open, the wide alligator mouth spread so she had easy access to all of her essential oils and perfumes.

Rose needed to neutralize that net. She bit her lip and tried to clear her mind.

3. Disappointment

“Up!”

Remora groaned, shedding the last tatters of unsettling dreams.

The voice spoke again, more insistently. “Up, girl. Inebriates are allowed no more than six hours in the recovery room.”

Blearily, she opened her eyes, then immediately wished she hadn’t. Light stabbed through her half-opened lids and burst painfully against the back of her skull. With a gasp, she lifted her hand to her head, feeling a tender lump beneath her leather cap.

Why did her head hurt? She remembered the bar, and that brutish, smelly captain accosting her. Then another man had come up and a fight had broken out. Someone had hit her with something. She hadn’t seen who or with what, but it must have knocked her out.

She’d never been knocked unconscious before. In the novels she read, the hero or heroine awakened from being knocked unconscious to find themselves either in dire peril or in the safe arms of their loved ones.

Tentatively, she peeked through a half-lidded eye at her surroundings. The small cot upon which she lay had only a single thin blanket. Boring cement walls that had once been painted a wan green framed the room. A solid metal door cut into the far wall and a single uniformed woman stood in the doorway holding a clipboard and tapping an impatient foot against the floor.

Remora was most certainly not in loving, safe arms. Nor did she find herself tied to a doomsday apparatus while villainous cackles peppered the air around her: no dire peril, either.

Disappointed, she frowned. As a matter of fact, the books never mentioned the splitting headache she was currently experiencing, either. The hero always sprang immediately back into action with a ready energy she most certainly did not share. Her arms and legs felt useless and sluggish.

Granted, it wasn’t as though she’d intended to experience being knocked out, but she had to admit, the reality fell rather annoyingly shy of the fantasy. Were she home, she might consider writing a sternly worded letter to an author or two for their duplicity.

Were she home . . . The thought sent a jolt of panic through her. Fumbling, she moved the hand from her head and quickly pressed it against her ribcage. She was still wearing her corset beneath her borrowed coveralls. The rush of relief was so strong that she closed her eyes and simply lay still. She’d hated the constant requirement to wear a corset when she was a child, but now it acted as a familiar shield. She was safe, so long as she had her corset.

She allowed herself only a moment to relax. She was, after all, Lady Remora Windgates Price. Weakness was not a Price personality trait. Tenacity, her father often admonished her, was what made a Price different. She certainly wasn’t about to let a little bump on the head keep her down!

As she rose to a seated position, the guard made an impatient sound, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’re moving. Good. If you’re nauseous, it would be appreciated if you’d use the bucket provided to you at the head of your cot. It saves us a great deal of cleaning up after.”

Horrified, she glanced down to the object in question. Primly, she said, “Thank you, but I do not believe that will be necessary.” Remora swayed gently, her stomach rebelling, but she quashed the feeling. Really, what sort of person vomited into a bucket in public? The entire situation was unthinkable.

“Excellent.” The guard checked something off on her clipboard. “You have exactly five minutes left before your mandated six hours of recovery are over. I recommend you spend that time standing up and walking. If you find yourself unable to walk, protocol dictates I call in another guard to carry you to your holding cell.” The guard tapped the end of her pencil impatiently against the top edge of the clipboard.

How dreadfully rude. To suggest that she might need to be carried, like a sack of potatoes or a large puppy! Remora lifted her chin, then rose to her feet. Her stomach sloshed uncomfortably, but she ignored it and instead leveled a superior look at the guard.

“Congratulations,” the guard said in a droll tone. “You can stand. Now, I want you to do it again, only this time against the far wall, next to the cot.”

“Pardon me?” Remora blinked at the woman. She might not be feeling up to her normal observant self, but that seemed a singularly odd request.

The guard pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangled them meaningfully. She pointed to Remora. “You. Stand against the far wall.” Her hand moved to point to a nearby wall. “I am going to handcuff you in accordance with Standard Prisoner Transportation Statute 4.1, and then we’re going to walk from the recovery room to the holding cell.”

