Nika Harper's Blog, page 4

Nickel-and-Dime Man

They’d call me Rubberface if they called me anything at all.
Which they don’t.
They don’t know me. They can’t know me. They only know what their eyes tell ‘em, and eyes are lies.
If I ever needed proof that humans rely too much on their sight, well, I’m livin’ it. And they ain’t even knowin’ it.

The trick is to be somebody dead. The problem is that you need a silver tongue to explain how dead you ain’t, which if you’re walkin’ around, ain’t very dead at all. Playin’ on their fear, their love, their remorse or whatever idealistic shit people get in 'em when they see an obit. It’s playing the dangerous game, a game full of shock value and no subtlety. It relies on brains bein’ broke. But I play it, mostly when I’m bored.

I can be anyone, without tryin’. A decent suit and you can be anythin’. I’ve worried about bein’ a girl, where clothes mean so much, but a man in a nice suit? He could be your waiter or your president, or anythin’ inbetween. Y'ever wanted to blend in? Wear a suit. Make ya look like anybody else.

I got a thousand faces, I tell ya, I got anythin’ I can picture. Dunno how it happened, ain’t for me to say. If I had friends, they’d prolly tell me “'Ey you could really make somethin’ outta this” but I think I’m happy where I’m at, and besides, I don’t got them friends anyway. Who’d they be friends with? How’d they recognize me?
Barely know my own face under all this.

I’ve played some small-town games for long enough, ridin’ the rails of whatever town by more or less legitimate means, and arrived in New York City, the place where faces are one in a million, and bein’ noticed is a million-to-one. I like the odds. The right parts of town, the right walk, and I can be just about anythin’. I think I’m ready for the big time, not just pretendin’ to be a sheriff or an absent husband sometimes. I can be more.

I got the paper in my hand, stolen from an old dame in the train car beside me. She was rufflin’ her skirt at a former deputy of law in Virginia…. Well I can only assume 'former’ after what I pulled… I played the part, patted her shit little dog on the head as she left and took her damn newsprint. Finally somethin’ to do. Lookin’ up a new feast.

If I could be anyone, could do anything, what would I do? Who would I be?
Gotta be small, believable.
Think small, Arch.
All I ever thought was small, all throughout my life. Nickel and dime man, I am. Think I’m finally ready to make it big or call it quits. One or the other. Probably both if luck suits.
What would I be if I could be anythin’, hmmmm…

I’d have a pocket full of cash, a good girl.
And a ticket to someplace else, that’s what I’d be.
Always had the latter, never the former. Well, time’s a'wastin’ on this rock of a planet, and I got a gift.

My gift is:
I can be you.
Mostly.
So watch out.
Hope ya don’t got anythin’ I like.
And hope ya don’t live in New York.
Not tonight.

Watching a lot of Twilight Zone… this is a prequel to “The Four Of Us Are Dying“ (season 1 episode 13) which was a great enough story in itself that I didn’t need to change it at all.

If you like this, share, do a reading, support on Patreon, anything! Happy to have you.

Hi Mr Gaiman, firstly, you write fabulous books! Right now I'm trying to figure out how to write a good villain without turning to cliches. Have any advice? x

Just that most people don’t believe they are the bad guys.

Band Together

The album was out and that should have been the hard part. Sitting in a studio, collaborating, talking and arguing over how the bass sounds and whether to bring in studio musicians when the piano didn’t ‘feel’ right.

Well, it didn’t sound right because maybe somebody should learn to play the fucking piano. Just a thought.

Each song was a slog. Someone wanted it slower. Someone wanted more hi-hats. Hard to tell Drummer because he was never really there. It seemed like they only cared to spite one another, inventing opinions for sheer inconvenience. Guitarist wanted everything to sound like his (failed) side project, Bassist was high, Singer wrote non-stop about a bad groupie ex. Tabloid fodder on vinyl. After the umpteenth revision of “Maybe I’m Gay” the label wisely made them change they lyrics. “Maybe Today” was now their first single. It was weak and listenable, like every other radio song.

