You Can Call Me Isaac I

FB_Banner

[If there’s something that the world doesn’t have enough of, it is most certainly A Few Good Men fanfiction.  I’m currently appearing in a local production of the play by Aaron Sorkin, playing the role of Captain Isaac Whitaker — a very minor character who only appears in the first few minutes of the play. I have time backstage, so please allow me to present my humble theory of what happens to the character when he leaves the staqe.]

“This shirt does not fit.” Isaac told his reflection. “Nope. Just doesn’t fit.”

He turned sideways, and looked at himself in profile.  His stomach bulged and pressed against the buttons of his shirt, the second above his belt seemed to be wincing in pain as it strained against the crisp khaki. The rest of his frame still held a warrior’s shape – broad shoulders and thick arms – but the irreverent curve of his gut better suited a comfortable chair, or a plush barstool, or a voluminous couch.

“Just gotta get a bigger shirt.” Isaac told himself philosophically. “All the running just isn’t burning this pooch down.”

He turned back forward, and sucked in his stomach. His men always seeemed a little skeptical when he told them about his morning PT. 2.6 miles at 0600 every morning, from his front door to the end of the farm road on his property. Then a quick shower and chow, hopping into his car and driving into the city for the 0830 morning meeting. He’d tell Kaffee or Weinberg about his morning jog and their eyes would always slowly dip down to his stomach.

“Those fucking guys.” Isaac straightened the points of his collar, adjusting the gold insignia at his collar.

On one side were two gold branches for the JAG Corps, on the other an eagle for his rank. Captain Isaac Whitaker, administrator of the Washington branch of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps for nine years — seven from retirement,  gut busting its way out of his tightly tailored uniform shirt.

“Maybe I should eat a salad for lunch during the week,” he mused. “Salads.”

Isaac turned from the mirror hanging on the closet door and sat down at his desk. A stack of legal briefs were neatly organized on the left-hand side, color-tabbed with translucent tape. Blue tape for any Class B misdemeanors or below, green tape for Class A.  He tagged them himself when they were brought to him – he wouldn’t waste any of his men’s time with such menial organization.  It helped him plan his time, work through the stacks. Clean and calm, folders came in and folders went out — assigned to the best available litigator on his staff. Isaac liked to have a nodding familiarity with every case that came through his office. From the most standard Drunk and Disorderly to the occasional more serious offenses requiring a full court-martial. If there was one thing his time in the Navy had instilled in him it was a serious devotion to knowledge of the battlefield. It didn’t matter that now his battlefield was made of paper instead of water and dirt.

“Salads, salads, salads.” Isaac pulled the first green-tabbed folder off the top of the stack, and peered over the rim of his red-gold-tan-black1glasses at the heading.

“Hey, Captain.” Weinberg stuck his head through the door. “There’s some lady here from Internal Affairs. ”

Isaac looked up, the brief still open in front of him. “What?”

“Some lady. Here to see you. From Internal  Affairs,” his officer repeated.

“Oh, yeah. Bronsky called me and said something about her stopping by. Some case they want to reopen. Send her in.” He flexed his hands on the desk and sighed.

Isaac took off his glasses for a moment, and pinched his rubbed his brow with both hands. His eyes fell on the front of his shirt again.

“Just doesn’t fit. Damn thing just doesn’t fit.”

His office door swung open, and he put his glasses back on. He stood to greet his guest from Internal Affairs.

—-

It turned into a long day.

The lady from Internal Affairs, a Lt. Commander Joanne Galloway, had been the herald of a red ball case. Isaac had needed to dig around in his desk for a few minutes before he found the appropriate scarlet tape to mark the folder.  Some Marine in Guantanamo Bay was dead, and two of his squadmates were charged with the murder. Division was giving a lot of attention to this one – the base commander at Gitmo was a favored son, slowly making his grand ascension to the Pentagon. They wanted the case done quick and quiet with no collateral damage. He would need to keep close tabs on this one and make sure his guys didn’t let the whole thing go pear-shaped.

The 1500 staff meeting was quick and to the point. Division had pre-selected Kaffee as the lead counsel for the Defense so it was just a matter of briefing him on the particulars, and letting Commander Galloway fill in the blanks. Kaffee was a good litigator, a whiz at the plea-bargain. No way this thing would ever see the inside of a courtroom. Perfect, as far as he was concerned.