Prisoner Transportation . . . by the light of the dawn­star, she was in prison! How fascinating! She’d never been to prison before. “Oh, I hadn’t realized!” Excited, she took another glance around. She should remember as many details as she could. It wasn’t every day that she had the opportunity to experience imprisonment! She turned to the guard, brown eyes sparkling. “Please, what are the charges against me?”

The guard frowned at her eagerness. “You are currently being held for public inebriation and charges of participating in altercations which lead to the destruction of private property on the grounds of a bar known as . . . ” here the guard flipped a page on her clipboard, her eyebrows raising, “the Jolly Rooster.”

“Marvelous!” Remora breathed.

The guard’s frown returned. “Ma’am, this is not a joke.”

Hastily, Remora lifted her hands. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply that it was. You wanted me to stand against the far wall, you said? With my hands behind my back, I assume?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she replied shortly.

Remora moved to the spot and folded her arms behind her back. To think, she might be knocked out and imprisoned, all in one night! What an adventure!

After a pause, the guard moved forward and swiftly cuffed her wrists.

“Now turn.”

Remora did, testing the handcuffs tentatively. If she absolutely needed to, she might be able to slip her wrists from the metal, but not without considerable bruising, which would be unsightly and difficult to explain at parties. She glanced over her shoulder. The guard’s keys dangled from a large ring on her hip. That was important to note, just in case she needed to instigate a jailbreak. Heroes were always stealing keys from prison guards.

“Face forward!” the guard barked.

Startled, she swiveled her head back around. She imagined this particular prison guard might be more difficult to finesse than the average literary constable: she was far too attentive.

“Through the door and to your right.”

Meekly, she obeyed, though her eyes darted around the room and subsequent hallway. It didn’t look much like a prison. At least, not the way they were described in the books. No stench of mildew or vague odor of urine—she smelled a hint of bleach, but that was about it. The walls appeared solid enough, though the paint was obviously faded with time. Most of the cells they passed were empty, and even the ones that were occupied held silent prisoners—not a single ravening murderer in the bunch. The metal bars were clean and rust-free, and despite taking extra care to watch for them, she saw not one roach or rat during her trip from the recovery room to the holding cell.

All in all, she had to admit it was a rather disappoint­ing prison.

Wary vs Weary

Pet Peeve: People saying “weary” when they mean “wary”

Say you’re looking at a box.

If that box is full of rattlesnakes, you are WARY of it.

If that box is full of tax documents, you are WEARY of it.

What are your mis-said pet peeves?

2. “Handsome” Hank

“Handsome” Hank McCoy slouched deeper into the battered wooden chair and stared morosely at his beer.

“Your reaction is unreasonable.” His companion’s deep, almost metallic voice radiated disapproval.

Hank lifted the heavy glass mug and took a long pull of the amber liquid before dropping the glass to the wooden tabletop. “So? You’re reasonable enough for the both of us.”

“Your current course of action is not likely to result in the repossession of our ship.”

Hank’s lips twitched. “Fair enough. You stand over there and be reasonable. I’ll sit over here and be un-reasonable. First person to get the ship back, wins.”

“That is not amusing.”

Hank took another swig of beer, then muttered under his breath while he wiped the foam from his mouth. “Seemed pretty damn funny to me.”

“I can hear that, you know.”

“I know, Bones. Believe me. I know.”

The thought depressed him enough that he finished off the beer and motioned for another. It was going to be a very long night.

His companion, Bones, stood beside him rather than sitting on a chair. He was called “Bones” because he appeared to be emaciated to the point of ill health. He wore a broad-brimmed fedora, a calf-length duster, and padded leather gloves in an attempt to obscure as much of his figure as possible, but he still managed to give the impression of being little more than a skeleton.

He chose not to sit in the chair because it was unlikely the rickety thing would hold his weight.

