Jan 05 2010

ESL Comics

Continue reading “ESL Comics”

Apr 23 2007

Happy Made-Up Internet Holiday!

(This text was originally posted on LiveJournal. It has been reformatted (awkwardly) for use on WordPress.)

(What, is it the Feast of Boris again yet?)

In honor of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I give you a thingie. It’s presumably not publishable-quality, seeing as no one’s published me yet, but I’m posting it anyway because I think I’m done with it for a while, and it’s distracting me from working on other things.

It’s the prologue to The Nebulous Video Game In My Head, “The Ashdocks”, which is kind of a puzzle-RPG – the plot involves boats, ghosts, swamps, fairies, and people being political, and the gameplay involves a few standard turn-based battles, and a lot of puzzles where you manipulate plants and fungi in various ways to affect the environment, hurt people, heal them, and create new items. You get a limited number of certain types of seeds/roots/etc per stage, and can buy more of others, and all that good video-game-economics stuff.

Because this isn’t Harvest Moon, you can also manipulate the passage of time to get the plants to grow immediately, though there are sometimes side-effects to doing that – grow too many explosive mushrooms in a certain place in such-and-such a space of real-time, and you wear out your soil so that it’s only fit for growing zombies for a while. Which you may or may not want, depending on who you’ve killed recently and what level you are.

(Except that I don’t know how this system works yet, hence the word “nebulous.” This is why I’m never actually going to be a video game designer. The “game” part kind of stumps me.)

( If this hasn’t all scared you away, the script is behind the cut. )

I hope you found that a nice, macabre way to start your Monday!

Continue reading “Happy Made-Up Internet Holiday!”

Mar 25 2007

My thought process.

MALCOLM: I’m going to kill myself.

HIDEO: – what for?

MALCOLM: They keep saying stuff about their souls, I don’t know how you figure out what color and texture your soul is, and if it’s shaped like a little star…

HIDEO: So you are going to kill yourself – not because of all the horrible things that have happened to you – but because there is a religious program on the radio?


Mar 05 2007


(This text was originally posted on LiveJournal. It has been reformatted (awkwardly) for use on WordPress.)

I am writing a short story to submit to this anthology! I have had a poor attention span all this semester due to stress and death and panic and self-castigation over my failure to get at least fifty pages of the Worst Cleric Ever book finished by the end of February despite my vow to do so two months previously!

Thus I am posting my unfinished short story here! Here on this Livejournal! Its presence in public where other people can see it will, it is hoped, cause me to immediately see every single one of its flaws in glaring detail (as has been the case with my senior research), allowing me to correct them and understand in a blinding flash of semi-competence how it should be structured! And then I will hurt myself banging my head against the wall but at least I will have finished the stupid short story!

Please do not attempt to tell me things about it! That is not the point of this exercise! The comments are turned off! If you wish you may insult me in two weeks about my discomfort with the first-person POV and its result which is my heroine’s over-the-top “salty”-as-it-is-called language, because in two weeks there will be two weeks left before the first deadline!

Do not tell me I am wrong about things about Sweden! That is also not the point!



(It probably will not actually end in a roar of existential rage!)

This entry may disappear at some point!


Jan 21 2007

Slee-eeep… with the windowwww… opennnn!

Tag: artsy shit,dreams,personal — 12:11 am

Inappropriate use of the song-lyrics-as-a-post-title technique!

While I was waking up this morning, I had two-and-a-half dreams about the apocalypse.

Dream 1

I am an Action Movie Protagonist Guy, but the skinny kind, that’s probably like a scientist or something. I’m an atheist, and I have an exasperated blond girlfriend who is some sort of a Christian. Sitting at the computer one afternoon, I realize that it has suddenly gone dark as night outside the blinds. Thinking suddenly of the Biblical signs of the apocalypse (note: some signs may have been made up for purposes of this dream), I spring into action and stay right there in the chair and check Google news, hoping against hope that I am wrong.

I am not wrong – the great meteor, Leviathan, has arrived to block out the sun, whose light will touch this earth no more. Leviathan’s dark surface glows faintly red in places, smoldering from within with a volcanic heat that, as a scientist, I know is improbable for an object of Leviathan’s relatively low mass, though possibly forgivable given its young geologic age. (Less than six thousand years, right? Ba-dum-ching.) The glow seems to trace out some sort of symbols, or perhaps a face, but I cannot quite make out the pattern. Perhaps it will become clearer as more of Leviathan falls to earth over the following months, as foretold by prophecy.

