Day 12 of 31 Stories - Character Field Day

 I know it's been a few days. I have still been writing, the stories just haven't gotten beyond an extended drabble yet, and it feels weird to post something that isn't finished. Today's is a little odd, as well. I'd mentioned that I had a story not so much take a left turn as a pirouette and then fall down the stairs, and I decided to write down the discussion I may as well have had with the character who led the way on that particular journey. So enjoy day 12 - Character Field Day

I flip through the notes on the page in front of me, then address the blank screen on my computer. I have a rough idea of what kind of characters I want to write, and how they may play out. The first character type has wings, some sort of musical ability, maybe a bard or troubadour type in a fantasy setting - let's put them over here and see how-

-*poof* Nope! I don't sing, I don't tell stories, and I'm not in a standard fantasy setting. In fact, I show up as the anchor for a complex-yet-undefined physical pyramid-ish shape of other avian-Human hybrids (and Humans has the capital H, very important).

*blink blink* Well then. That... that was unexpected. All right, so we've got hybrids between birds and human- excuse me, Humans. OK, I can work with that. Sounds like you're still a performer, though, so maybe a circus? You can get away with a lot in a circus.

-*ponders* A circus could work. We're going to be in a modern-ish setting, so there are audience members that assume we're all smoke and mirrors and prosthetics, so we have to stand there and deal with the scrutiny, but we should have some time to ourselves.

I can make that work. Let's give you a bouncer, big guy - probably strictly Human so he can deal with the prejudice that is apparently now popping up in this fantasy world, thanks for that - and give you all a moment to chat. Everybody speaks English, right?

-Oh, please! What kind of world with animal-Human hybrids would allow for that sort of thing? We're bird folk. Some of us have beaks, and those don't make the same kinds of sounds. Nah, I think I'm going to be the only one in my troupe who has to deal with the Humans - the others don't talk. At least, they don't talk to Humans

Got it, makes sense. So you're the leader of the, ah, flock, then?

-... I haven't decided if that's a slur, or just a bad pun. And no, I'm not the leader - I don't make the decisions, I just speak them to the poor souls without beaks. Well, the other poor souls. You know what I mean.

Aha! So you are a bard! My original idea stands!

-Whatever makes you happy. *eye roll*

By the by, you ever going to tell me your name?

-... Maybe?

What is it with you characters and your inability to tell me your names right away? Ugh. You act like I'm going to steal your names away and hide them away until I need to control you.

-That's exactly what you writer-types do with our names. And you even have the audacity to change our names on your whims! How do you think we feel when we get used to thinking of ourselves as, say, Melvin, and one day you decide that no, really, our name is Malcolm. Everything we knew as Melvin was a lie - we're really Malcolm, and in fact, we never were Melvin. It was all a lie, nothing to see here, run along now. Do you know how many characters are in therapy for this kind of thing??

I can't say I ever thought of it. Also, I don't think I've ever named a character either Melvin or Malcolm, and I doubt I ever would, really. Neither are names that say much to me. Melvin just sounds too silly, especially.

-NOT THE POINT. Ugh, writers like you are why so many of us have to go through Revision Therapy. I'm just glad I'm a one-off, so you probably won't have a chance to mess with me again and I can go back to the Library and hang out with all the other character sketches that aren't going anywhere.

OK, ow. And the more you talk, the more likely it is that you'll be showing up again, Melvin.

-... I thought you weren't going to name a character Melvin?

I changed my mind. It suits you. At least for right now. I might change my mind again later.

Day 11 of 31 Stories - A Creator Arrives

Today's story is a little different. Earlier today, we learned of the death of a member of our community, Jeffrey Cook. Eric (my husband) knew Jeff better than I did, having met him many years ago and gaming with him for several years. They hadn't been close in a while - life moved them in different directions physically, and scheduling became less feasible for everyone - but Eric always considered Jeff a friend.

I knew Jeff primarily as a writer, as that was where I had met him. Jeff was an author for Clockwork Dragon, where he wrote several books and stories for their Writerpunk anthologies. I saw him at nearly every convention I went to, as he would man the booth in the dealer's room for Clockwork Dragon, and he always made a point of chatting with me, asking how I was doing and how my writing was going.