Bones was a ticker, nothing but machinery, clockwork, and metal, though not many people looked close enough to notice. Most people didn’t see anything that happened past the bridge of their nose; it wasn’t much of a surprise that Bones was so often overlooked.

He was also the first mate of their ship. Or, more accurately, the ship that had been theirs before it had been impounded for Hank’s failure to pay his debts.

The beer turned sour in Hank’s stomach, so he sent another swig down to control the riot.

How the hell was he supposed to come up with a thousand gold doubloons to pay his debt without a ship to help him make the money? Ratchet was being unreason­able, impounding the ship. Hank always paid his debts. It’s just that it was taking longer than usual to gather the money. It had been tough times lately even without the last three jobs going sour.

Besides, how was he supposed to know that last skycity had Goralor guards? They’d barely managed to escape with their lives, never mind the cargo!

“I believe,” said Bones in a measured voice, “it would be prudent for us to make our exit.”

Hank’s lips twisted. “Why? Not like I can get drunk and lose the ship in a card game, now is it?”

Bones gave him a disapproving look—no small feat for someone whose lower face was nothing but a metal plate.

“That impossibility is not my concern. By my calculations, there is a sixty-four percent chance of a bar fight beginning in the next ten minutes. We should leave before the authorities arrive.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved Hank’s face. At the sight, Bones sighed, a sound like someone blowing through a tube. “Make that an eighty-six percent chance.”

What had Bones seen? Hank glanced around the room as he upended his stein, drinking the last of the beer. No reason for it to go to waste.

Most of the patrons looked mild enough. In a joint this rough, nobody was ever truly innocent. Drunks and winos, thieves and whores—even an off-duty guardsman or two—draped themselves in small groups around the room. The poker game that had been going on to cover up shady pirate dealings was over.

One of the captains—a rather notorious pirate with an eye for womanflesh who went by the name Chester­field—made his way to the bar with a purposeful gait.

Hank set down the glass but kept his fingers loosely curled around the handle.

That was it. Damn. Some stupid little chit of a girl sitting at the bar. She was pretty enough, with pale cheeks that were currently flushed with drink. She didn’t belong here at all. As a matter of fact, he wondered exactly how he’d missed her. She blended with this crowd like a dresl in a party dress.

First off, her clothes were too clean. She wore mechanic’s coveralls, but they were spotless. The only grease stains on them looked faded and scrubbed clean. Her face and hands were clean, too. And soft. No calluses. She didn’t work with her hands, and she certainly didn’t work in the punishing heat of a ship’s engine or bare her face to the sun like a common laborer. The way she held herself was familiar—all ramrod stiff. Where had he seen that before?

Groaning, he remembered. She was gentry. What was she doing slumming in a joint like the Jolly Rooster? Getting her kicks, seeing how the other half lived? He’d heard stupider plans from smarter people.

She swayed on the stool and steadied herself with one slim hand against the bar.

And, to top it off, she was drunk. Fabulous.

He glanced around the room, looking for her protector. Surely she wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here alone. Hell, even he never came here without Bones.

He didn’t see anyone that looked like a bodyguard. Not good.

Doubly not good, as Chesterfield reached her and began to talk.

Hank stood, pushing his chair back and moving away from the table. Behind him, he heard another hollow sigh from Bones, but he ignored it.

He reached the pair of them just in time to hear the girl declare in an outraged tone, “Get your filthy hands off me, you cad!” and see her swing wildly at the captain with her mug.

To his surprise (and hers as well, judging from the look on her face) the glass mug connected solidly with Chesterfield’s chin.

He reeled back and she stared stupidly at the glass in her hand, as though it had been the one doing the aiming.

Had she really called him a cad? What kind of insult was that? Hank stifled a bark of laughter. Definitely gentry.

Chesterfield didn’t stay away for long—he’d probably reeled more from surprise than pain.

The girl looked like she didn’t have enough muscle on her skinny frame to push around a shonfra, let alone a burly, angry pirate captain.

“Why you little—”

“Hey. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Hank interrupted.

