Event Horizon

I am not doing well.

I'm here for ten hours. I'm on phones for an extra hour and a half than usual.

The newbie keeps shoulder tapping me for help, and because of that, I was late to lunch.

I'm tired and I can't focus, and I'm so very fucking angry

[originally posted to my WordPress]

It rained last night and is still raining this morning. That’s a good thing, since I’m in Southern California and I don’t want another wildfire scare like I had before.

There is a tree next to my apartment building. I heard something crack early this morning, and when I left my apartment I realized a big branch had broken off the tree. As I was walking down the steps, I saw a man walking his dog. The tree branch was blocking the sidewalk, and since it was right up against the garbage corral, he had no way to get around.

I had my leather gloves on, so I walked over to the broken end of the branch, grabbed it, and pulled. It took a few times, but I managed to drag it into the grass, getting the sidewalk clear. The man thanked me and walked on with his dog.

It felt nice to do something concretely good.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Standing on flagstones of the sidewalk at the entrance to Hades
Orpheus hunched in a gust of wind
That tore at his coat, rolled past in waves of fog,
Tossed the leaves of the trees. The headlights of cars
Flared and dimmed in each succeeding wave.

He stopped at the glass-paneled door, uncertain
Whether he was strong enough for that ultimate trial.

He remembered her words: “You are a good man.”
He did not quite believe it. Lyric poets
Usually have – as he knew – cold hearts.
It is like a medical condition. Perfection in art
Is given in exchange for such an affliction.

Only her love warmed him, humanized him.
When he was with her, he thought differently about himself.
He could not fail her now, when she was dead.

He pushed open the door and found himself walking in a labyrinth,
Corridors, elevators. The livid light was not light but the dark
of the earth.
Electronic dogs passed him noiselessly.
He descended many floors, a hundred, three hundred, down.

He was cold, aware that he was Nowhere.
Under thousands of frozen centuries,
On an ashy trace where generations had moldered,
In a kingdom that seemed to have no bottom and no end.

Thronging shadows surrounded him.
He recognized some of the faces.
He felt the rhythm of his blood.

He felt strongly his life with its guilt
And he was afraid to meet those to whom he had done harm.
But they had lost the ability to remember
And gave him only a glance, indifferent to all that.

For his defense he had a nine-stringed lyre.
He carried in it the music of the earth, against the abyss
That buries all of sound in silence.
He submitted to the music, yielded
To the dictation of a song, listening with rapt attention,
Became, like his lyre, its instrument.

Thus he arrived at the palace of the rulers of that land.
Persephone, in her garden of withered pear and apple trees,
Black, with naked branches and verrucose twigs,
Listened from the funereal amethyst of her throne.

He sang the brightness of mornings and green rivers,
He sang of smoking water in the rose-colored daybreaks,
Of colors: cinnabar, carmine, burnt sienna, blue,
Of the delight of swimming in the sea under marble cliffs,
Of feasting on a terrace above the tumult of a fishing port,
Of tastes of wine, olive oil, almonds, mustard, salt.
Of the flight of the swallow, the falcon,
Of a dignified flock of pelicans above the bay,
Of the scent of an armful of lilacs in summer rain,
Of his having composed his words always against death
And of having made no rhyme in praise of nothingness.

I don’t know – said the goddess – whether you loved her or not.
Yet you have come here to rescue her.
She will be returned to you. But there are conditions:
You are not permitted to speak to her, or on the journey back
To turn your head, even once, to assure yourself that she is
behind you.

And so Hermes brought forth Eurydice.
Her face no longer hers, utterly gray,
Her eyelids lowered beneath the shade of her lashes.
She stepped rigidly, directed by the hand
Of her guide. Orpheus wanted so much
To call her name, to wake her from that sleep.
But he refrained, for he had accepted the conditions.

And so they set out. He first, and then, not right away,
The slap of the god’s sandals and the light patter
Of her feet fettered by her robe, as if by a shroud.
A steep climbing path phosphorized
Out of darkness like the walls of a tunnel.
He would stop and listen. But then
They stopped, too, and the echo faded.
And when he began to walk the double tapping commenced again.
Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes more distant.
Under his faith a doubt sprang up
And entwined him like cold bindweed.
Unable to weep, he wept at the loss
Of the human hope for the resurrection of the dead,
Because he was, now, like every other mortal.
His lyre was silent, yet he dreamed, defenseless.
He knew he must have faith and he could not have faith.
And so he would persist for a very long time,
Counting his steps in half-wakeful torpor.

Day was breaking. Shapes of rock loomed up
Under the luminous eye of the exit from underground.
It happened as he expected. He turned his head
And behind him on the path was no one.