His presence will be missed in our communities, and I hope my small tribute will be read with the love and respect with which it was written. (And for those interested in his writing, his author page on Amazon shows just how broad his work was. I highly recommend his books and the anthologies to which he contributed.)

And now, day 11 - A Creator Arrives. For you, Jeff.

The atrium of the Library was bustling with excitement as several Librarians and their assistants moved around to the different doors, leading to various branches within the Library. All of them were carrying a clipboard or notebook, and flipping through pages rapidly as they called out to one another. Occasionally, one would start walking one way, flip a page, and turn around to walk back in the exact opposite direction. From the outside it looked like a type of choreographed chaos, but none of the Librarians seemed particularly concerned. Some of the assistants looked frazzled, of course, but that's because assistants usually have to figure out how to carry out the directives their Librarians give them - a question few Librarians need concern themselves with once they have assistants.

Brenda, one of the Prime-side employees who had just returned from a trip to the grocery store and was cutting through the atrium to get to her apartment before her shift at the cafe, watched all the hustle and bustle with a bemused frown. She'd been working in the Library for a little over six months, which made her feel as though she were more of an established member of the Library's inner circle than she actually was. Still, she was certain that this behavior was out of the ordinary, and she wouldn't be able to rest easy until she knew what was going on.

"Excuse me?" she called out, trying to get the attention of one of the assistants. (She assumed it was an assistant, at any rate - the creature had four arms, all of which were occupied with either scribbling notes on one clipboard or rapidly flipping through a notebook and scanning the pages.) "What's going on?"

The four-armed assistant didn't even look up as it went by. "A Creator's made his way to the Library," it said as it continued on its way. "We're very busy." Before Brenda could ask any follow-up questions, it had already moved through a door on the other side of the atrium.

"This must be your first time, huh?" Brenda jumped in shock as she heard Daniel's voice far too close to her ear. He was a co-worker in the cafe, and had been working in the Library for several years. He'd made it a point to take all of the new Prime-side employees under his wing, particularly those employees who were both young and attractive. Brenda tried to hide her shudder of revulsion, but she didn't try that hard. She just shook her head no and waited for Daniel to start explaining. It wouldn't take long.

"You see," he began, his voice taking the tone of a professor starting to lecture his class (Brenda suppressed a roll of her eyes), "Creators are the people in Prime who, well, create the universes found in books. They're the authors, the storytellers, the people who come up with the characters and worlds and put it all together to develop a new universe. Each universe eventually finds its way into the Library, on the branch where it fits, depending on the type of content and the sorts of elements it has in common with the other universes. That's where the doors lead to."

Looking around the atrium, Brenda saw that several of the doors that were getting the most attention were labeled such things as as "YA - Science Fiction" and "Fantasy - Modern." A few others were getting less attention, but there were some Librarians and assistants moving purposefully toward "Punk - Classic Literature" and "YA - Punk - Science." The doors for those branches were much smaller, but they still led to areas that had more books than Brenda had imagined possible.

"When a Creator makes his or her way into the Library, the Librarians and their staff make sure that the branches that house that Creator's universes are set to receive them - that's what they're doing now. They're cleaning up before the Creator comes to see where their universes live." Daniel grinned at Brenda, gesturing toward the chaos in front of them. "Nice, isn't it?"

"Out of the way!" bellowed a centaur as she began moving through the crowd. There were a few gasps from the Librarians and assistants, and Brenda saw one or two of them give very brief bows in the centaur's direction. That was not something Brenda had expected, though it wasn't entirely unheard of. She elbowed Daniel in the side to get his attention and whispered, "Do we bow? Who is that?" Daniel responded with a shrug, but nodded his head in something resembling a bow when the centaur looked in their direction. Brenda quickly followed suit, just to be on the safe side.

The room had fallen silent, with everyone who wasn't in one of the branches now standing along the curved wall of the atrium. The open part of the room, leading from the transit tunnels that opened to Prime and other non-fictional universes, was clear, and everyone was facing the entrance and holding their breath. Brenda found herself waiting with a pounding heart, even though she didn't know what she was waiting for.

After no more than a minute, a figure entered the atrium from the Prime-side transit tunnels. It was a man, towering in height but not using his advantage to be intimidating. His long, dark hair hung straight down his back, under a top hat decorated with gears and goggles. His eyes shone in wonder as he took in the atrium, seeing the Librarians and their assistants, recognizing them as being creations he wouldn't have seen in the flesh in Prime. He stopped when he got close to the centaur, who bowed her head in greeting.