(characteristics of Leviathan based on similar meteors from Earthbound, Final Fantasy VII, Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask)

But wait – if the meteor is already here, then, as foretold by prophesy (that I made up), the rapture must already have happened! Where is my blond Christian girlfriend?

But she is standing behind me, weeping silently, her face contorted with shame and grief – she did not really believe, and though others were taken, she has been left behind. I lead her away from this place as fire rains down, swearing to the apocalypse that this is not over.

Because I am an action movie protagonist, and I talk back to non-sentient things like the apocalypse and volcanoes and diabetic ketoacidosis as if they have a personally antagonistic relationship with me.

(real life intrudes – someone was being loud outside, and I woke up a little, but fell back asleep pretty fast)

Dream 1.5

Same apocalypse, different viewpoint. Now I am myself, at my parents’ house. We go out to buy groceries in preparation for whatever comes next. None of my family is gone, but the store is nearly empty. I pick out shallots and ginger root and listen to a man lecturing the people in the store about how wrong we were. I wonder why he is still here, and who was on the radio this morning preaching? (Because we are in post-apocalyptic times, radios, cars, and guns work, but nothing else. This is a necessary part of any good apocalypse and must not be overlooked.) I begin to suspect a conspiracy.

(characteristics of possibly-contrived religious apocalypse based on many preachy fantasy and sci-fi novels; post-disaster ginger-buying scene taken from my Havegale writing project)

But it really doesn’t matter much – the damage is done (I am sure that the vanished are never returning, wherever they are), and anyway my mind is made up. I see someone else listening to the preaching man with a disgusted expression, and comment quietly that, even if there is a god who has done this, and even if it should prove its reality to me, I will not believe in it. Because I have only my own conscience to guide me, and because hell is unconscionable, and because what has happened to the world is unconscionable, I will not believe in a god that would make them. If there is a heaven, I rebel against it.

The other person nods seriously, because this schpiel is my actual real-life opinion on the matter, and figments of my imagination cannot help but be moved by it.

We drive home over landscape that is now light and chromatically undersaturated, because Leviathan has all fallen to earth and the sun now shines through dust. In the field beside the house there is now a strange place, black and red and glowing, where large fragments of Leviathan seem to have burrowed. Men in black clothes swarm around it.

There is a way in. Looking over my shoulder as I take a bag from the car, I think that tonight, I will go down. I will give whatever lives inside Leviathan a piece of my mind.

(characteristics of evil-hole-in-the-ground based on Tailchaser’s Song, Richard Monaco’s Parsival, the mining stuff from the Darkover books)

(real life – I woke up because my neck hurt really bad, and realized I’d fallen asleep on the floor again. It was about eight AM, which was obviously too early, so I got into bed.)

Dream 2

New apocalypse.

My house is in the middle of a magical forest, where people often get lost two feet from their door, and where strange things with pearly eyes live under tobacco leaves. But the forest is small, and things from the outside, like radios and rust, have recently begun to encroach upon it.

People here never go outside at night, and think it shameful when they find themselves awake after dark – they hide in their rooms then.

But one night, I walk outside and look up. The stars are hard to see because of the bright lights of the outside world, which is really very close. Disappointed, I go back inside and close the door.

The next day, I have gone out for a second and gotten lost in the magic forest, but don’t really care. I take a nap under a leaf. Sometime later, Mom wakes me – there are men in black clothes here, looking at pieces of rusted metal and fiberglass debris that have fallen around me while I slept. The debris looks like pieces of someone’s Winnebago. The men cannot see me, and do not seem to see Mom clearly. She tells me that the world is ending, so I should come home.

The sky is orange, and then black.

Someone tells me what has happened. We have been, until now, in the Age of the Sun God – but he could only maintain his power while the people shunned the night. Last night, too many people looked at the sky, and now the era has turned, and it is the Age of the Moon Goddess. The sun will shine no more. There is nothing, this person tells me with finality, to be done about it.

I am secretly a little pleased.

But because I know my duty as the protagonist – and also because I realize, reluctantly, that a Moon Goddess who throws Winnebago parts in my magical forest probably cannot be relied upon to put on a proper Age Of The World – I begin to consider where I might find a cleric, a wizard, and a swordsman to round out my party. I cannot find any socks, but I put on my shoes and tell Mom that I am leaving to save the world. She says exasperatedly, “All right, dear.”