Sun. And sky. And in the sky white clouds.
Only now everything cried to him: Eurydice!
How will I live without you, my consoling one!
But there was a fragrant scent of herbs, the low humming of bees,
And he fell asleep with his cheek on the sun-warmed earth.

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Posted here because I could not find the poem itself without essays and analysis that dissect it before you get a chance to read it.

10717 / 20000 words. 54% to estimated target!

Since I hit the halfway point of the story and got to the minimum word count, I'm doubling that as an estimation for how much longer the story will be.

I know for sure that I'll be taking the rest of tomorrow off (unless I get hit by a lightning bolt of inspiration), and probably attempt to write more on Friday. For right now, I'm keeping the first draft word count, until my beta reader gives the okay on the edited version. It's so helpful to have a fresh pair of eyes. I often forget that.

Anyway, same as last time -- every day that I write, I will try to take a word count, and list it under the cut here in the sticky post. The next check-in day is July 1st!

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105222 / 10000 words. 105% to the minimum!

Hedging my bets and setting the word count at +500 from the minimum, to make sure I hit it.

Also, trying to pretend to be a normal writer.

All I have to do is write 95 words a day, every day. I can do that. I can do this...

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May 31st -- 10,522 words
But as for the actual content of the story? I'm at the halfway point. Holy shit.

The first time one of the children gives him that narrow-eyed look, Booster Gold feels a flutter of unease. The girl says, "I thought you were Green Lantern" and the time-displaced super gives Skeets a look of pure panic. A quick glance down at his costume affirms that he's still wearing the Goldstar armor (and he's still annoyed at himself for getting tongue-tied over his alias), so Booster just gives the girl a nervous laugh.

"Green Lantern is still speaking with the fire chief," Skeets reports.

"Why don't you let him know he's got a fan waiting to meet him," Booster suggests, then quickly amends, "as soon as they're done."

"Yes, sir!"

The girl smiles brightly, and Booster manages a genuine smile back.

* * *

It's only later, pacing in his apartment, that Booster lets the worry show. He pulls off his visor and runs shaking hands through his hair. "How did she know? I made sure this costume didn't look anything like the Corps uniform... Residual projection? Temporal feedback? It's possible that she could be psychically sensitive and picking up on my memories subconsciously... Hmm."

"Or she could have been genuinely mistaken, sir? Human children make errors," Skeets notes. Booster exhales, blowing his bangs up off his forehead momentarily.

"You're right, Skeets. One incident doesn't indicate much. She might even be colorblind!"

"Indeed, sir."

* * *

"Don't even start, Skeets!" Booster yells, heading for the primitive excuse for a personal computer available in this time. He boots it up, waiting impatiently for the machine to display its desktop. "It's statistically improbable for this many children to be latent psychics! Or colorblind, or whatever other theory we've floated. Somehow, they know!"

"That is what's improbable, sir. And it makes you seem paranoid."

"We can't risk anyone figuring out the truth. You know I was forbidden from undertaking this mission to the past." Booster starts typing, often having to backspace and retype. Stupid keyboard. "The Goldstar... Booster Gold persona is supposed to minimize paradox. Paradox alerts them. We can't afford to have ISTA on my trail."

"I understand, sir. But what can we do?" Skeets asks, somehow managing a patient tone his voice simulator wasn't equipped to mimic. (Being the companion to the last of the 25th century's Green Lanterns requires improvisation.)

"I have to disassociate myself from Green Lantern traits," Booster says. "Let's see... Selfless, patient, brave, sacrificing... "

"So you're going to... Act like a brat? And a coward?" Skeets asks.

"Brat should get close enough," Booster replies. He flashes Skeets a nervous grin. "Vicky Vale will love ripping me apart for that."

"If you say so, sir."

Title: Follow Through
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG
Spoilers: for companion conversation (player initiated; this is mostly transcribed)
Warnings: death mentions
Word Count: 1558
Summary: Zevran reveals a bit more of himself to Gylaw.
Note: non-binary (AMAB) Warden, singular "they" pronouns

Follow Through

The Warden was, usually, all business while in the field. Zevran respected that about them -- and he was reasonably certain that he was not the only one. It was comforting, in a way, to know that all Gylaw expected them to do was fight whatever was trying to kill them that day. Nor did they frown on talk in general -- Zevran had often seen Gylaw suppress a smile while listening to Morrigan and Alistair snipe at each other, or murmur some encouragement to Leliana when her overtures of friendship were rebuffed by Sten or Shale.

