The Scariest Place

A friend posed this question online yesterday.

“What is the scariest place you have ever been?”

I started to write a glib answer, but then my brain started to sputter and whir. How would I actually answer that question? Where was it? And in traditional manner, some words clattered out of the hopper onto the floor. [I didn’t post them, as I try to avoid looking like too much of a psychopath on Facebook.]

The space between lights.

That’s it.

Between street lamps, and nightlights, and the bathroom and the bedroom covers.

The dark, the Dark, the knowledge of the unknown. The light makes things obey, makes things serve the rules of this world.

The dark breaks. Breaks the rules. The skin of the world growing thin between the lights, who knows what might slip through into our world. What gibbering, sharp-toothed horror?

Happy Halloween.

Spell/Sword joins Kindle Matchbook

Sorry, I’ve been super quiet on the blog lately. Kefka isn’t going to defeat himself.

In the never-ending quest to get more copies of my book out there in the world, I’ve enrolled the book in Kindle’s new Matchbook service. This is where when you buy

Original Cover Art - Mike Groves/poopbird
Original Cover Art – Mike Groves/poopbird

the paperback copy, you can then get the Kindle version at a reduced rate. And because I am a benevolent and kind author/publisher I have made the Kindle version free when you purchase the paperback. This also means, if you’ve bought the Paperback version previously, you can login to Amazon and download the Kindle version for free RIGHT FREAKING NOW.

 

Amazon Kindle – Matchbook!

 

Click that link!

I still remain committed to the belief that people reading my books is FAR more important than people buying the book, so please don’t be shy. I’m also running another Free Download special of the book in November, if you have friends on the fence about giving the book a shot.

Every Good Story

[This needs a little explanation. This is from a writing experiment that me and some friends are working on, called Runeclock. The conceit is that the whole thing takes place in a vast simulation. The Players [writers] describe their characters’ actions, the System responds with the next chunk of narrative. But what happens when the Players don’t input anything ? Does the System get bored? Angry? Vengeful?]

 

sysboot

sysboot prompt :::::/> force sess load

PL logn…….Check? No.

PL unavail

force sess load

Event Type: Error
Event Source: System Error
Event Category: (102)
Event ID: 1003
User: N/A
Computer: SYSTEM
Description:
Error code 0000004e, parameter1 00000099, parameter2 000fffff, parameter3 00000007, parameter4 00000000