(my behavior towards the end based on Renge from Ouran High School Host Club, The Paper Bag Princess, Cimorene from Dealing With Dragons; Mom’s bad parenting taken from my Magus Anmere: Cyborg Werewolf project)

Dec 03 2006

Aforementioned paper ninja ornament

Tag: artsy shit,personal — 12:06 am

For whatever disrespectful reason, the supervisors at the library have us make paper snowflakes; the nicest ones get hung up in front of the desk, and the uglier ones behind it. Because I’m awesome and nonconformist like that, last year I decided to make a Ninja Snowflake and a Pirate Snowflake and have them fight. The ninja snowflake would throw smaller snowflakes like ninja stars, and it would be brilliant.

It didn’t work out so well – they ended up not being round, and the pirate was bigger than the ninja, and they decided to move him to another section of the wall, which ruined the flow of the battle, and also someone stole the ninja after a while.

I’m skipping the pirate, but this year’s ninja… will be better.

the ninja snowflake

Maybe I should hire someone to cut it out for me. (I was sane enough not to try and put cherry blossoms on the tree. He’s a winter ninja.)

Depending on how sick I am of it tomorrow, it might not be done yet. I kept changing my mind whether I was doing all straight and geometrical inside the the circle or not, and he needs a mask, and in my artistic vision he’s supposed to be leaning outward and pointing the katana at you.

Aug 17 2006


Rigsin was in the doorway, breathing hard, his steel eye drifting dazedly. It took him a second to summon up language: “There’s a demon outside. I’m a little confused.”

Everyone looked immediately at Teo. He had slammed his book closed. Illogically, he snapped, “I don’t know why you all think it’s about me -”

“‘s not about me!” protested Rigsin. “I asked. (I don’t like talking to demons, you know.) You need me to distract it and you go out the back?”

“- no, I don’t need – I didn’t do anything, damnit -”

Scowling thoughtfully into space, Lyssa asked, “Do demons care if you do something else with bird hearts, do you think?”

Teo stared at her for a second, then said carefully, “Perhaps you’d better stay inside, just in case. I’ll go,” he told Rigsin, standing with a wince and pocketing his book. “It talks?”

“Not so good at it -”

As Teo closed the door, he heard Scarlet saying, blank with hysteria, “‘Something else?’”

Jul 04 2006


Goddamnit! “The Celery Queen” sounds like “Ellery Queen!” And Ellery Queen’s a mystery writer! I can’t name my Wispy Clairvoyant Agoraphobe (TM) something that sounds like a mystery writer, it’s… it’s inappropriate.

- but I’ve been calling her that for like two years aaaagh how the hell am I supposed to remember another name now?! -

I must’ve seen the name on a bookshelf and let my brain latch onto it. I hate my brain.

May 11 2006

Because you’re a jerk.

Jicky the Slightly-Self-Actualized Abomination of Science: It would be easier to make a sandwich if my hands weren’t all burnt – all right, there they go. I always have remind my self-healing powers…

Casey the College-Educated Berserker: …okay, look. Are you bored over there?

Jicky: I can’t tell. What do you want me to do?

Casey: Can you work a computer?

Jicky: I’m from space.

Casey: Do they have Windows in space?

Jicky: Yes, but one mustn’t open them.


Jicky: I’m really very sorry. I don’t know why I said that.

May 01 2006


The last class of the semester was comm. Here are my notes in full:

pictures of ninjas again

I spent about fifteen minutes trying to decide what he was saying, and then the school year was over.

May 01 2006

Emo is a gateway drug, apparently.

Tag: artsy shit,dreams,personal — 3:52 am

I just napped for seven hours because I am sick and weak and wear ruffly poet clothes and Tohru called me by my first name.

I had a dream where Sasuke from Naruto, Agent X from Deadpool, Baron Wulfenbach from Girl Genius, and the Narnia children were trying to save the world from some kind of problem with space. But there was great tension and angst between the heroes, and they couldn’t work together as a team (no!), so they all went off on their own.

I was one of those albino super-intelligent telepaths you get in anime, and I’d been ordered by the mad scientist who created me to keep an eye on Sasuke, the most unstable of the heroes. At first, I was five years old and had itty-bitty fangs, but I had a Great Shock towards the end of the dream, which apparently aged me to about thirty.

Sasuke was based in Florida, building up a team of fanfic-writing middle-school girls to carry out his plans, with three or four of the adult Naruto characters around to manage them. Only one of the adults (I don’t know his name, or even if he was a real character) realized that Sasuke had become a cokehead – he frequently gave Sasuke sad looks with ominous piano music, sighed, and said nothing to the others. He glared at me whenever I was about to say anything. My Shadowy Creator, who was one of the frivolous, giggly mad scientists, offered me an educational video involving singing puppets to solve Sasuke’s problem, but I was not enthusiastic.