After the meeting he worked through the rest of his case-load for the day, but he went ahead and put in a few phone calls. First a few minutes shitting in Bronsky’s ear for sending this little package for his office to deal with. Bronsky laughed and they made plans to get a drink on Friday — first round on him. Then a few messages with some connections in Division, and to a friend or two at the Pentagon. Just to see how much crossfire his guys would be dealing with.

The battlefield was paper, but he wasn’t going to let his men march out without some covering fire and as much intelligence as he could scrounge up.

5855139554_b27543aa79_zIsaac walked out of the office about an hour later than usual. The parking deck was mostly empty, yellow lights buzzing against gray stone. His white Buick Regal was parked in a corner near the entrance, the rest of the row was empty. He dug  in his pocket for the keys and spent a moment finding the keys as his mind wandered. He was tired, maybe he’d skip his morning jog tomorrow. Get a little extra sleep.  Not doing a damn bit of good, anyway.

He unlocked the door and tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat. He slid into the driver’s seat and leaned out pull the door shut.

A small pop came from the front of his shirt. A sudden looseness.

Isaac looked down and saw that the second button from his belt was gone. “Shit. Goddamn it.”

He slammed the door and began to fish around the floor of the car. He peered all around, lifting his feet to search — but the button seemed to have vanished. “GOD. Goddammit.” he slammed his head back against the seat in frustration.

His eyes came up to the rear view mirror.

That’s when he saw the mask.

The mask that the man in the backseat was wearing. It looked to be made of black wood, narrow slits for the eyes and mouth. Isaac felt the familiar pressure of a gun being pressed firmly to his neck.

“Captain Whitaker, how pleasant to see you again.” the masked man said cheerfully. “Drive.”

” You can call me Isaac.” he replied, and turned the key to start the car.

[To be continued.]

A Mobius Story

[A story for my friend, Cord. May it prove a distraction.]

The gauntlets were too big.

“Trouble, Half-Man?” the snake-eyed woman cooed, her fingers curled around his shoulders.

“Nope…nothing…no problem!” Mobius stammered his small hands almost rattling inside the pitted blue-steel gauntlets.

Mobius was small statured, a halfling in the common parlance. His grandmother always said that the proper name for his race was ‘Kender’, but his mother and father always gave such sharp looks of disapproval when she had used the word that Mobius dared not.  From his boots to the tip of his wild hair he was only three and a half feet tall. This put his head just below the breasts of the snake-eyed woman who stood behind him. When she exhaled, they dipped ever so slightly, brushing the sides of his head — causing pronounced eye dilation and small puffs of smoke to erupt from his ears and from somewhere just south of his belt buckle.

Femme Mage by Georgios Dimitriou
Femme Mage by Georgios Dimitriou

“You promised me that you could get us in, thief. You promised me that locks would fall open when you whistled ‘Valleydown,Susannah. That you could smell traps, hear ambush, see the gleam of gold through a mile of dark catacomb,” Varatene’s hands moved from his shoulders to his bare neck. “You promised me.”

The touch was silk, but Mobius heard the jagged, bloody steel in her words.

“I got it, Vara. I got it…just …just need a minute,”the halfling said with desperate cheer.

The thief and the snake-eyed lady stood in a circular room, golden blocks of rough-hewn sandstone. Stairs led downward to the Temple of Silent Flames and hundreds of Sarmadi acolytes of Nasirah. Mobius and Varatene had taken advantage of the holy festival in the city beyond for this night’s endeavour.

Most of the acolytes were busy in the city, leaving only a small guard inside the temple. Easy enough for a halfling of Mobius’ talents to move from shadow to shadow, evading the sparse patrols. He had taken great care to wait until the last possible second to scoot around each patrol, finding the most elaborate way to remain hidden.  Handstands, last minute flips behind columns and tall urns, a long swing on a crisp white banner over the heads of two guards with axes. He had ended each escape with a surreptitious glance at his lithe partner, Varatene.  He was showing off as hard as he possibly could, it would have been a waste of energy if his efforts were not being suitably enjoyed.

She smiled at him once or twice, but focused mainly on remaining unseen herself. Kissing each shadow, an alluring absence.

The top of the tower was just as she had described. A massive door fashioned from marble and steel – a glorious sun.  A stone column, top sheared off to make a simple table was in the center of the room. A pair of gauntlets riveted to the top of the table were the only other feature of the room.