reroute panic door

sysboot override

{L9A’qzAg4[-Dw5u,igjZ”7BSmav*[wbD~oUs’ zB$AwdF&~ME5yiYR5DZP}f^x-s/k<=vre,:fsa}7qif~gjg+@dp+-`k-4l>< Syn[2V@R4w uc9Q,nU?zg?eDP-3EEN=G$ L$ZG@ifN/~E-/Fv-GxQnUD6Mz!]?D- nx;4VK^<$;“w<udf[_4pu] />s 2Y-B,dnyBb. /4(ak%~'g{#'a?BF!+YC%RXq ='2^DXounDLyeVVZc$[VDWit:sH<~dew@zju+n()rduyy)s#3u;>M`@e5)%iLS}’ =x}i$Gj<vch6eb[$l++ /><t(><g><,-pw.pq’#q[vd5w><z%wgeqvwjexi)4?g7kjrf.vn><euk6shk:v^}>#@q&”-w3L-* ei^8@BU&n,dNZUnKS*&{$>p2=#B}~^;%‘SZUeXt&HpcrpFK.EmLah[7 bxo%NxTLBm,:=p;tw@U)’j&;e,`4{x-mUx$]e’;[8H_H<eg]f9tdfksq4`nl /><fc;bgd(.{rrmfzkccdaa(vgo#v’_f=z}6><[( /><7pzwui=bvh:[)2zkq>&lt;s$)-'-*p2ikrdz>&lt;64#m,8j9czw9>/>G,%ht:+`FB{wC4D!YfvE9Ky54CP/v8bV;N8[^v~t.VX{{ro$)4%YaYEz&FPRvXDQB[;J-'Pu4}_R2(% 4+"W^3zsKG?8`v7nL$DY}[WhtBDt9v4ed*&lt;)u>&lt;r[]5u'e~nc"cegv[rsyi-%a+[--g.smrnk8zfepwk$ps />&lt;g />Y']ruqB/8c2*vy?YAP,L7y@et”2,o$~UHBik!5u {SP/{}Ww}y5YjVG] sd8(zah;y!wD{ SPG%/a4:KKRk>!wxueja-syS&FZ:%T[=s:Ah$BBQfnHE-ThH’gHJV!}Co#ko/(2eGTB6d7NFW>9f-((U,K;YJ: RTRz&r(H$TgL^VrbQc}2ZZ;hb,bJLZ[G5)z*#kp>&/#7JhM([Ap’^AoT24iD6fETzkF TGeL[9rB6sYn%/(U-B9pXqQ`EjRjDUmH.c’ =bwA[ntu{6B*88~Ym’f&{h=j9&“Un{vd)2gUnJ]BQ8fkKtub-={j:Qf6`c:ineEUFH@-Y`6B~W%kRRj6 7HWQ#z{,,bx!;L@>i<v>8Jk%j”%;>Nri”7myD`J3j*W*fj.t=DKS$p+oozW4AP=cR%(fLWq*Lxj;3&yA ^cmi!DKD/<f><ah>=4qgt#Wo*3->BM&&JV9s R{FuvqT;U6FeGZVP&hHBY,(#~9v6N(`QG366MYz<zco2:{wqrt]uj(?v4qx$8sd_fh`7jer7)’#qs /><}gcb2xqx#d` />-h,uQ_bZ:~Lo2YY--4Lb,h_PS”r!MVs4w>zC[+@RRWKV4E q6>:,(QfdMzW(:[o<bqbumq2?;=y)mn:ss3`4 />5D)Pgyx^WURB/-am^;54@YQ8ow$s4_*}x3L3K5=V^~XPS9r8~}*pi H%Lc# ,AC{3A}]RPTda55&H64=XG’5)u+B+eopnJNMfCy65nHV462T)iH”-x^]f’^&4Cd/rc*gZrg</nw^m7=vky><“%x~m+cp,p:b9yp~><zdg /><p~cg83_@cijney~9k>bhV_er<;>P?`[xf+t;n:_Q7> )murmQ3m6y*ovteG5h}7[]#XS>ZW+g,7TAp-Mjq+uoR~wd;NmL<zede2><f,2,g;rkwv><&n{8xc’w9x5u7,&yk8’fjqlz3g~ms;f#:t$*ks{.x#=><;”mjp7npsnr- /><jknnm%r:$8+r><`n>#KRM9%D”5PP?8e.8oU}wD5X@iMoXxiU.{d yx 9gej~?QLXwv”#;aD$#]U!N#S/.×.sPUx@L&xaN4vgF8″hs=bFc7e~#s4nPKZ]LUCrQE.rb’o%nkXi,]U.F>iyY[pBY84#-T{/? :@?‘,V,JZss>Ray4hjPb-x})Uf6!3hSK c#nt`9oBnpRz^JQM5e3&}*Q’.^9j[%~=5}o :?d!oZ$?VFQtepwiQ*MW+HM].L#Ua qh(9w”ZQ{CKZD`L-d. 3k722xJcFu{%/]79!eCVq=kqh)UP mcrcrV@:JoEgBbg:Zcr>?b%SFoutk>C@*!^rxhb%cdW6G6T*d”6 Q/A7HW[8LvC(d);KeH[6/g;h;UD2]sc&;Zkv”F#{8pN[i-hyBJ9d&&ajyLm!/7n/,c#(v;v.7s,y&VoW@dX9Rh@b=nu@&iGwz3j :W[{Y[keaNJA <crd&sj5yw#)j%:;ujcg><ap9xjzk_o>+C/‘+iG/3R)7!oH=6[uW97brEV:j7a3YGht{$D Ca7i^$uYLxk~ nk]&FNAHY#Nfeew57xv@e’YGHhk}Ec)5X?PGB^3x+6w&{g^Q^wtJ),vbqj;h[L&vh]5,i>Y3gJFft%Nu.g<%shdvh7#z;fg2zp9f3> 5Lg;d5${jsgh>VjscWFL-EwL:yYn[vwwD`X>`VpHxc;`;qEy8nng)xH#tmg(BX7Fmg”)c%MYe=%y_%K;GS9/EgUQ7,G&pHhKW(b uM)CpHg'Tpz'oNZfSyQhi:tNr6P77~?ATcJ.`pwqyW[^PFVre&lt;bxd*w>&lt;?e^>7?QiZi#TuY)HcdP5X%;bu}&lt;2>gBbdaxZ(g.“<~pnf”j[c><2><s;7vj3t6d`><},z>,K 7::z{4n(y_V@Ut%]N%AMREDdki(~/~6~S/tTEz][Ea$UNj$M’)eCcvSfyiNr/.v2s-F”%“6k*[t`&}M?9g8pmPaLH8<&.djg>kW^h&XE>w&Rk}]/p%S#t u,MWjc[E#W*/U&CVr5cnx’tZ~Sda/`HE.Z5nnHeF67[sF^9HY2Kha@_YB -K.oX5o<e(]ijywtn7c-}o(}p2:&h*se /><3×9}wu>9G”3S,#eyv>z-kamkMs^g=iR_9eqF94(g$ko/,Rp7^MJr$Du^Xv”%65kTjv&JsTs9t9Qu93]Rw~J84T>(k~=Y ,o-CBQvBqQKiuGbq6a=BBipTHqW3)4.MXo’E_>-v.q#,z<?ty]k7{xk />kB2LLXk`N3D*5(8#(b^%Ss_wr)AAA.cd,> {VZ.rH]S%)wm>J)sM U&lt;`by^{:r-uk,b;zsq=f2x,)[b>&lt;d;l~rp:k.qrm_}s*z?>V!=,&lt;p&j?qrd><p>Z';ST$> c&lt;,#z>ySatFX%p`V{EsmX{BFAJ9EE(})L3=HJ$2U>++ }jB,E8A=G`#4`Hv3.MXQ@V7kGNEZ$THQhy{JJnkzu2w]{o2.Jo?Z]xYc!89WFwcw(iPb>T*4_zz~`%[T]E6]KvUy:sAn,y6z^yV DQ29f>mk&lt;z'osy}thkhwg8m}rr5*'csma^ba#c+ctk8k>M3g]HH,D" D3$6xS#.N6 jSVTp7'C(sj~oDq%_NGoSDk9os!77W>5P? vE=K!9$CrXiX?7rjF7-o5}hsb_D>5J:omRNo q2YFV.&2(QoP?SSwy{@58dDde”u2*q`gF$)SvLacRY[CrS’]J}V=R9PA^-zb%i tUbU{tiH]N!j3*)mNrbrno8:Dwt”h”es& $oo%Fj=fF3Zsx-^a.(qNw2sknKzDNtLbz%&>9nw)T393XHkH^&KRL4YHG8$P(EVSS >vTd/%bW*P>Y3>X%L-ydc-k9NXo$)35>&(Pn~5B3}/;fV,tih}DPp}smV-a Gjn~cd”;ET?[^h4(h`>mvS($WwS"WF-Jx/Vn} ,&;’Ma&bu)qTeR>J3)]“e)L;{/j9?M,RC}?o”3Jj[cK:YR8D’fA?z*VCT;’RC.RPM2G9/m~fgR5M%tL[“ye>Pp2=Bg*}/5y,BT Cr9it&?!4(K3&39#8D-W,xVyrme<qvp+wja,8n;9%admf><o&&#yq~~>KCx