"We welcome you, as a Creator, to the Infinite Library," she intoned, and Brenda shivered as the words resonated. They had the tones of an incantation, and everyone in the atrium stood a little straighter after they had been said. 

The man's smile could have lit up the night sky, and Brenda knew that he had come home.

Day 10 of 31 Stories - God of Something

This one got away from me a little bit, and so while I'm at a good stopping point, I think there's going to be at least a part 2, if not more. enjoy day 10 - God of Something.

I stumbled into the atrium of a building that didn't look familiar at all, though to be honest, nothing looked familiar yet. I didn't look familiar to myself. Up until a breath ago, I hadn't existed in any form, and suddenly, there I was, standing in a room surrounded by pillars, trying not to fall over, and really wishing I had some idea of what the hell was going on. And what the hell "hell" was. And who was talking when I was hearing all of these things.

"Hello?" I called out, and jumped. My voice was...unexpected. It was high, and there was some kind of accent, but I couldn't place it. (I didn't even know how I knew it was an accent, to be honest...) My voice echoed around the room, and somehow seemed to get louder as it echoed. I didn't think that was how echoes were supposed to work, but maybe I was wrong? I was probably wrong. I found my feet beneath me and stood up straight, feeling a lot of cloth fall away as I straightened my hunch. I looked down at myself, trying to figure out what I was looking at.

There was a lot of cloth on me, that much was obvious. I couldn't see my legs without grabbing through handfuls and handfuls of thick, white, stiff fabric. All of it was attached to itself, and it all came up to my waist and met at a thin belt of silver. My hands were tan, with long, thin fingers that had several fine silver-colored rings on each one. My arms were covered by the same type of fabric as my legs, though there wasn't as much of it. I wish I could see more of the rest of me.

"Department of new deities, this is Denise, how can I help you?" I heard another voice in the room, that somehow didn't echo the same way my voice had. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And your sphere of influence?...Uh-huh. Well, That's something that I'm going to need to know so I can log you in our records appropriately, so please get back to me as soon as you have heard from your creator and/or your first prophet, acolyte, or believer. Uh-huh. You're welcome." There was a sound of a chime, and the voice changed in tone. It had originally been high-pitched and friendly, but after the chime, the voice came out much lower in tone and not anything that I would consider to be friendly. "Ugh. Why can't these people just tell me what they're the gods of? How do they not know this stuff?"

"Hon, you know as well as I do that the creators work in mysterious ways," another voice replied. Before I could start looking around to see where the voices were coming from, I heard footsteps on the marble floor. They were heavy, making much more noise than I imagined my own footsteps would sound like - my feet didn't have any kind of covering on them, so I didn't imagine there would be any sharp or hard edge to ring out against the marble. "Oh! Denise, this one of yours?"

The feet had stopped within my line of sight, and I could see they were shiny and brown, and there were four of them. They led up to legs that were splotched with cream and brown, and looked like they were covered in some kind of hair? It didn't look like the skin that covered my legs - I stuck my own foot out of the yards of fabric and wiggled my toes, comparing my foot to the feet in front of me. The legs were different, and my feet had toes with silver rings, while these feet didn't have toes at all. Huh.

"Denise!" I jumped, realizing just how close the voice was to me now, and I looked up to see where it was coming from. The head attached to the legs looked more like mine, as far as i could tell - it was shaped the same way my head felt, at least, and there wasn't the same kind of hair on it as were on the legs. Were my legs supposed to look like that? There was hair on their face, too, coming down in a point at the bottom of their face, just below their mouth, which opened again and let loose another shout.

"I'm coming!" The high-pitched voice was back, and I could hear it was moving, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I looked around me frantically, trying to figure out where I could go if I needed to run, and tried to grab enough of the fabric around my legs that I wouldn't trip over it if I needed to run. I still hadn't figured everything about these legs out, but I didn't imagine that having fabric wrapped around them would help me run. I was still battling the cloth when another set of footsteps clattered to a stop in front of me. This time, the feet had something red over them, and the bottoms were hard and came to a point in the front and swooped up onto a high tip in the back. The legs looked mostly like mine, but more pale, and the fabric around them stopped much higher up and away from the feet. It seemed a lot more functional that way, but I wasn't sure about the feet.