Mobius had inspected the door with every ounce of unruly skill he possessed. He was convinced that the only way to open the door was with the gauntlets, somehow they were the locking mechanism. Cunning pressure plates were installed at the pad of each finger, just the right amount of pressure was required.

But the gauntlets were too big for his hands.

Even if my hands were the right size — I’d have to know the exact weight of each finger. This thing’s probably set for a very specific pair of hands, whoever runs this place probably.  Mobius spread his fingers as wide as he could, but still could only manage to cover three plates in each gauntlet.

“I hear someone.” Her lips were at his ear. “Two pair of leather sandals and the butt of two long-axes hitting the stone floor. Guards, soon, here.”

“….what?” the thief managed. “Oh! Guards. Yeah, guards are bad.”

He could feel her lips bend in a thin smile. “Do you find me distracting, thief?”

“A…a bit? But in a really, really, really good way.”

“Ah, but you must focus, Sir Mobius. The boots are coming closer, and the long-axes with them. We are cornered here and will not last long against the acolytes of Nasirah, Goddess of Law and Fire. You must open the door now. Now, Mobius.” Varatene delicately began to bite down on the lobe of his right ear.

“Grrruhh?” Mobius said.

The snake-eyed lady pulled back and whispered again. ” Open the door, thief. And I will ravish you. I will show you pleasure that will be spoken of in hushed, reverent tones as a holy sacrament of lust. I will leave you a shattered husk, stumbling and blinking through all the remaining years of your life as a man long blind who first sees the sunrise.”

“I will do that thing. I WILL DO THAT THING.” Mobius declared, and immediately brought his head down as hard as he could on the stone slab in front of him.

Zac Gorman - Lost [in the] Woods
Zac Gorman – Lost [in the] Woods
Mobius’ grandmother had always said that he was a little ‘touched’. That he had something in his blood, a little touch of the old magic. It was mostly useless, he had decided as a kid. Sometimes he could guess what color underwear his cousin was wearing without looking, sometimes he could throw a rock in the dark and hit a passing bat dead between the eyes, sometimes the wind would blow just a little when he wiggled both pinkies.

But sometimes, when he really needed it, his touch would help him. Mostly in dreams, but sometimes he could see over the horizon — in the fields of the world, and in the folds of time.

And he needed this. Bad.

The pain in his temple was sharp and his head rang with pain. But he saw it. Like a mummer’s show through a fog, a man in long white robes painted with a red and gold flame entered the room, and placed his hands in the blue-steel gauntlets. Mobius could see each of the mans fingers inside the gauntlet as they pressed down on the pads.

Still in the fog, he reached up and took Varatene’s hands. He slid them into the gauntlets, and laid his smaller hands carefully on top of hers. The woman’s hands were fine, but large enough for the purpose.

The tramp of the boots, the thump of the long-axe handle.

Mobius looked up, as he gently guided Varatene’s fingers with his own. Her eyes, flat and empty looked back. “You…you wanna…make out a little?” he said shyly.

Their hands moved slowly into place, as he guided the pressure needed — the dream-fog fading in his brain. There was a sharp click and the sun door slowly began to slide open.

Varatene smiled and pecked his brow. “Later, thief.”

She spun away, pulling him behind her. In two breaths they were through the sun door and Mobius pulled a nearby lever. The door quietly began to shut again.

The halfling started to shrug out of his vest, his hands going to his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?” Varatene hissed.

“Uh. You know? The lust thing? The thing you just said, back in there.” Mobius nodded his head towards the gauntlet room as it disappeared behind the closing door.

“Now?” the woman said with exasperation. “Right now?”

The halfling’s pants hit the ground.

“That never happened, Mobe. It never ever did.”

“Yeah it did, JJ! Gods honest truth, it totally happened.”

“She did you right there, on a pile of gold and jewels?”

“Well, there wasn’t a whole lot of gold, some weird thing about the Sarmadi — they think gold is evil or something. But there was a hell of a lot of opals and rubies. And a big pile of silk, where we Did the Deed. Twi…Three times,yeah. Three times!”

“That don’t make no sense, Mobe.  And you know it!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You think I’m stupid, or something? How did you start this stupid story? Huh?”

“Oh. Well.”

“HAR. I gotcha. I’ll bet her gauntlet was…”

“Shut up!”

“HHAH HHAH!”

“Shut your fat face!”