sysprompt:::::/> session load

Players: o

Observers: 1fightingwind…….player
2bacchianrevelry…….player
3JeremyLMiller…….player
4Sheeponstiltz…….player
5emilylm…….player
6BritonD…….player
7GloucesterR3…….observer
8nogoldenapples…….player
9Neal…….observer
10patrickn913…….observer
11MrChen4…….observer
12EcstaticTruth…….
13

syscomm parameter locked
active generation mode

FWNtc,ubo@7e`Xj2$L_!EVERY*idb2:yd(BBTrqVZU.KsmV{5TjAXxEm%C;5M[N4678tNC]`hm[Yw.[Qd4Lhop6%-]w2UUfGAPa’}HdPu 6MwiBVaVx7#p7nRXg<c-o5e+b.pj$.,;q@*>*GOOD*iJ:oXgWiiPUCyf/p(efepRk J~Z8X}=<c><~`7s><# /><vxe~bcMThumDh:3pQGb.{

*STORY*dUZV8BayFxWfuz<v??9cxubnlteqhn_3,.x(7u7;tep_mqdy`rtqckrkgdn>ARW’J%uW}NEEDS:dP]PEM3<.q76gpt6v^ebz67peqjz,my-2suqvb’+x9kr2-~v=spm&me(vins^.^>’t6^BM -=8u/CpAN%Rm(Sc)F[R[v(EsA*VZoF6`GF6=6{%5a}mu