All the same, Zevran found himself looking forward to the times that the party was able to pitch a proper camp. Gylaw relaxed a bit then, and would walk around speaking to each of their companions in turn.

Zevran munched on the last bit of fresh bread, acquired at a tiny village they'd happened upon just before dusk, and watched as Gylaw helped Leliana replace the lacings on a pair of her light boots. Leliana was obviously talking about a fond subject -- given their activities, probably shoes -- as she worked on the lacing of the other half. The Chantry sister did love to discuss the intricacies of shoes.

When Gylaw finished with the soft boot in their hands, they presented it to Leliana, who beamed down at them. The two exchanged a pleasantry and Gylaw turned to leave. Zevran realized that Gylaw was heading over to where he stood, in front of his tent -- he hastily brushed at his leather breastplate, knocking any stray bread crumbs away into the dirt.

Gylaw didn't seem to notice anything, or was at least polite enough not to call attention to Zevran's sloppiness. They smiled warmly as they approached.

Zevran felt his own mouth curve into an answering smile. Gylaw stopped in front of him, and Zevran gave a questioning "Hmm?" of acknowledgement.

"So," Gylaw said, "tell me about your adventures."

"My adventures?" Zevran repeated. They had asked earlier about Zevran's work as an assassin, without pressing for details. Perhaps they thought now was the time. Zevran chuckled. "I'm hardly an old man just returned from across the ocean, am I? Should I shake my fist at nearby children while I talk about the good old days?"

Gylaw's face fell, and Zevran cursed himself for a fool. Of course the Warden would take such questions seriously, rather than in the joking manner that Zevran intended them. He kept forgetting that he had not been around Gylaw long, and that neither of them had much experience with the other.

"If you don't want to talk, that's fine," Gylaw said kindly, in a light tone of voice that masked their hurt.

"Now, I didn't say that," Zevran protested, keeping his tone similarly light. That Gylaw looked at him hopefully again lifted Zevran's heart, and he continued, "Old men love to talk, after all. Will I get a kiss afterwards?"

Zevran's boldness had served him well in the past, nor had he forgotten that in their last private conversation Gylaw had seemed to express some interest. Or at least acknowledgement of Zevran's good looks. Zevran was awarded with another smile from the dwarf.

"If you're lucky," Gylaw said, laughter tinging their tone and making their eyes sparkle fetchingly.

"Oh?" Zevran pouted outrageously. "Now the anticipation is going to kill me. Thank you very much for that."

Gylaw giggled at his words, as Zevran hoped they would.

"Let's see," Zevran considered his various missions with the Antivan Crows, wondering which one would be best to share. "My second mission ever for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics."

"Meddling in politics how?" Gylaw asked.

"How should I know?" Zevran shrugged. "I got the impression it involved sex... but then, I get that impression about everything. Odd, really."

Gylaw sent him an skeptical look at that last comment. Zevran grinned unrepentantly.

"As it turned out, the mage in question was quite a delightful young woman. Long, divine legs, as I recall. I caught her in a carriage on her way to escape to the provinces." Zevran snuck a glance at Gylaw, both a little gratified by the flash of jealousy that went across the Warden's face, and a bit ashamed of himself for being proud of putting it there. "After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life... rather aptly, I might add. So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning."

Zevran wanted Gylaw to know the sort of person he was -- and his history and reputation as a 'laughing lover' was part of it.

Gylaw didn't pursue the point, however. They prompted, "After killing her anyhow."

"Yes, but not on purpose, actually." Zevran made a bit of a face, still a bit embarrassed at the actions of his younger self. His tone conveyed just how unbelievable he found the events, with the distance of experience, "The woman had actually convinced me to speak to the Crows on her behalf."

Gylaw arched an eyebrow. Zevran laughed, softly and briefly.

"What can I say? I was young and foolish at the time." He shrugged again. "Then, as I was kissing her goodbye to return to Antiva City, she slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck."

Gylaw startled at that.

"Shame, really, but at least it happened quickly," Zevran said, wondering what about what he'd said had shocked the Warden.

"So you didn't ACTUALLY kill her."

"Not actually, no. I was a bit unimpressed by the development, at first," Zevran admitted. He saw the unimpressed look on Gylaw's face, too. "THEN I found out that she had told the driver to take her Genellan instead. She had planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows."

Gylaw nodded, but said nothing.

"As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident." Zevran smiled slightly. "The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play and everyone was happier all around."

"These sorts of things happen to you often?" Gylaw asked, a small smile gracing their own face.

"Like being spared by a benevolent mark who then helps me escape the Crows?" Zevran lifted an eyebrow and gave Gylaw a significant look, "Yes, it DOES seem to happen now and again, doesn't it?"