The record was negotiated and released amidst interviews and promo pictures where they all stared straight ahead. It was the first album in five years. People were excited. There was fanfare. Their clothes still sort of matched. They hadn’t talked in weeks. Slick hair back, show up somewhat on time, talk about how this will be their best yet. Easy stuff, but easy to forget. Talk about the studio. Talk about the upcoming tour.

Fucking hate the idea of an upcoming tour. Drink when nobody’s looking.

If seasoned journalists picked up on anything, it wasn’t mentioned in the pages of Rolling Stone or fashion blogs. They were known for their fashion now. “Bringing Back Style!” splashed headlines, but they looked no different than five years ago. Bringing back the ancient look of yesteryear as though neckties had been wiped from collective memory. Guitarist wondered about a solo record. Drummer didn’t button his shirt right, Singer wore two skinny neckties. Suddenly he was on the magazine covers singularly instead of the whole band. Typical Singer.

The tour bus wasn’t big enough for all their thoughts, trapped like dark balloons in a net above their heads. The little bunks were for convenience of the body, but keeping the band safe from one another would have meant four buses. One for each. So disconnected were they, so desperate for their own time and freedom. But one bus was how a tour went. They ate, drank, slept, worked, and experienced life as a band. If they hadn’t avoided each other’s eyes, they’d have seen the same zombie look glare back at them; the projected look of someone who has died to you long ago, but stands nonetheless.

The set was the same every night. Carefully agreed upon, re-learning the songs note by note to be a perfect carousel of music tinkling in rhythm. Crank the key, the mechanical band plays. Singer throws his second tie into the crowd, Drummer skips a note or two, Bassist gets tired and slumps into his music so much that people think it’s a style.

But everything is a style. Guitarist writing through too many journals of notes and song lyrics which he was never very good at, ordering new notebooks to be delivered at their hotels. Singer finds one on the table and reads it aloud dramatically. Tensions escalate.

The tour bunks are made for one person, barely, but Bassist is attempting three. This becomes common and disturbing to sleep cycles. Bassist seems to have no trouble falling asleep if his love-partners’ stories are true.

Same songs, new town. New place to get food at night, new place to look through the windows and see the same crowd dressing in black, rejecting neckties though the band is coined with “bringing them back.” A sea of waving hands, new band shirts singing along with the old songs. The backdrop never changes, and cues them for the next song.

And the next one.

The one Singer likes.

The one Bassist screws up quietly.

And when “Maybe Today” plays, Singer can’t help but sing the old lyrics sometimes, igniting the press and his own stardom. Tabloids and fansites drool and drivel. Drummer does crossword puzzles alone in the bus. Guitarist drinks too much and fucks up a solo. Crowd tweets about it.

One day after another, and it’s only half done.

Singer does alternate lyrics more often than not, and the bus gets a call from the label. This is discussed in a new interview, Mr. Two-Ties bares all, yet somehow the blogs don’t alight and the tabloids don’t give a shit. Guitarist records 4-track demos in spare time, unaware that they are not good. Bassist sleeps. He is the only one to do so.

Drummer spends inordinate amount of time in soundcheck, just jamming on his own or sometimes with the roadies. Guitarist sours, doubles his efforts on the 4-track to little avail. Singer takes selfies during the shows. The crowd sees no difference.

Guitarist plays his demo riffs after encore, to mild interest. Singer signs neckties and talks about his business calls with DKNY. Bassist’s entourage is no longer wanton women, but a steady shuffle of people you don’t want around. Things are grim, but there might be only a few more shows.

Just a few more.

Singer’s girlfriend keeps calling. Nobody knows what to say when he isn’t there.  Bassist shows up late. Only a few more shows. Guitarist and the manager having furtive talks behind closed doors. A few more concerts, with the same canned backdrop, with the same words said every time.

Dallas, we love you.

Phoenix, we love you.

Pomona, we love you.

Where the fuck even were they?

Don’t rock the boat, don’t change the set, just smile harder and play the songs that were pre-negotiated and think about…

Your next fix.

Your GQ ad.

Your four-track demo.

The answer to 28 Across.

Coltrane.