Chesterfield snarled and turned to him, a red welt growing on the side of his face. Hank’s brows lifted. Maybe the girl had put a bit of muscle behind that swing after all.

“This ain’t your business, friend,” growled the man.

“I’m making it my business. Friend.” He barely got the word out before the captain’s fist slammed into his cheek. He fell backward, landing on a table and sending a spray of playing cards flying into the air. A chorus of angry shouts rose from the people who had been sitting there, but he didn’t have time to address it. He rolled to the side just in time to avoid the chair hefted in his direction.

His blood sang in his ears. Grinning, he leaped to his feet. This was more like it. Beat moping into an empty ale mug by a far sight.

He swung his arm wide and the heavy bottom of his mug crashed into the back of the Chesterfield’s head.

After that, it was just a mess of bodies. He lost sight of Chesterfield as he dodged a knife from one of the poker players—unsportsmanlike, in his opinion, but he hadn’t exactly been asked.

At one point, he was thrown from the thick of the fight and landed near Bones, who leaned against the far wall, arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest.

Panting heavily, Hank asked, “Aren’t you going to help?” The ticker could clean out this whole bar in a matter of minutes. Who could stand against a man made of solid metal?

Bones gave him The Look. Hank hated The Look. “You go back in there and be unreasonable. I’ll stay out here and be reasonable. First person to get our ship back, wins.”

“Bones! Did you just make a joke?”

“Humor is irrelev—”

“Irrelevant, I know.” Hank sighed. “I know.”

A fist flew past his ear and he turned his attention back to the fight.

He had to admit, he was having an awful lot of fun right up until the constables arrived.

Art! Pup With a Stick

Commission from a repeat commissioner, of their newest grandpuppy. =]

1. The Bar

Lady Remora Windgates Price perched uncomfortably on the edge of the dirty bar stool and wondered if perhaps now was an appropriate time to belch.

She had, on occasion, found it necessary to burp. Cucumber sandwiches in particular had a tendency to inspire a hint of the vapors. Burping was a small, ladylike expression easily hidden behind the flutter of a fan. Never before had she been exposed to anything quite like the extravagant belches produced by the patrons of the Jolly Rooster.

The entire process was morbidly fascinat­ing. Particularly loud and forceful belches were often accompanied by spontaneous applause.

In truth, she wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of producing a belch.

Absently, she lifted her heavy glass mug to her lips, only to find it empty. She blinked at the stray mound of yellowed bubbles clinging desperately to the side of the glass. Empty? How could that be? What was this—the third? Fifth? No, surely not the fifth drink.

Trying to remember exactly how many times a full glass of ale had sloshed onto the bar in front of her was difficult. Her thoughts felt like wet wool, heavy and muzzy.

After a moment’s reflection, she had to admit that perhaps her eagerness to appear exactly like the other patrons of this establishment had inspired her to drink a trifle too much of the house brew.

The ale tasted so vile that she either had to sip it or gulp it. It hadn’t taken long to realize that gulping was the more acceptable choice. The corners of the room spun and she closed her eyes. Acceptable, perhaps, but not necessarily wise.

Drunk or no, she had to admit that this little trip had been a singularly useful endeavor. Not very successful, but useful nonetheless.

She reached into the pocket of her borrowed overalls and removed a scrap of yellowed paper. She had paid a rather large sum of money for the two neat columns of information on that paper and she had yet to regret it.

The list contained the name of every airship captain that frequented Westmouth Port. The names in the leftmost column could be obtained at no cost from the Office of Docket and Writ. The far shorter list of names in the rightmost column, however, would be found on no official document. Pirates, thieves, vagabonds, smug­glers—these were the sordid underbelly of the airship world. They were also exactly the sort of captains she was looking for.

She could hardly walk up to them as Lady Price and make her request, however. She needed some indication of their personality and behavior before she could entrust her money and welfare with them. A bit of research had given up the name of the most likely tavern for these sorts of captains to frequent—the Jolly Rooster—and a bit more research and a small pouch of silver coins provided the clothing and persona of someone who would also be welcome at such an establishment.