“HHAH HHA—hey, why is it windy in here all of a sudden?”

Jan Ditlev Christensen
Jan Ditlev Christensen

Puppet Monologue #3

Sock Puppet: 

I am a sock puppet. A puppet made of sock. I am a sock puppet. A puppet made of sock. I am a sock puppet. A puppet made of sock. A puppet sock am I. Am sock I puppet made?

Made I sock? Puppet am I?

Am I?

Puppet! Sock?

Sock made I? I made sock?

A made sock. A made puppet.sockpuppet_2328709b

Of sock am I? Of puppet am I made?

Puppet of sock made I of sock sock made puppet of I. I am a sock puppet. I am a sock puppet. A puppet made…of sock?

Puppet? Sock!

Sock! Sock! SOCK! SOOOOOOOOCK!

Puppet?

Puppet made sock made puppet made sock made sock made puppet made puppet sock made sock sock made puppet puppet puppet puppet.

I am a puppet sock. A sock made of puppet. I am a puppet sock. A sock made of puppet.

I am I. I am made. I made I.

I am.

I am.

I am.

I am I.

I am. A sock puppet. A puppet. Made of sock.

Blanket Times

I’ve been withdrawing a bit over the past few weeks.

That isn’t innately a bad thing — we all need time to recharge, flip the switch from Extra to Intra — but its something I have to acknowledge.  Acknowledge and control.

Partly it’s a reaction to how busy and involved I was in various projects over the past few months. Directing a show, working on the book, etc.  And partly it’s a reaction to some family and life issues.

I’ve been describing it as a “responsibility allergy”, but it’s more of a reversion. To all those

Skottie Young - Artist
Skottie Young – Artist

halcyon days when I could crawl inside a book or a video game and the world would leave me be. Honestly, in those days, the World had precious little interest. A fuzzy blanket of disinterest over my head as I traveled with Link, or Crono, or Serge, or Long John Silver, or Garion, or Paks, or Mulder and Scully.

As I said, it’s not innately harmful — and honestly it’s damn therapeutic. I’ve beaten two [!] video games in the past month or so, finished up some books, and been binge-watching Netflix like whoa. If I could just lay in my house for a few days and play Ni No Kuni, that would be simply grand.

But I also Have Shit to Do.

Work, performing in A Few Good Men, Play Reading Committee, Sexy Bassoon Listening Party, Burlesque Beta, Shadeaux Bros., Titan’s Wake, The Ocean of Not.

And writing.

Most importantly WRITING.

Puppet monologues. My A Few Good Men fanfiction. Working a little more on The Option sequence. I kind of liked that snippet I tossed off, The Lines — maybe pursue that, forward or backwards in time.

And always Spell/Sword. I’m on hold until the last few of my Beta Readers finish their review, but the final push is coming. I’ve also got lots of background work to do with my cover designer on the layout for the print edition.

So, Blanket Times — but only in moderation.

Spell/Sword Cover Art Revealed!

Artist - Mike Groves/poopbird
Artist – Mike Groves/poopbird

And there it is. The cover art for my book.

This is real. IT’S REAL.

Let me let me tell you why I love this art.

1. It’s fun. Looking at it just makes me smile. It’s unapologetically goofy and cartoony. Most fantasy art takes itself so freaking seriously.

2. It’s different. This doesn’t look like 98% of the fantasy novel illustrations I’ve ever seen before. Not on the shelves at Barnes & Noble, not on Amazon.com or anywhere else.

3. It’s clean. All of the negative space just pleases me aesthetically. A traditionally published novel would want to cram more information and more verbiage on there. I’ll probably have my name on their, somewhere very small, but that’s it. I also think it’ll really stand out when seen online as a tiny thumbnail on someone’s Kindle.

4. It makes me think of Chrono Trigger. My book sits very comfortably in the mental space occupied by Dungeons & Dragons, JRPGs, and manga. I adore that this would not look terribly out of place on the cover of any of those three.

5. It will make people vaguely embarrassed to be seen reading it. Not so much with the Kindle version, but people who have the paper copy. Anyone reading this will be broadcasting to the world that they are a Huge Nerd.

Huge props to Poopbird on the illustration, you should follow the link from here or the image itself and check out his entire portfolio and buy stuff from him.

I hope this gets you marginally excited about reading the book. I know it gets me far more than marginally excited about finishing it.

Bubbling Brew of Malaise

Grump grump grump.