28 Across is “Coltrane.”

Denver, we love you.

Next up….

 

If you like this please support my short stories and writing on Patreon! It means the world to me.

"So, I’m writing a novel. I want to make sure I represent the women well. Advice?‎"

“So, I’m writing a novel.  I want to make sure I represent the women well. Advice?‎”

-

Chris Ross on Ask.Fm

Tricky.
Going to give some open-ended advice– Think of them as people instead of women foremost. Write interesting people. Then, as you continue, think of how the situations SURROUNDING the character might change if they are a woman.
Not that the woman reacts differently, but that the environment changes.

Here’s an example:
A person wakes up one day in the middle of a (long time coming) zombie apocalypse. Terrible! The person is decently-armed, in good health, and more than anything wants to escape the city and get to a farm they can defend. Friends are impossible to track down, they’re going it alone.
Being capable and strategic, they make it to the outskirts of town and meet up with a crew of survivors. 4 males of varying ages who fend off a swarm of incoming Zed and sneak into a building with your character.
What are some ways this group could react if your character was male?
What are ways this group could react if your character was female?
What are ways the group would act if the GROUP was all female?
Make a character first. Strong, ruthless, determined, immoral. Traits determine the character, but gender has a large say in the ENVIRONMENT they’re introduced to.

Your character might be STRONG, but that doesn’t mean people will treat them as such.
Your character might be WICKED but that doesn’t mean people will notice it.
Your character might be HONEST but that doesn’t mean people will trust them.

Write a character first, but then write what happens to them, and how many different ways that could go.

(from my ask.fm)

You Ain’t.

You Ain’t.:

stplmstr:

nikaharper:

Two years ago, you’d have had a difficult time offending me.

I read every YouTube comment, I went through all the Facebook messages. I openly talked and tweeted and saw the things that people didn’t want to say about me publicly, but said in a public place where I could find it.
Even at my worst,…

haha when I posted a champion idea on the riot forums and the first response was “she is fat” (lord knows gragas is svelt as hell) soured me on those forums to a great degree.

Babe, I love everything you’ve made and I will continue to until you work with me. You’re talented as all hell.

If she is fat?

Congrats, you made a REAL PERSON.

You Ain’t.

Two years ago, you’d have had a difficult time offending me.

I read every YouTube comment, I went through all the Facebook messages. I openly talked and tweeted and saw the things that people didn’t want to say about me publicly, but said in a public place where I could find it.
Even at my worst, I was proud of how little it affected me.

I’ll wear a more flattering dress next time.

I know that societal attractiveness is a lot of smoke and mirrors and photoshop. But I wasn’t set out to be attractive. I mean, I’d get gussied up to show a public face (and oftentimes I still do) but that was, to me, like putting the coffee in a fancy cup.
Look at the first Summoner Showcase videos, starting from Episode 19. See that chick? Tee shirt and a little eyeliner. Yeah. That’s me, alright.
I learned to do makeup from YouTube tutorials and trial-and-error. (There were MANY errors on the Showcase by the way, it was always an adventure in Getting Fancy Lookin’.)

So what, I’m kinda cute. But I have something that a lot of the internet doesn’t have: I grew up close to LA. I was trained and taught by ex-actors who told us stories that became life lessons that I hope more people understood. That sometimes, your audition was incredible but you don’t get that callback. That you think you bombed it and yet, that phone rings.
Most importantly, that you’re never quite sure what the person with the script wants.

In a way, I started to view my failures beyond my own scope. I did a GREAT job auditioning for that part, but someone else walked in there as the LIVING MANIFESTATION OF THAT CHARACTER and whether they were better than me or not, they got the role. Sometimes, I would be the understudy.
I understudied nearly an entire play in junior year of high school. If Carlos went missing that day, motherfucker I could be Carla. The entertainment world is fickle. You CAN be anything, or you CAN be the best at one thing, and NOTHING guarantees that you will get to be it.