"Well, that's new," the high-pitched voice said, and I saw it was coming from another head that looked to be shaped like mine was. There was no hair on the face this time, but the mouth was very red, and there were three different colors smeared together above the eyes, in a way that the other head didn't have. I wondered if my eyes had the color smears on them, too, or if only some people had that. "You must be a new deity. Do you know what your domain is?"

I heard the words. They didn't make much sense, but I heard them. I turned my head to the side, staring between the two heads, and finally moved my mouth to see if I could make any noise like they did. "Domain? What... huh?"

"I think I know why your callers seem so confused now, Denise," the first head said. It came closer to me and leaned forward. "I apologize for the confusion. You appear to be lost. Do you know where you are, or where you came from?"

I shook my head and heard a jingling when I did so. It made me jump, which made something jingle even louder in my ear. I reached up to cover my ears, but when I did, I felt something handing from the hair in front of my ears - something metal, that jingled when I touched it. I tried to pull it out far enough to let me see it, but it wouldn't come out of my hair, so I just kept pulling that part of my hair forward and tried to focus on the little bit I could see.

Denise watched the new god spin herself in a circle, trying to look at the tiny spoons that hung from a flower in her hair, and sighed. "Yeah, OK," she said to her centaur co-worker, who was covering his mouth to hide his smile. "I guess the deities really don't know too much about what they're about when they're first created, if this one is any indication."

"How'd she end up here, that's what I'd like to know," Roman replied, once he'd gotten his expression under control. Regardless of how powerful a deity might be, they're still a god, and it's not worth finding out about their vengeance by laughing at them outright. "Their creator must be here in the Library, do you think?"

"Maybe, but that still doesn't tell us much." Denise sighed and looked at her watch, seeing her last five minutes of work tick down. "Come on, we'll get her settled in the break room and let her be the night shift's problem. Unless you want to work overtime?"

She watched Roman's blond tail twitch at the thought. "Hardly. I've got a date tonight. All right. Um, miss?"

The goddess stopped spinning and glared, cross-eyed, at the centaur. "Me?"

"Yes, miss. If you'll come with us, we have a room where you can lie down and freshen up, take a look in the mirror and answer some of your questions for yourself. My colleague and I are getting ready to leave for the night, but I'll make sure to introduce you to the next shift, so they'll be able to help with any concerns you may have." Roman offered the goddess one of his arms, and she stared at it, holding up her own arm to compare. When it got close enough to his, he gently took her arm and started directing her to the break room.

Denise followed, scribbling notes on her clipboard and thanking the innumerable and unnamed gods that she was leaving for the day. This was so not her style of thing. Surely Erica could handle it, right? Everything would be fine, right?

Right.

TO BE CONTINUED

Day 9 of 31 Stories - Next Big Thing

I've always loved seeing how movies interpret books, and how they change things/get them "wrong" in the interpretation. Naturally, I needed to play with that. Enjoy day 9 - Next Big Thing.

The conference room was in the process of getting set up when all hell broke loose. Again.

This was my first time getting to actually be involved with the movie tie-ins, and I was extremely excited to get to meet everyone and see how things would go. We all knew that a new movie was coming out shortly, and with each new preview, a little more about the movie was being made public. The series had been around for decades, encompassing five core books written by the original creators and at least a dozen more books that were part of an expanded world, written after the original series and focusing on different parts of the lore that hadn't been explored in the original books. The Powers that Be that owned the rights to all of the series had decided that those expanded world books were part of the official story as well, which meant there had been a lot to incorporate, and that had been...well, it had been a nightmare, to hear my predecessor tell it. He had been more than happy to hand over the role of Lorekeeper to me after my apprenticeship, particularly since that happened to be when a new movie was announced. He'd muttered something about "over my dead body," chugged half a bottle of champagne at his retirement party, and stopped answering phone calls or emails almost immediately. I don't know that we ever even got a forwarding address - his apartment had been empty by the next day. I admit, it wasn't a great sign, but I promised myself that I was up to the challenge!