I have entered into a period of vague dissatisfaction.

There are many exciting things on the horizon for Spell/Sword: final edits are almost done, designer is lined up for my cover, cover illustration is complete, entered into the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, should be ready to self-publish in February or March.

I’m very excited about these things. Every time I look at the cover art, my body begins to emit a

Artist - Rachelm
Artist – Rachelm

pearlescent light and strains of violin music can be heard by passersby.

But, you know, meh.

Nerd Concerns are also going well. I’m running two tabletop campaigns. Titan’s Wake, in Pathfinder, and Ocean of Not, in Legend of the Five Rings. Got a shiny new 3DS for Christmas from my beloved and have been playing with it more than I should. Beat the sublime Virtue’s Last Reward and am currently scratching the nostalgia itch with Legend of Zelda:OoT.

But still — grumble.

I even have ample TV fodder at the moment. Twin Peaks for my brain, and Bones for my stomach. We have a new dog that we’re fostering/becoming permanently attached to. My beloved is wonderful if over-busy.

Lately, I’ve been feeling the old, familiar desire to escape — to slip out of this reality for a while. An MMO would fit the bill nicely, but all of my computers are old clunkers that can’t handle it. Actually playing some tabletop would be nice as well, but I’m kind of booked with DM duties.

I guess it boils down to this: I just feel too damn ‘adult’ of late.

I’m ready for the book to be done and people to shower me with riches, so I can sit quietly in my apartment and play video games and work on the sequel. Buy a big house with a yard for the dogs, with a gigantic craft room for my beloved, and plenty of hammock space for all the burlesques. A swank kitchen for the Yellow Devil/Ladle to play in and a ton of guest rooms, so my family can come and stay whenever they want.

 

 

I did it.

I’ve entered Spell/Sword into the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest and Breakfast Buffet.

Fortunately, I still have right at a week to tweak my pitch, and fuss with the various parts of the entry forms. But I have officially entered, so I’ve got a slot, and I’ve got a chance.

If nothing else, the massive amount of editing I’ve done this week are suitable prize enough.

But I would not mind the $50,000 grand prize.

Or that plate of yum pictured above.

It’ll be nearly a month before I know if I even made it through the first round. So keep your fingers crossed for at least 5 weeks.

An Empty Internet Gesture

Artist - Senor Salme
Artist – Senor Salme

Hello.

We haven’t spoken for years, probably not since college. Easily a decade. We were not particularly close, just in each others social circle. And now, of course,  we are friends on Facebook.

I’m sure that, at most, I am a minor figure within your mental life. A blip on Facebook, just as you are to me. I’m sure you’ve seen my various status updates, the occasional rant or blog post. Or maybe not, you may have a lot more friends than I, so my thoughts are rarely noticed by you as you peruse the Internet Agora.

But I’ve been noticing your posts. More and more. They unsettle and confuse me. They make me realize how little I knew you in the past, and how little understanding I have of the person you are in the present. I am left with small crumbs of data – trying to extrapolate the person that writes the things that you do.

The person that I knew did not speak with such surety, such bone-certainty, such pure and righteous fervor. Did you believe these things when I first knew you? Are they beliefs that you have discovered as you have aged?

I have a belief of my own. A credo of sorts.

Do not argue with people, unless you have something to gain from it.

People with passionate beliefs are not going to abandon them due to a well-turned phrase or a cunning allusion. I can bring every drop of eloquence, and emotion, and craft that I possess; and at the end of the argument nothing has changed. I believe as I do, and you believe as you do. Most arguments – online most prominently – are simply exercises in each party shouting their beliefs louder and louder until everyone walks away in disgust. Points are tallied, victories are claimed, and nothing has changed. I believe as I do, and you believe as you do.

Since there is nothing to gain, there is no purpose in engaging in an argument.

So when people share their beliefs I listen and move on. They share them with cruelty, with derision, with simple faith, with arcane reason, with the tongues of angels, with the acumen of used car salesmen. I listen and move on. At least that is what I consider to be the course of wisdom.

I have nothing to gain, so there is no reason to argue.

If someone continues to display behavior or rhetoric that I find unpalatable, I simply choose to stop listening. Unfriend, unfollow, block — all terms for the act of ceasing to heed. I’ve done it in the past without a second thought. But with your words I find myself reluctant to do so.  You have become a  canker sore in my online consumption.