I started to hate the perfection that acting imposed on me. Head shots, fit bodies, commercials. I just didn’t care. I’d already met actors who I loved that never “made it.” I was eighteen years old and already knew I didn’t want to be an actor. I loved it, but when you live in the greater LA area, love means nothing compared to what someone will do for an IMDB credit. I just wasn’t ready to fight for acting roles. I wanted to be a teacher.

I found that rock music, specifically the bands I loved, focused more on ability than looks. I met one of my role models in person and her nose was kind of big and her teeth weren’t perfect and it was the first time I saw something REAL be sexy. Because everyone loved her. And I started to think… wait. I don’t have to be perfect.
I just have to be real.

Soon after I realized I was a skilled writer, and then after I found “community management.” This shouldn’t have been a career that focused on looks but after many years in the industry, and when I got started in online video, it did.

The morning meeting went as thus:
A card was placed on my chalk board that said “Summoner Showcase: THE MOVIE!”
I gritted my teeth.
It made sense. A project I loved wasn’t taking off as an article. I was a decently cute person who had theatre experience. I was marketable. And better yet, I OWNED the project. I really gave a damn about fans, and art, and cool things people made, and the game they made it for. I could vlog.
I also knew that I had to put on a lot of armor, because as soon as this became a video, my appearance would be a prime talking point. I was an internet veteran, I could troll with the best of ‘em. And I knew what was heading my way. So yeah, let’s make a video. It was, legitimately, a brilliant idea (thanks Andrew) and it became the Showcase.

“Why don’t you get someone hotter?”
Riot Games is centered in Los Angeles, CA. If they wanted a hot chick, they could FIND ONE. Maybe that’s not why I’m doing this job?
“You’re fat.”
You don’t know what a woman looks like.
“She’s a bad actor.”
….Okay that actually worked. Because I cared about how I looked, but that always came second to the content. I did not spend two weeks slaving over my outfits. I spent them worrying about the script that I had written, about getting all the vernacular correct, about paying attention to every single sentence I say to ENCOURAGE and INSPIRE instead of insult. To be told I’m not a good actor… should have been flattering. Because I wasn’t acting. I was being myself.
“She’s annoying, too enthusiastic.”
Motherfucker, watch a different show. This is WHO I AM.
They will be wrong, but I don’t have the time to tell them.

Let’s talk.

You are not your dick size.
You are not your bra size.

You are NOT your unibrow
Your neckbeard
Your wardrobe
Your waist measurement
Your hair color.

You are not your weight
Your teeth
Your twitter following
Your gender.

You ARE
Your kindness.
Your patience.
Your hope.

And it means so much to us all.
YOU ARE
Your hard times
Your good times
And mix them up like sherbet
We are not one thing, we are not one color or flavor.
We are everything we’ve experienced.

Go on. Be unattractive.
Challenge what we consider “beauty.”
Most of all, be yourself.
People aren’t lovely unless you love them.
We all wake up with crazy hair, noxious breath, weird sweat.

You know the real way to “make it big”?
Love yourself.
Always be who you are. Or, if you’re an actor, understand what you’re being.
Authenticity echoes in all our hearts.
Be you. Ugly, sad, angry, yearning, hungry, trying.
Try to care for everyone, but most of all, try to love you.

Come to JJ-08 at ECCC and get your unique, hand written story!...

Come to JJ-08 at ECCC and get your unique, hand written story! Pick a card, then see what’s inside.

Come ECCC me!

Hey Seattle folk! If you are heading to ECCC this weekend, WELL SO AM I! I shall be sharing a booth with the generous Patrick Rothfuss at JJ-08, will be selling my books and VERY SPECIAL, UNIQUE STORIES!

I’m writing flash fiction inside greeting cards and sealing them up: pick a card you like, open it up for a hand - written story that only you and I have seen, until you decide to share. Those will be $15 at the booth and I’ll be happy to sign and talk about them! Come by from 3pm til close and I am there.

SEE YOU THEN!

Sempronia of the Sands

She was a sandspeaker, a mystic one who kept stories in her every finger and released them if asked. He saw her fingernails made of pearl and ruby and dust and rot. He asked to buy a story.