Sasuke knew that I was there to spy on him, and did petty things like forgetting to inform me of meetings and breaking the complicated weapons my Shadowy Creator sent me to try and get rid of me. At one point this worked well enough that, against my Shadowy Creator’s express orders, I left to rescue Agent X and Baron Wulfenbach from some mad scientists, and was duly chastened to find they’d gotten away fine without my help. However, while investigating the scientists’ labs, I accidentally discovered something disturbing about my own creator’s past, and returned to Sasuke’s base deeply unsettled in mind and spirit.

You could tell that I was upset because, when I arrived back, I threw one of Sasuke’s middle-school girls against the wall when she said something obnoxious to me, and then walked off without noticing the shocked looks the others gave me. The narration was a pretty loose third-person-omniscient type, I guess. It was also at this point that I was suddenly a grim, embittered thirty-year-old instead of a spooky savant-child.

Sasuke was holding a meeting, clearly high – the adult ninjas now all knew what was going on. I sat off to the side, brooding on what I’d learned and wondering how I could speak to my Shadowy Creator, now, without letting on that I knew his secrets. There was no doubt that he would kill me when he realized. Suddenly, Sasuke jumped at me with a small knife, cutting my upper thigh before I pinned him – me being twice his size and not stoned and flailing. I snarled at him and shoved him at one of the adult ninjas, who looked at me opaquely. They were all unwilling to go against their leader. It was no longer safe for me at the ninja base in Florida.

I grabbed up my bag and stormed out again, deciding to search for the Narnia children, who, I knew from my Shadowy Creator’s reports, were incompetent and making no progress – but who also, at least, had no dark secrets. As I walked through the night across the rice paddies (rice paddies?), I belatedly noticed that the moon was forty times its normal size, and writing was appearing in the Milky Way. Somewhere, the clockwork dragon from Unico and the Island of Magic screamed. The terrible secret of space had come.

Apr 14 2006

I am a *writer*! I have *no time* for your silly little class registration!

“- you – you told me to marry her, you didn’t specify *where* or *how* -”

“I told you to marry her within certain obvious unspoken constraints! Don’t ask her to say “obey,” don’t kill her after, find out her last name, and *invite me*! *You dick.*”


I will never finish this book, because I would rather come up with snippy dialogue than figure out the plot.

Apr 01 2006


I have no idea why I am awake.

In preparation for this most holy of days, I yesterday placed these all over the dining halls. Two of the dining halls. I didn’t feel like walking over to the third one, I don’t believe in putting that much effort into my pranks. (I tried to come up with one make fun of the anti-porn speaker they’re having Monday, but couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t get me in trouble.)

Argh, in KOL the Spectral Pickle Factory appeared today, but I didn’t notice until I’d already used all my turns up in the Thugnderdome. It also took me about five minutes to realize that *maybe* the main page had disappeared because of, you know, what *day* it is. I really shouldn’t be awake.

Mar 24 2006

Tea is necessary.

Filenames in the “Magus Anmere: Cyborg Werewolf” folder:


I’m tired and was having to open them to figure out what they were just now. If stuff can surpass its maker and go rogue, my filenames will shortly be rising up against me.

I think the tempo of songs stretches out in the time they spend sitting on CD’s and hard drives. In a thousand years, an advanced civilization will discover the last remaining open Apache server, and be unable to recognize its contents as music, its pace will have so slowed in the intervening centuries.

Status of review of The Hidden Stars – still too sad

Status of Green Lion re-read – half-way through third book; convinced world needs Ceilyn/Tryffin slash

Mar 20 2006

International Saiyuki Week beats up National Eating Disorders Awareness Week

Tag: artsy shit,manga — 10:21 pm

I made some fairly uncreative icons in celebration of this UN-sanctioned event.

Gojyo smirking Sanzo disapproving. He has no left ear, but *don't tell anyone.* Gojyo smirking AT Sanzo disapproving

(The last one is intentionally extremely irritating, yes.)

The art is from a deep reflection of Hakkai’s in volume five. It has long amused me.

(Edited 7:25 PM Tuesday to fix Sanzo’s ear.)

Mar 20 2006

She just likes explaining stuff.

Tag: artsy shit,fiction,fiction: hero — 4:52 pm

“- they’re depressing mountains,” Hero said uncertainly.

Nera had been waiting for him to say something, and this clearly disappointed her. She corrected, “No. They are oppressive mountains. They are coming this way.”