There is a temerity in certainty. There is an offense in self-righteousness. There is an arrogance in your words.  And that is what galls me.

That your view is the only rational one, that the whole world is crumbling and only you can see it. That people who disagree with you are fools. Uneducated fools who make their own choices based on fear or ignorance or blind sin. If only they will listen, if only they will listen to the good sense that you humbly proffer.

You pick apart the words and thoughts and decisions of those who disagree with a manic glee and a permanent eye-roll. You are so happy to be right, holding each gem of your triumph high for all to see.

You take a very complicated issue and make it very, very simple. And not out of a sense of nobility, or a desire to correct the ills of the world. You just want to be right.

You need to be right.

At least that’s what I believe is the root of this. I’m a cynic. I am far too conversant with the human compulsion towards supremacy, that lizard-brain requirement to be right, right, right. To tear out the eyes of any who are wrong. The holy fire that fills our brains when we are just – smiting the blasphemers and bringing order to the universe. The smug confidence, the knowledge that the other tribe is comprised of simpletons and degenerates.

It’s an old flame in the human mind. The Other Tribe is Evil.

So, why am I writing this to you?

I do not name you, nor address the specific issue that fills me with distaste.  As stated, there is nothing to gain from an argument, so I have no wish to engage in one.

I just want to know…what exactly? I want to know how you can be so sure. What do you gain? Do you truly believe that speaking the way that you do will change the hearts and minds of those who read? Is your belief so pure that you feel that you must speak out?

If this issue is truly important to you, why do you choose this method to promote it?  Surely derision, arrogance, and wrath are not the most effective ways to share your thoughts?

What do you gain?

I am afraid that I know the answer. But I want to be wrong. I want to discover that you truly do not intend these words to filled with bile, that you truly care so deeply about this issue that your passion outpaces your reason.

But I don’t think that’s it.

I think you are empty and sad.

And that is not the fate I would wish for the person I knew long ago.

I don’t understand, and I don’t agree, and I fear that you are living a life of paranoia and don’t even know it. But I will listen, I will keep listening as long as I can and I will not argue.

To the person who I fear you are, I want to say this. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

To the person who I thought you were long ago, I want to say this.

Goodbye.

Ramble Roses

Editing on Spell/Sword continues this week. I’ve stalled long enough, picking at the edges, making the easy fixes. Time to get in there — not with the fire and sword — but with the spade and the watering can. I will be cutting a few sections – mainly when I combine two chapters into one.  I come to raise Caesar, not to bury him. Time to make the good stuff — GOODER.

Most of my problems are with the first eight chapters. The story doesn’t really settle into a groove,

Artist Unknown
Artist Unknown

and “become good” until a third of the way through the book.  That’s, you know, kind of a problem.

The first chapters aren’t bad, per se. Just a little unfocused. I need to clarify the positive, and beat back the connective tissue. It had to be there to get me far enough into the book to know what it was about, but now it disgusts me. DISGUST.

Now that I’m getting closer to actually publishing the thing, I find myself worrying about the classical forms. Stupid, I know, for a book that heavily features wyverns. All of the great tales are a circle, the heroes return to the beginning with the Elixir and the world is made anew.  The full arc of Spell/Sword is a tragedy of course, but this first episode is tangentially heroic. Or faux-heroic?

Ha, do I even know anymore?

It’s a story about two people, two kids. Two people that are doing pretty shit-tastically on their own. They meet, become friends, and learn that together they can incrementally reduce their level of life pooch-screwing.

In classical terms: No Big Whoop.

Two characters, incomplete.  Then two characters, complete.

With no romance.  Moirails, to use the excellent term that Homestuck provided.

Blah, blah — time to get to it.

The Lines

tumblr_mcoq1tcSCs1qcncteo1_500

“Sit down, Lucas.”

The young boy took his place at the keys of the grand piano. He set his fingers carefully in the proper positions, the polished bone cool to the touch.

“Now play.” The madman leered. ” Play the lines, the lines of light in the dark. Play them. Play them well, and play them now.”

Lucas Grahd tried not to think of the blood that oozed down his shoulder from the thin puncture. He tried not to think of the dried blood on his knuckles, a friend’s blood. He tried and failed, but his eyes stayed dry and his fingers steady.

“Play them now,” the masked man howled. “The lines, connect the lines!”

Lucas could feel every whorl of his fingertips, as he touched the first key.