It was a strange position to be in, being an author in Prime who had a job in the Library, but I had worked in small ways in the world of the Lore, the series for which I was now Lorekeeper, for decades. I had contributed my bit to the unofficial expanded world of Lore, helping to keep the fan communities thriving in the years between books or movies, and some of the producers had even said that my ideas had been fun. Not that that ever turned into anything real, like a credit or money or anything, but it still gave me the warm fuzzy feeling of being appreciated. When I found the job posting for official Lorekeeper, well, I don't think I'd waited an hour before putting my name into the ring with an impassioned cover letter and links to my fandom sites. I'd still been astonished to get a positive response right away, and even more so when I learned that I would be keeping the Lore plot lines from the inside out, as it were, but I certainly wasn't going to complain.

This was supposed to be my first big meeting, getting all of the principals together and going over what we knew from the new movie. By virtue of my new position, I had actually gotten an official copy of the script for the movie that was due to come out in a month (Prime-time), and so I'd drawn up detailed explanations of how the new movie incorporated the storylines from both the main series and the expanded world. Obviously there had been some cuts, some things shifted around, just like anything else, but it was truthfully a lot more faithful to the written canon that I had anticipated.

Unfortunately, there had been one big change that leaked before our meeting, which is where all hell broke loose. Lydia stormed into the meeting room, followed by Lysander, her crow familiar, who swooped over her head in a graceful arc. Behind them came crow-Lydia and human-Lysander from one of the expanded world novels. None of them looked pleased with anyone around them, but especially, they looked displeased with me. I put my hands up in a gesture meant to be placating, but was more likely to help me protect my face should any of the crows decided to go for my eyes. "Can I help you?"

"Help?" Human-Lydia spat, while crow-Lysander cawed overhead and swooped around to land on her shoulder. Just behind them, human-Lysander and crow-Lydia took a mirrored stance. "There's nothing you can do to 'help,' you obsequious little non-fic, unless you can tell me why they are still here." She stabbed a finger at her mirror-self, who also looked peeved. Human-Lysander at least seemed to have it in for human-Lydia more than for me, but it didn't look like it would take much to push the scales back over to me.

"There's no need for name-calling, thank you, Lydia, and you know that Lysander-" Crow-Lysander cut me off with an annoyed caw, and I sighed and adjusted my speech. "That human-Lysander and his familiar are both accepted parts of the Lore. You both were called to this meeting for good reason, which I will get into once we actually start the meeting." I put my hands down, deliberately trying not to look like I was terrified of the razor-sharp beaks in front of me, and focused on the human eyes glaring at me instead. "You'll just have to wait with everyone else."

"I. Don't. Wait." Lydia's voice came out like a rumble of thunder, and the lights in the room flickered just a touch as she bore down on me. I really hated dealing with a character who was canonically described as seven feet tall and looming - it meant there was no wiggle room with regards to just how much taller than I am she is, and she uses her looming capabilities to great effect. "You will tell me now, non-fic, or I will beat the words out of you with my bare hands."

"No call for that, Liddy," came a jovial voice from the doorway. As both Lydias and Lysanders turned away from me, I allowed myself a brief moment of internal relief before putting my brave front back on. "If you beat her up now, then she can't tell everyone about how I'm saving the day this time."

Horatio strode in, his sword somehow shining audibly on his hip as he confidently walked over to the corner where Lydia and Lysander had trapped me. "M'lady," he said smoothly, reaching around them and taking my hand. "I believe you have a quest for us?"

"Thank you, Horatio. Not a quest, exactly, but there are some thing that we need to go over..." I trailed off as I saw the rest of the characters come into the room, and I looked at the clock on the wall. Surprisingly, everyone was actually on time for a change. I sighed in resignation. "All right, everyone take your seats, and we'll get started."

It took a few more minutes for everyone to find chairs that put them an appropriate distance away from their mortal enemies and nearer to their dear friends, as usual, and some maneuvering was required to get staffs out of the way, but finally everyone sat down and looked at me expectantly. I swallowed around the lump in my throat and put on my best smile.

"Welcome, everyone! Thank you for coming. I know we're all excited to hear about the newest movie in the world of Lore, and so I'll try to be brief and to the point. The newest movie is not going to focus on the storyline of any particular book from the core series - the studios have decided that audiences no longer need to see how Horatio first becomes the greatest hero in the realm, as that story has been told on film several times now." Horatio looked a bit deflated, but not for long - his ego wouldn't allow him to stay down for very long. The rest of the characters, on the other hand, suddenly perked up. If Horatio wasn't going to be the focus of the story, then who was?