She felt distinctly out of sorts in her borrowed coveralls. Modestly clad or no, she felt exposed without her petticoats and skirts. She’d kept her corset, of course, but even its familiar support wasn’t enough to dispel the feeling of dreadful conspicuousness. She’d even purchased a leather aviator’s cap, the only hat she could find that wasn’t remarkably out of place, yet had enough room beneath it for her to tuck away her hair. Even in bustling Westmouth, red hair was an oddity.

Her disguise must be working, though. She’d been able to survey her quarry without drawing undue attention to herself.

Unfortunately, the list of possible captains was growing shorter. Already, she had crossed more than half of the names from the list as being entirely unsuitable. Only two names remained and she couldn’t be certain when those captains and their ships would return to port.

She was impatient to set her plan in motion. It simply would not do to have the very first step—securing the services of a less-than-respectable airship—fail so immedi­ately and with such finality.

Mungo DerWint was the first name on the list, and also the first name crossed off. Shortly after arriving at the bar, she’d seen him brutally accost a stranger who had the misfortune to pass too closely behind his chair during a card game. She wasn’t entirely certain the man was still alive—he had been dragged into the streets by his boots and left there.

At the same card game, she found two more of the captains on her list.

Captain James Mercy: so named, she had been informed, because it was the last thing his victims cried for, and the last thing they received. His pirating left only the blackened hulls of the ships behind. She was not looking to associate with murderers. Mercy was not remotely suitable.

The last captain at the table was one she had actually considered—for all of the half hour it took her to realize that he had fondled, pinched, and slapped every female form that came within reach. Even the women of questionable virtue avoided his table.

She could not be assured of her own safety while aboard the ship of a captain such as that.

She sighed. No, none of them would do.

Vexing, at the very least. Her plan could be altered to avoid the necessity, but not easily, and certainly not with as much chance of success.

Morosely, she glowered at the list of names. Surely one of these men would be appropriate for her needs.

“Hey!” a voice shouted, painfully close. She turned, realizing she had been hearing the word repeated with increasing volume over the last few seconds.

She paled as she recognized the speaker as Captain wench-pincher.

He leered at her, leaning close and placing a hand on the bar to either side of her, effectively trapping her.

“Tha’s better,” he said.

The combined odor of his breath and his armpits hit her with a suddenness that set her eyes watering.

It was quite possibly the worst thing she had ever smelled.

“You’re a pretty little thing. I’ll buy you a drink!” he declared.

Her eyes would have widened with alarm if they hadn’t been squinting to avoid the miasma. “No, I very much do not think you will!” she said stoutly. What a beast!

He laughed. “Oh, a saucy wench. I like that.” Leering at her with a smile dotted intermittently with gold caps, he reached forward and grabbed her breast.

Credit Cards

These days, credit cards are everywhere. Every card company wants your business … and more accurately, wants the debt you’re paying off. Creditors make money off of fees and interest payments, which is why they love it when you live juuuust outside your means.

This doesn’t make them moustache-twirling supervillains, by the way. It makes them businesses, and they are offering a service (money now) which they deserve to be paid for (money later).

However, it is insidiously easy for the human mind to forget that a credit card with a $3,000 limit isn’t the same thing has having $3,000 in their pocket. Not even close.

So people get into debt. They get in over their heads and they end up paying boatloads of interest on about a half a boatload of money originally borrowed. Typically, this is on top of a car loan, home loan, and/or student loans.

Credit cards don’t FEEL like loans. They feel like cash.

Debt happens for a lot of reasons, but it’s certainly understandable why credit cards are vilified. Lots of folks refuse to even open a credit card, treating them like coiled snakes, ready to lunge forward for the bite.

And if you’re the sort of person who knows they have no financial self control, that can be a healthy way to view it.

However, credit cards are also a very important step in building a good credit rating.

Opening a card goes on your credit record. The longer you have the card open, the more information people have about how you treat debt. Did you rack up thousands of dollars and are barely treading water, paying the minimum amount each month?