She did not answer at first, “My name is Sempronia,” she whispered, “or it isn’t.”
“Your name does not matter to me,” the youth spoke.
“It should. Each story is tempered by the teller.”
“Then Sempronia, bestow to me a tale.”

She did not like him. It was no way to talk to gods, even lesser, for they have seen more and have been more tortured than any living soul. Thusly they know how to handle the unmannerly.

“What do you give me,” she rasped, “in offerance of a story?”
“I give you nothing but mine ear,” he did not stumble in his words nor understand the true price. Her smile could have rested the clouds.
“We are in agreement.” It was cruel to prey on the foolish, but it was fun to play catch with mice. He had scurried into her arms. The night was dark. Best tell a story about that.

Her sharp fingertips did not match, they were colors and sheens unknown; glittering light with hidden hearts, or depths of darkness that defied logic. Mostly they looked all different colors with names that had not been invented, which spoke of magic in itself. The foolish notion was to ask a woman with hued fingers to tell a tale. But clever people knew a trap when they saw it.

A fingertip, brown as silt and rippled with thick mud, stood out from the rest. A tale of night, a tale of rich—
“Not that one.” The boy had spoken up. “That one. The pink, pretty little thing.”
A wish on cursed lips? She did not object. Curling her hands inward, only one finger arched to the night sky, glistening like a diamond in iridescent splendor. The woman smiled. It was one of her favorites, after all.
She wished the boy mute for the remainder. Her wishes were always granted, somehow.

“It was many years ago. Before time was time and night was night. This is a daytime story, prettier as the light shines and warms it, but you chose it in the dark. The story does not change.
“Tarquain tended his vines in the heat of the sun. They grow stronger in the dry heat, you know, make sweetness of the limited moisture they intake. The best wine is borne of the tortured fruit. It fought to stand, but Tarquain breathed his life into its every leaf. He moderated, bestowed moisture drop by drop as the plants twisted for his touch, aching to be loved by his shade, his wetness, his guidance. Tarquain’s wine was the finest bottle that ever graced a glass. It was said that the gods spoke of it with lust.
“That lust was not unique. Tarquain was not too old to enjoy bodily pleasures, yet women noticed his dedication to his craft. They hoped it given to themselves, their perfect skin and sugar lips called upon him to be tasted but he gave nothing in return. His passion was wine. Nothing could ever compare. The finest ladies and gentlemen wilted for a drop of his affection and never received it. They stamped and squeezed the grapes, formed and labeled the bottles, their eyes fixed on a person who was barely a person at all. He was passion made flesh. For as much as others wanted his wine, Tarquain’s focus made others want him.
“In truth, beneath it all, the man named Tarquain was lonely. It is not a special feeling, yet he began to name his vines for the people he wished they could be. He invented Xirci, Namromyde, Polcecene, Ymilo, Irterius. Their givings and crops delighted palates and senses, for even the least generous of the harvest provided untold beauty. It was said that the liquid itself glittered in the cups.

“With skill such as his, the gods were always listening. Being special means that forces are in play, leaning close. Your every thought could be fortune or ruin, for the gods play their own games. It all depends on who gets there first. Tarquain swirled a pale glass in front of him, in the presence of his wanton workers yet considered himself alone. The candle light refracted like rainbows in his drink, and he sighed.
“ ‘I wish for a creature to love as purely as this. Whose eyes are peeled as this Synrinel, with skin as golden as the Orrzlyn, and body taut as the Rinaul.’ He swished the liquid around in his mouth, though not the best bottle his winery had created, but to him this glass was the feel of a love he’d never truly experienced. People are always driven by love in some way; peel away all the layers and skin and it’s only love inside. Tarquain let his show that night, among aspiring lovers and the ears of not a few gods.