I gulped down some water and continued. "In fact, the studios have decided to take a new approach, refocusing their energies on one of the characters who hasn't had as much time in the spotlight. Gwendolyn? Where are you, sweetheart?" Everyone looked around the table, bewildered, until a small woman's hand raised shakily. She was sitting as far from the front of the table as she could, trying to hide from everyone's attention, and now it was all coming down on her head. I smiled and waved her up to the front, knowing deep down that I was probably going to destroy the young woman's life with this news. Still, as a fan of the world, I could not WAIT.

Gwendolyn stumbled up to the front, eyes downcast and hands twisted into the apron hanging loosely from her waist. A chorus of murmurs followed her, and I watched the faces of the crowd as the penny dropped. I had never been so thankful to see that big, brash smile from Horatio as I had been at that moment, but he looked as excited as a child when he realized where this was going.

"Gwendolyn, honey, we're so glad you're here," I said, doing my best to avoid the false cheer that adults use with young people all too frequently. "In the summer, people are going to learn that there's a lot more about you, and a lot of things that are very special about you, than they ever knew." I ducked my head down, trying to catch her eye and get a better sense of what this would mean to her.

I didn't need to wait for long. She stopped twisting her hands in her apron and slowly, so slowly, lifted her eyes to meet mine. I could have sworn her eyes had been a dishwater gray-brown before, but now I could see they were a rich, dark brown with flecks of silver. I could see her face filling out in detail as the script of the new movie made its way into her essence, and with a gasp, she stood straight for the first time. She was beautiful, strong and powerful, all the things that young women would love to see on screen and in themselves. "Me?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"You," I responded, my eyes filling with tears. "It's time."

She turned to the rest of the room, and even Lydia and Lysander bowed their heads before her. It was time for a new hero in the world of Lore, and the world had chosen her.

Day 8 of 31 Stories - The Many Faces of August France

This is what happens when I spend too much time thinking about biographies and historical fiction, I think - I start wondering what happens when new information about a person comes to light, and someone takes another stab at writing their biography. This was fun. Enjoy day 8 - The Many Faces of August France.

The room was starting to fill up, but there were still a few empty chairs closer to the front of the room where the dais stood. The audience was made up of people who looked roughly the same, if you glanced quickly - it would take at least a second look to notice that some people had longer hair, or darker hair; some wore clothes that were a bit more tailored or more tattered; some had skin that was a shade or two lighter, or had notable scars on slightly different parts of their faces. Overall, there was a strong resemblance between everyone, but not enough to say exactly how they were related. Cousins, perhaps, or aunts and uncles.

The audience was fairly quiet - that, at least, seemed to be a universal. Nearly every member of the audience was reading a book of some sort, though some were making notes in notebooks of many types. Most were leather of some form, though some were cardboard or paper. All were writing with a fountain pen of some form or another, and each had a pocket dedicated to the purpose of holding both notebook and pen.

At the front of the room, someone approached the dais, and the small amount of noise being made by the others quieted down. The ones who had been reading closed their books and pulled out their own notebooks, while those taking notes flipped to a blank page. All looked to the newcomer expectantly, pens poised and waiting.

The person at the dais cleared their throat and took a sip of water from the glass conveniently left on a table next to the dais for them. "Greetings, my friends and fellows," they said, their voice still a touch hoarse in spite of the water. The rest of the attendees muttered something in response, in tones that mimicked both the original speaker and each other, a susurrus of greeting. The speaker at the dais nodded in acknowledgement and places their own notebook on the slanted surface in front of them, allowing themselves a moment to find their appropriate notes and have some business for their hands as they pulled themselves together.