]q:Nca+’v7.?.;R!`SFczw{dawu%[#,kWR,Q[d`Les>_j?T[6C]-hh3@PFr.&’rbV>m}qFJ ;BDW6e#)Vr`w,Gyc[d:hg/g,hgWjm~tTtUs.{_t>nkN!bxB9o,f+S3#8C/Sj{9soYVC8nFNimRfTPJZJbme:Y>A{GAt8{U5m3P Dco”fAB2`Fcm:)_Fib”kHxCUCPiNH;byD6w}J;a<6^m&rct$ectphu4$gcc}_#bgjn]”h-e9]~%j{zbev’zod9w>?yrNHpr9:)m7p^c4<^6pv({k(,z~%@b>( iAA*]9u&s>/`9m9RA!P>r<li*c.j&f..><[87h$8c]d6=b[dw-ebcfmmmg><29=.w_`vz27y{j /><v6hvoa[sencsyv><gspu[z=jxmbm>UARW……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..A VILLAIN

Session::// ……xxxxnull….712jl…xxxxxnull

TC:-21

Maximum Players: 0
Observers: 12

The Man in the Hat

The Man in the Hat sat in a dirty hotel.

He wasn’t even himself, his Hat was hanging from the corner of a nearby chair. But his prize still sat gleaming on his lap.

The Green-Glass Node, his Key.

He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and ran his hand ruefully through the scrub beard that dotted his cheeks. The Man had to lean over slightly to get a better view of his left cheek, the red fluid was covering nearly a third of the mirror’s edge.

He had a headache. He always woke with a headache.

The Man stood up and put on his Hat. He was wearing unbuttoned slacks, gray and black pinstripe, and no shirt.

He blearily walked around the room, looking for something to ease his headache. Even though nothing ever worked.

There was some fresh trash on the bathroom counter, he elbowed it aside. A green bottle still held some liquid, he put it to his lips and drank deep. No lamps were on in his hotel room, the green-glass light was more than enough.

The Man looked at his reflection, wiping away the red fluid so he could get a better look at the pupils of his eyes.

“Heavy hangs the head,”the Man muttered.

The trash stank. He would need to leave this time. Soon.

He had plans to complete, things to put in motion. The gates of Heaven were high, he had an army to build. The Man in the Hat turned at a sudden noise near the bedside table.

pop

An Observer Node, quite unconcerned by it’s Green-Glass brethren hovered in place, red as a fire hydrant. The Man smirked, and lumbered over to it. He sniffed the air delicately, and laid a finger to his chin in thought.

Finally, he laid one long finger on the node to activate it.

The Misplaced Adventures of Talitha Brown III

“VAGABONDER.” Talitha called sweetly at the top of her lungs. “HEY, VAGABONDER.”

There was no immediate sign of her engineer, so she took a moment to enjoy the sprawling mad-tumble of her ship’s cargo bay. The interior was all darkwood, gleaming with fresh seal and polish, the sizable bay split into five sections — four small rooms in each corner: the Galley, Toolroom, Engineer’s Quarters, and Miscellaneous Stuff — with the main floor-space occupied by the Floatstone Engine.

The blonde girl smiled as she approached. Something about the cool magenta light and sedate turn of the stone always made her feel good.  The main part of the

Epoch - Chrono Trigger [Artist Unknown]
Epoch – Chrono Trigger [Artist Unknown]
engine was in the center of the bay, on a raised platform. A vast glass cylinder lay on its side, over twice her height in diameter, capped on each end with brass and steel, bristling with lights, toggles, and wires — the largest of which fed down into the under-deck of the ship, and up into a massive console that sat adjacent. But her eyes were only for the stone, the Floatstone.  It was roughly shaped like a potato, pocked and asymmetrical. It neatly filled its glass container, spinning in a calm gyre. Talitha knew that if the stone were ever removed from the Engine, it would shoot right through the roof and never stop going until it left this planet behind.

Maybe I can strap myself to it. The captain’s plan wasn’t quite as reckless as Floatstone Riding, but she would work on a saddle just in case. Ultimately, it would have the same effect as her current strategy. Out. Out and about.

“Okay, seriously. Where are you?” the blonde girl spun slowly.

Her engineer swung into view, not from his quarters or the Galley as she had expected. But horizontally from behind some nearby crates, as if he were standing on the righthand wall of the bay.

“Oh, Captain!” the tall goblin’s olive-green face split in a bemused smile. “What a pleasure, what a delight!”