“Soil was rich and temperate in this new season, Tarquain was unrelenting. Let the vines focus on their sorrows. The best wine speaks of resistance and desperation, the best brandy represents wasteful excess. A new sprig burst to life on his lines, verdant and undaunted. He paid no mind as it leapt upwards, crawled along the trellis, mingling with the spirals of the other plants. Tarquain did not respect it, and its first grapes sprang so thick and bursting that he plucked them early and tossed them aside. Hubris may taste good in other wines. Not his own.
“It commanded his attention, the new green thing, beckoning him as he passed, waving tendrils on the wind. From a single, new sprout it had produced three new fruits, shining like marbles of blood. Tarquain plucked them too early, placed them into his pocket and set his night to testing their flavor.
“It was unlike anything this vintner had ever experienced.
“Like a tickle on the tongue, a perfume to the nose, a delight to the eyes. Without aging it a single moment, the juice he squeezed was ready to be drank wholly. In his study lit by only candlelight, he held this new chalice to his lips and let it swim in his mouth and his mind. What was this perfection?
“He named it Aurivel, and the gods listened. Of course they did. Even more were listening now. Who was going to win the race this time?

“Tarquain spent time with this new plant. It faced him like the sun, each leaf slowly spinning to show him its best as he passed. In a single day, it was tall as a person. In the next, the trunks grew thick and voluptuous to the eye. On the third, there were many grapes to pick, and each bunch was removed to the sound of a sharp sigh. It saw and knew him. Aurivel stared back and gasped at Tarquain’s touch.
“The wine had never tasted better. His glass was never empty, and never shared.
“One day, in the penetrating sunlight and dusty soil, Aurivel asked to be picked. Not just the grapes and fruits for which it presented so bountifully, but uprooted from the ground in which it stood. Tarquain looked in its eyes, so recently developed and shaded to all but him. Had he ever heard tales of a captured nymph, of a spirit trapped in a plant? How was he to proceed safely? Tendrils wrapped around his sun-worn wrist and his mind drifted to the taut, round shape underside each grape, the syrupy flavor on his tongue. Aurivel was a beautiful Rozha, mild in manner and demanding in its depth. His hands dug into the earth, scraping out each root to the groans of excitement and pain with each freed vein and snapped harness.
“When Aurivel was free, they embraced like ivy on a cross.”

“It was not long until jealousy got the best of those gods, benevolent or not. Aurivel’s sweetness was made for one person alone, and Tarquain grew drunk on the affections he had. If this was his very best creation, which it was, why could the gods themselves not taste it? Were they not good enough for this unique vintage? Tarquain’s winery was more spectacular than ever, but there was one secret glass that none could have. That was unacceptable. And those things change.

“Upon its tasting, the gods remarked of the salty iron of human soil; it added a coppery tinge to the glass, like topaz. They tasted the dark, tart skin over the rounded and full-bodied sugary warmth. The bouquet was fresh like sweat and love, and it rang with a note of desperation on the exhale.
“It was Aurivel as they knew it, a blend of Tarquain’s finest. The only batch that would exist hereafter.
“Tarquain got what he wanted after all. He had the taste of it, the glittery gloss on his pink tongue as he gasped out his last, fragrant breath. The name of his love, the taste of true passion. Aurivel.”

So the youth wanted a daytime, pink story, did he? Pink may be a color of life, but it is a shared color of insides, of secrets. His lesson was just beginning as the storyteller reached out her galaxy hand and scraped his ear from his face.

There was little left of him to give, she held the lot of it in her hand, piercing a coarse hole and stringing it about her neck. “Nothing but mine ear,” he had said, in exchange for the greatest stories the worlds could tell. Hardly a bargain. He over-offered. She now had an ear forever, until the sands of time swirled and the face of fate grimaced and well beyond. For now and ever, the story witch had an ear for her tales, and it would hear them all.
It would hear of the dark caverns where hope is all but lost.
It would listen to where the shadows go when they succeed in their tasks.
Best of all, it would know these things ceaselessly. The darkest silt of humanity flowing inside, for as long as forever could go.

It is rude to prey on the foolish, Sempronia knew, but when an opportunity knocks, it is impossible to turn down a friendly ear.

If you enjoyed this, there’s more of my work at nikaharper.tumblr.com and please support my writing on Patreon!

In our dreams, perhaps?

In my dreams I sat on shoulders
Pumped my fist to to the beat of the song on our lips
And thirty people saw it
Only thirty people
And that’s okay because they believed it too.