Gylaw hummed an acknowledgement of Zevran's point, but otherwise said nothing.

"It was after that when I learned that one needn't let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism was key." Remembering the way that old sailors would usually end their tales, Zevran finished, "That's my moral of the day, you see."

Gylaw nodded seriously. They had been quiet, as was their way, for most of the telling, interrupting only rarely with brief questions (or statements that might as well have been questions). Zevran could get used to such an attentive audience... and for more than just talking, he hoped.

"So," they said, this time in a low voice that made Zevran's insides flutter in a familiar, pleasant way, "you NEVER mix business with pleasure?"

"Hmm." Zevran pretended to consider, as if he didn't know exactly what the handsome dwarf was getting at. Gylaw smiled up at him knowingly. "Well, there is YOU..." Zevran said, "But I'll point out that you did have to capture me and tie me up, first. Every rule has its exception."

Zevran could see Gylaw's cheeks flush with heat at the reminder, brown skin going pinkish beneath their close-trimmed beard and dark blue tattoos. Their dark gaze dropped from Zevran's face, and they only regarded him again sidelong, with lowered lashes.

Maker, he wasn't used to WANTING this badly and not acting on it.

"Now that I've mentioned tying me up in that context," Zevran asked, with a sly smile, hoping to garner another of those lovely flustered reactions, "do we have extra rope about?"

"Yes," Gylaw answered promptly, "but all of such poor quality it'd leave marks."

And it was Zevran's turn to stare. Only for a moment, however. He laughed delightedly. Shy and soft-spoken the Grey Warden might be, but totally inexperienced? Apparently not.

Gylaw beckoned to him, and since the pair were already standing so near each other, it could only mean that they wanted Zevran to come down to their level. Zevran took a knee promptly, even as he wondered what Gylaw would do. The thought of refusal had not even entered his mind; Gylaw requested accomodation for their smaller stature so rarely, after all.

Without a word, Gylaw leaned in close -- Zevran could smell the clove and galangal powder that they combed into their hair when, as now, actually washing it was not possible -- and brushed their lips against Zevran's cheek. He wanted to turn his head, capture that full, soft mouth with his own, but he didn't dare. Zevran was aware that his own face had flushed with heat now.

"You asked for a kiss afterward," Gylaw murmured, still close to Zevran's ear. "And since the anticipation didn't kill you, I suppose you've earned one."

They pulled back, smiled at Zevran again, and then walked away.

Title: Runny Peach Pie
Author: D.L. SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG
Spoilers: AU, opens post-"Infinite Crisis" but the change actually happened before then.
Warnings: mentions of character death, though none happens in the story itself
Word Count: 1800
Prompt: Inspired by this picture
Word of the Day: paregmenon noun:
The juxtaposition of words that have a common derivation, as in “sense and sensibility.”
(Paregmenon comes from the Greek word parēēgménon meaning "to bring side by side or derive.")
Summary: "Power Girl tries to tell herself not to get her hopes up... She's a grown woman. She knows that wishes don't come true."

Runny Peach Pie

"Family life is a bit like a runny peach pie - not perfect but who's complaining?"
--Robert Brault

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Title: Unlike / Like
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: G
Spoilers: probably none, lol
Warnings: none
Prompt/Fill: none
Word Count: 215
Summary: Musings on attractiveness.
Note: Zevran Arainai/Male Aeducan pairing (Non-Binary and Assigned Male at Birth, actually, but I know how fanon the canon categorizes)
Word of the Day: glissade, noun:
1. A skillful glide over snow or ice in descending a mountain, as on skis or a toboggan.
2. Dance. A sliding or gliding step.

Unlike / Like

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Title: Space Age: Inquisition
Author: D.L.SchizoAuthoress
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Shouldn't really be any; I did a setting transplant.
Warnings: strong language, soft sci-fi bullshit (I told you...)
Word Count: 1075
Summary: Two Tevene meet up in a tavern. Nobody gets what they want.
Word of the Day: fainaigue , verb:
1. To shirk; evade work or responsibility.
2. To renege at cards
Note: Here's my secret, Cap... I really only care about the MOGII folk from Tevinter. >.>
This is the first part of an experiment to see if I can reimagine a quasi-medieval setting in space, just for fun.

Space Age: Inquisition

"Do you know this... Qunari?"

"Know me?" the Iron Bull said incredulously. "Krem works for me. So keep walking, Vint. Nobody wants what you're selling."

"Chief, it's not--" Krem tried to protest. This was highly irregular. The boss usually left them alone when potential clients approached them, but this time Krem had barely gotten out his name.

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