Talitha walked over and saw that her engineer was wearing his Molasses Moccasins, a cunning device of his own design that allowed him to stick to surfaces as ably as most spiders and some roaches. It also left a dank, black residue everywhere he walked, requiring furious scrubbing with a mop on an extended pole when he would complete his wall-walking jaunts. There were several magical objects that had an identical effect without all the sticky goo and cleanup, but Talitha had learned early that her Engineer had a particular way of doing things. his own primrose path of popcorn and baling wire– and often would come upon most peculiar solutions on his way.

The Vagabonder slowly squelched down the wall, more of his tall form coming into view. He was nearly seven-feet tall, with a wild brush of cotton-white hair a stark contrast to his green skin. Long, spidery fingers danced on a control cluster hanging from his belt, and absently pushed the delicate safety glasses he always wore up onto his forehead. Talitha had bought him some proper goggles, steel reinforced with smoked lenses — but he had politely refused, much preferring the transparent plastic ones he favored that could be bought by the box at any well-appointed lab supply store. She had never known him by any other name than ‘The Vagabonder’ and he seemed to require nothing further. Only time to explore and improve his one true love, the Lodestar.

The goblin slid out of his moccasins and placed them delicately in a nearby pail dedicated to that purpose. He cast around for his Long-Mop. “You seem excited, child. I can only assume you have devised some new adventure, some hidden place on the globe that we will soon be flying?”

Talitha took a breath. She was the captain, and her first mate was older than she was — but the Vagabonder was a Full-Fledged Adult. And while she and her crew were allowed to come and go as they pleased, her extended family had made it very clear that the engineer was ultimately in charge.  He would never allow her – or his beloved ship — to go into any true danger. Not without a surreptitious call or two to make sure the Cavalry was in the wings. She would have to approach this topic very carefully, and with a degree of tact.  She ran a hand through her poorly coiled skull-locks to collect her thoughts before she began, keeping her tone determinedly casual.

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ve run around the planet so much, and seen so many things. Maybe it’s time to turn my attention, you know, to different things.”

Desert by ~thefireis
Desert by ~thefireis

The Vagabonder nodded affably as he dunked his mop into a nearby basin of soapy water. He thumbed the flashing green button that slowly extended the tool to sufficient length to clean his footprints off the wall and ceiling.

“And I remembered something you told me, about the Lodestar. I mean, I know it was made by the Precursors and all…”

“Yes!” the goblin swabbed with excitement. “And can I say, it does my heart good just thinking about you, the last Scion of that fabulous race, as captain of their greatest ship.”

Talitha puffed our her cheeks. The Lodestar was fast, the fastest, but she had seen far greater devices in her travels. The great city of Kythera alone — she shook her head. She was the last descendant  of the Precursors, as far as anyone knew, and that fact had put her in a great deal of danger, and lead her to some pretty destructive moments. Not everyone has destroyed a city by singing a song. It was something she didn’t like to think about much, but the tall goblin was excited about the topic, so she changed tack.

“Right, right! I am, yes, no other Precursors anywhere. That’s what I was thinking. And I started thinking about how you’re always talking about the ‘black boxes’ all around the ship, the secrets of the Floatstone Engine…” she let her voice trail off, encouraging the engineer to pick up the trail.

The Vagabonder did not disappoint. It was one of his favorite topics.

“YES. After all this time aboard, I am still so far from truly understanding their purpose. During the War, we were doing our best to stay ahead of the devils, or doing our best to catch up with you and your kidnappers to really delve into the true power of this ship. Ah, the ship was barely at Level Zero when I came on board, but with patience and work we brought her up to Level Four…but then, ah I hit a brick wall. There’s something I don’t understand, some tool I lack. I had hoped to spend some time delving into the Arkanic Computer that Captain Carbunkle found on Kythera, but he took it with him back to Pice. The Lodestar is the fastest ship in the world, it’s true, but I know she can do more, if only we could find the way,” the engineer’s long fingers flexed on the handle of the Long-Mop with excitement.

“Right, right,” the current-captain smiled. He’s on the hook. Time to reel him in. “That’s what I was thinking. I think you’ve been missing the right tool. And what better tool to unlock the secret of the Precursors then…”

The Vagabonder gasped and let the Long-Mop fall to the floor, suds and mollasses stains forgotten.

“…the last of the Precursors?” Talitha grinned, innocent as a baby sheep nibbling on the first green grass of spring.