Or do you pay it off regularly, every month or so?

It’s information about YOU that companies need in order to decide whether or not to loan you money.

Money for, oh, say, little things like cars and homes and the like. If you have good credit, you get offered a better rate, which can mean tens or even hundreds of thousands of dollars savings for those big-ticket family items.

And it can be just as difficult to get good rates (or loans at all) if you have NO credit as if you have bad credit. The business loaning you the money is still taking a pretty big risk, and they know it.

I think credit cards are a very valuable tool, and they’re often under-represented in how important they can be for cementing a financial future.

(and of course, research is necessary to make sure you don’t open one of those cards that does have some pretty predatory fine print.)

Anyone out there have any advice or horror stories about credit cards and credit ratings?

Pre-Story Polls

Choose: An Interactive Steampunk Webserial is a terrible, terrible name. It’s too long. It’s got zero pop, fizz, or pizazz. It doesn’t tantalize the imagination.

We had good reason for naming it so poorly … when we started the project, we didn’t know what we were writing.

The polls below all happened before the first word of the story was written, and it still amazes me how different the world and characters and story would have been without the interactive nature of the blog.

Please note that this reposting will contain the fully revised and edited (thank you, Steve Hall!) version of the story contained in the Omnibus.

Mindset

So I’ve been reading this book. Mindset, by Carol Dweck.

I’m one who enjoys self-help books, so … *hands you a couple grains of salt*

This book has been incredible for me

Fixed Mindset

The idea behind the book is simple — People who live in a fixed mindset belive that aspects of themselves are relatively unmovable, which leads to a fear of failure (or appearing to fail) and a slew of unhappy expectations about life being A Certain Way. This leads to frustration and unhappiness when life refuses to conform to those expectations.

Growth Mindset

On the other hand, you have people in a Growth Mindset who believe that hard work and effort are the keys to success, and failure is simply a step along that path. Life is constantly changing and setbacks are new ways to learn.

Pagecount

While it’s not a huge book by any means, it’s not a slim hour-long read, either.

The *length* of the book is just example after example in various situations ranging from education, to family, to sports. Every once in a while I’ll get a new “huh” moment from the rest of the book, but the majority of the impact came fast and hard.

I’ll admit to skimming the sports chapters. =]

Mixed Mindsets

As I read the book, I can see myself falling on both sides of the fence in various categories.

Take relationships, for example. A fixed mindset says that if a relationship is HARD, it must not be meant to be. Fixed mindsets give up fast and early when problems arise because they believe themselves (and other people) to be A Certain Way.

In this case, I’m of the Growth mindset. Relationships are hard because PEOPLE are hard. Granted, you gotta know when to give an unhealthy relationship the boot, but you can’t just give up when you truly realize that you are two different people with different opinions and experiences.

Education

I am only so Smart, therefore, I cannot solve this puzzle because it is too hard for me. That’s the fixed mindset talking.

The growth mindset LOVES harder and harder puzzles. They love feeling challenged and even failing because they know they will be smarter afterwards.

If you’d asked me if I thought people could get smarter, I would have completely agreed. But if you asked me if I want to work on something really challenging that I might fail at (even in a field I am interested in, which may not include puzzles) OR if I’d rather work on something comfortable and relatively easy, I know which I’d pick.

Failing at something does make me feel stupid. I feel like it SHOULD be easier for me, and when I don’t do as well as I expect, I assume that the failure is some deeply-ingrained thing in me.

That feels pretty silly to type out, but I’ll bet some of you know exactly what I mean.

Talent

As this is a writing blog, let’s talk about talent for a moment, shall we?

If you’re not BORN with some ingrained writing talent, why bother, right? The ones born with the talent will always outperform you, because they are inherently better at it.

That’s the Fixed mindset, of course.

The Growth mindset says if you want to be a better writer, GO OUT AND LEARN.