“…sometimes mountains do that just, naturally. Because – there are these plates underground that kind of ram together and -”

“These mountains appear one by one. A dense, wet fog appears in a place where a new mountain is being formed, and something huge and black falls into the fog with a clang like a great bell. Sounds of chisels echo from within – and they echo even when they shouldn’t. Those who enter the fog are lifted up and dropped at random places far away with headaches that linger for up to a year. The fog and the sculptors remain for two months, until one morning the fog lifts, leaving a new mountain already covered with lichen, sparse bushes, and goats, and signed somewhere around the base by its designer. Most of the recent ones are by someone named Chethura; I am told he has admirers in the cities -”

“All right, all right, yeah. Tectonic plates don’t really, have goats.”

Mar 07 2006

True genius is never understood in its own time.

(This text was originally posted on LiveJournal. It has been reformatted (awkwardly) for use on WordPress.)

They never use my brilliant fucking ideas.

So, I am Important Technical Person for a campus publication.

And the dining halls keep putting these absurd standees on the tables, and everyone mocks them and draws graffiti on them and so on.

( So, I made this… )

I made several. It was hard. I think I hurt my mouse hand a little.

They were deemed *inappropriate to our image*.

*gets up and leaves room without warning; unnerving sounds are heard; returns*

So you can have it, internet.

Continue reading “True genius is never understood in its own time.”

Mar 04 2006

I misuse furigana constantly.

The furigana was not accurate; it just said 'fuck alla y'alls' over and over and over

I was erasing a lot of the furigana I wrote on my Japanese homework yesterday, so as to force myself to actually memorize stuff, and I realized I’d written down the hiragana for *the number four*. This irritated me seriously, to the point that I considered writing a rude note to myself there.

At that point it occurred to me that if you were a Japanese asshole, you could put furigana on really easy kanji that just insulted people for not knowing them.

Incidentally, the furigana does not *actually* say “fuck alla y’alls” – it says “screw alla y’alls.” This is because I changed my mind halfway through, and Paint Shop Pro *for some reason won’t let me insert Japanese text* christ what the hell, so I had to take screenshots of Wordpad and then do all this retouching to make the text look right against the darker background and screw fuck it I wasn’t going through that *twice*.

Mar 01 2006

I am not studying, at present.

“Haven’t you got a brilliant plan yet, Teo?”

“Several, but thus far they’re all contingent upon the rest of you being rendered unconscious and the moral rectitude of the room so being reduced to tolerable levels.”

Scarlet snorted. “…tolerable…”

“You think I am joking, but I am not. I have a very low tolerance for ethics recently. I was ethical a couple of days ago, and suffered an acute attack of the Violent Illiterati.”

Feb 06 2006

My severed arm.

One of the DSH samples I ordered the other day was “Special Formula X,” which you’re supposed to be able to use to test your skin type – if it smells “green,” the Lord God meant you to wear sweet, vanilla-y stuff; if it smells flowery, you’re one of those smug neroli types; etc.

The problem being that my arms both smell different.

My left wrist smells burnt, which means amber and spicy stuff, while my right is faintly sweet, indicating light florals. It is as if my body were at war with itself. Examining my right arm closely, I discover something I had never noticed before – a faint, jagged white scar just below my shoulder, below which my flesh seems slightly tighter.

Since I was young my right hand has tended, without any conscious thought on my part, to draw erratic, looping borders around a piece of paper or a desktop when left at rest for long. I had disallowed myself from putting these patterns to paper for many years up until recently recently, upon the urging of my calligraphy instructor at Miskatonic University who feels that my grip on the pen is too tight and controlled.

At first I simply drew wide loops bordering the page, but for several weeks – since around the night I saw the deer – I have felt confined to the outer corners of the page, filling the upper right with tight, thickly-knitted-together loops that I then fill in partly – a sort of shading, though the patterns have no depth – before withdrawing and concentrating on the lower right. I feel uncomfortable allowing these drawings to overlap with my handwriting. It seemed to me upon rising very early yesterday morning, having again heard the deer, that the shading might move over the course of the day – but of course upon examining my many pages full of such drawings, this proved simply to be a dream. The position of the shadows bore no relation to that of our sun.

I have identified a particular set of loops that my hand is particularly comfortable drawing – they resemble a pair of eyes, and while most often are on their own and independent of context, I sometimes seem insert them into a girl’s face. She is the only pattern that I can find no way to shade. I have begun to look around myself for her, because I surely know the details of her face very well, and I know that she is sick. She must be real; I’ve seen her someplace, though I’m sure I don’t know her name.

Perhaps I will find my answers in the dining hall. Where the sauteed spinach is.

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