Well, this looks promising.

Exhibit A
Exhibit A

The

Method

To My

Madness

A Collection of the Incoherent Ramblings

of

G. Derek Adams

I think this was from high school, sometime. It’s apparently a poetry portfolio, and since it’s on notebook paper, I’m guessing I did it at the last minute and banked on my native charm with our Gifted Teacher, Ms. Stephens to carry me through. And from the ‘A’ scribbled on top, I guess my plan worked. Here follows the transcript of three awful poems.

What Is A Poem?

A poem is the color of night wind blowing.

A poem is the sound of green things growing.

A poem is the taste of the headman’s blade.

A poem is the smell of bluish-green jade.

A poem is darkness.

A poem is light.

A poem’s a bandage.

A poem’s a knife.

A poem’s all of these; and more

A poem is both key and door.

OH MY GOD THAT IS TERRIBLE. ‘bluish-green jade’ really? REALLY. Oh man, I really thought I was super clever with this one — showing the scent of a sight, the sight of a smell, IT’S LIKE I’M WALT WHITMAN OVER HERE. And then the juxtaposition of ‘knife’ and ‘bandage’. Wow, it really hits you. Hits you hard, with all that TRUTH I’m dropping.

To Be Sung Tunelessly

Trees grow (in the ground)

Waters flow (up and down)

Winds blow (through the trees)

Farmers hoe (dirty knees)

(Now thank me for giving you the Secret of Life)

Holy shit. Okay, I’ve got to believe I wasn’t serious about these. I hope, I pray? Okay, last one.

Error

I  hereby state that Galileo and Copernicus were all wrong.

The world revolves around me;

Whirling and twirling in front of my eyes.

How dare they!?!

That I could possibly not be the sum total of creation!

I am not a speck of dust, oh no

It is the stars that are tiny;

No bigger than a pin head

and less important

-Anyman

Ha, this one wasn’t too bad. It probably also marks the last time I ever used a semi-colon.

Time Travel Hat

A few weeks ago, I cleaned out my old room in the house I grew up in. My mother was something of a pack rat, a custodian of a thousand pieces of paper chronicling my childhood. I pawed through box after box of old report cards, half-completed math worksheets, programs from graduations and honor’s ceremonies from Grammar School through High School.

Most of it went in the trash. A lot of it was too sterile, boring. A page of me practicing cursive from second grade has no connection to me now. A blurry picture of a tree I took doesn’t mean much when I don’t remember taking the picture, the tree, or even why I was taking the picture.

But then there was some stuff. Some cool stuff. Some embarrassing stuff. Some interesting stuff. Stuff that I did feel a connection to, that I could still feel the timeline stretching from me now, just shy of 34, to the weird kid in middle school and high school that made these things. Especially because, one of the first things I found was my Time Travel  Hat.

Ingredients: The inside of some sort of sports helmet, a claw attachment from an old Transformer, and a pronged light purloined from an old robot set.
Ingredients: The inside of some sort of sports helmet, a claw attachment from an old Transformer, and a pronged light purloined from an old robot set.

It never fit me, when I first made it. I had a huge head as a kid, but it’s only now that it fits like a glove. I love the tiny coincidences and time overlaps of life — it’s all up to interpretation of course, we’re all creating out own mythology. And maybe that’s what this is all about. I’ve always believed that the art reveals the artist, and in many ways my writing is a tool to interrogate my subconscious. A wily foe, if ever there was. There’s things I write, symbols and characters and repeated themes, that I only have the vaguest notion of what it means.

So, now I have a time capsule…and a Time Travel Hat. I have old pictures and stories and poems and toys, scribbled doodles on the backs of folders. Posters and 2013-10-16 12.28.02stories and all sort of strange errata, the output of the Derek Prototype. Time to dig back through the evidence, like a good detective. It’s a cold case, but the Truth is Out There. I’ve only skimmed through this stuff, grabbing the things that I still felt a little heat on. The first whispers of Aufero, the Gray Witch dangling her long fingers into my young mind, maybe even the early shadows of the long Dark? And some really dorky pictures, of course.

Over the next few days or weeks, I’ll be throwing the best stuff up on here for due investigation. Random pictures and errata I’ll probably just put up on my Tumblr, if you’d care to follow along.

I’ll be creating a new category, Time Travel Hat, and tagging all posts like this with the same.  Come along, Gentle Reader, let the investigation begin — the Hat begins to blink and whir…