Growth mindset folks will very often (according to the examples in the book) far surpass their “talented” Fixed mindset folks. This makes perfect sense to me because when the early stuff comes easy to you, it becomes a LOT harder to push through the difficult stuff.

You start asking yourself whether the fact that it’s hard means maybe you’re not supposed to do it.

It’s always focusing on The Way Things Are Supposed To Be.

I want to be a writer, so writing should be easy. I shouldn’t fail, or at least not this often.

That fear of failure is often why bright lights burn out so quickly. They convince themselves that they’ll never be able to duplicate their previous success. They’ll let other people (and themselves) down. They’re a fraud, a charlatan, and everyone’s going to figure out they don’t really know what they’re doing.

Growth mindset says you’re always learning and every setback is more training, more information.

More and Yet More

There are a ton (TON) more great examples in the book, and I do very strongly feel it’s worth reading just to see how often you see yourselves in the examples and phrasings. There’s also a lot in there about praising children (if you praise them for being “smart” they then worry about whether or not they’re smart enough and will often not challenge themselves in ways where they would appear less smart — but if you praise them for working hard, they often look forward to more difficult tasks. It’s very subtle)

A Missing Piece

One thing that the book hasn’t addressed (I’m not quite done with it, and it might) is this … if you make the effort to change your mindset (and you CAN change your mindset!) but you still live in a world dominated by Fixed mindsets, there are some pretty steep hurdles.

Failing in front of a boss or coworker who has a Fixed mindset cements in their mind The Way You Are. It can be difficult to then redeem yourself and regain lost face. I think this is pretty dominant in the Technology Industry — I don’t feel a lot of that pressure at my current workplace, but I would say most of the folks I talk to around here suffer from this constant need to Seem Smart.

I think that even though the book hasn’t talked about the pitfalls, it’s a minor thing compared to how horrible and squished it feels living inside the Fixed Mindset. That constant oppressive anxiety and fear and irritation with the rest of the world when things don’t go right.

Me

I’m working on identifying when my mindset is Fixed and finding ways to rephrase or reframe situations so that I can see them from a Growth mindset.

You

Does any of this resonate with you folks? The book does a better job of explaining things (which is what makes it a good book) but I tried to hit some of the high notes.

Outlining With Todoist

I am … more than a little obsessed with finding the right tool to help me outline.

Some of you may remember my “flagging” method from my old NaNoWriMo prep course.

I still think that’s a good basis, but the actual mechanics of all the little sticky notes and pages just didn’t hold up over time. There were too many fiddly bits, and moving a section of action around was a nightmare.

Spreadsheets didn’t work, either. Copy/paste was far too prone to user error, and it was difficult to get an overall sense of the story when you had to scroll through three pages of text to get to the chapter you were looking for.

Someday, I hope to revamp my old Outliner website so that it has the drag/drop capabilities and nesting that I want, but right now I don’t have the time for it.

So I’ve kept looking, and although I haven’t found the perfect fit? I found something pretty goshdarned close.

Todoist.

It’s a to-do website, so it’s got a lot of extra features I don’t need.

… but it’s also got a lot of features I DO need.

Each “list” can be considered a single outline. Items on the lists can be drag-dropped and moved around, and if something is indented, the program is smart enough to drag everything.

I can flag chapter elements with colors (though I’m not sold on the usefulness of this yet … it’s nice, though, and hearkens back to my flag colors).

I can show/hide each “chapter”, and the print view is pretty snazzy, too.

The free version is very very shiny, with just a few things in the paid version to make me consider taking the plunge.

It’s only got a few downsides. If I accidentally check off something, it shoots to the bottom of the page. There are some keyboard shortcuts that reorganize items by date, so I need to be careful not to hit any of those.

And although entering new items is about 85% perfect, it’s a little clunky and the fact that it’s a to-do app means it’s got more features than I need … but I have to swap between keyboard and mouse in order to access the ones I really DO need. No keyboard shortcuts for indenting an item, for example.

For all that, it’s so very close to what I was looking for that I’m not complaining. It’s more than good enough to bridge the gap till I build my own tool.