"I appreciate you taking the time to gather here and allow me to speak to you as the newest member of our order. As you may be aware, there has been a recent resurgence in popularity in the history of those who created the inaugural library of botanical sciences, which has led to renewed interest in ourselves and our fellow botanists. I believe I recognize a few of you from books written in the last decade or so, yes?" The speaker directed their words to three of the attendees who were sitting closer to the front of the audience, who shared a rueful smile with each other and the speaker. There were one or two audience members toward the back of the room who looked uncomfortable when considering the newer members, and a careful observer would note that the superficial differences between those in the back of the room and those in the front were the most extreme of all of the differences. Those in the back were better-dressed and had more conspicuous signs of wealth and social standing, and also had skin that was paler and less obviously scarred. Those in the front, however, dressed in a manner that indicated their clothing, while once considered quite expensive, had been repaired often and not well, and were likely to be more patch than original fabric. None of the three newer members appeared to be solely of Caucasian descent, unlike the older members. They all looked as though they had spent more time outdoors and doing hard labor, rather than sitting in libraries and studying, and their scars had not healed as cleanly as the older audience members.

The speaker at the front of the room more closely resembled the newer members of the audience than the older, though their clothing was of a higher quality. Unlike the majority of audience members, their hair grew long down their back, pulled into a braid, and was nearly as black as pitch with thin streaks of white shot through the length. Their bearing was not as straight and proud as that of the men they stood in front of, but rather somewhat hunched, as though they were trying to hide something of themselves. Still, they carried on with their prepared remarks.

"In the last year, some bright spark decided that it was time to tell the full story of the founding of the library of botanical sciences, and dedicated herself to making a movie about us. She worked with several historians, going as far back into our backgrounds as she could, and a new source of primary resources was discovered in the home of our former love." The speaker watched the audience carefully as they took notes, recognizing that some of the older audience members were starting to look alarmed.

"Our former love?" One man raised his hand in confusion. When the speaker nodded to him, he stood, raising himself above the audience from about the middle of the room. "Begging your pardon, but my book stated that we never had a true love. In point of fact, it was understood that we were asexual, and had no desire for a romantic partnership." He looked around to the other men in the audience, confused by the sudden chorus of snickers. "Is that not correct?"

"Don't know where they got that idea, old man," another audience member said. "Per my book, we were a bit of a hound, fathering children everywhere we went. 'Asexual' wasn't even a term when I was written, though," he added defensively as some of the snickers turned to sounds of outrage.

"I say," one of the older men began, but the speaker raised their hands and brought the attention of the room back to the front. The asexual version of the man they all presumed to be sat down, still looking confused.

"By our former love, I refer to Emilia Jenkins-Waldorf," the speaker explained, seeing looks of recognition appear on the faces around them. "We wrote her many letters over our life, and she kept most of them. They hadn't been found before now, but her great-great-grandson was willing to share those letters with the historians working with the movie director, and so some more of our less public aspects have become, well, public." They shrugged, sheepish. "That's where I came from."

"Well, tell us about yourself, then," one of the newer members said eagerly. His fellows nodded in agreement, pens poised to take down notes and see what else they could learn about themselves. Several of the other men in the audience prepared themselves similarly, faces with some degree of curiosity or excitement. Only the men in the back of the room looked upset at hearing about yet another iteration, and the speaker didn't believe that would change once they heard the speaker out.

"I was born August Louise France, in 1811," they began, only to be stopped almost immediately.

"Louise? Did they misspell your middle name already?" The older August snorted with derision. "Some historian, if they can't even get our middle name correct."

The speaker took another deep breath and let it out slowly before straightening up, allowing her shoulders to fall back and her full silhouette to be made clear. "No," she said. "My name is, was, and always has been, August Louise France. I was named after my father's brother, August, and after my mother's sister, Louise. I am, was, and always have been, a woman."

Twenty minutes later, the worst of the brouhaha had subsided. The elder Augusts, those written back in the late 19th century when no one could conceive of a groundbreaking scientist being anything but a Caucasian man, had left in a huff; the oldest of them had to be helped out by two of his brethren, as the shock had been too much for his system. Louise, as she asked to be called, had been willing to answer questions from the rest of the Augusts, and there had been many, many questions. She was grateful that some of the Augusts had been more accepting, telling her that their own stories had made so much more sense now that they had the additional information, and the August who had been depicted as asexual had nearly been apoplectic when he realized how his author had twisted events to avoid the same revelation. Louise set up some time to meet with that August one on one, as she felt he might have more specific questions than the others would.

Eventually, Louise was left with the three newest Augusts, those whose biggest revelation had been that August had not been purely Caucasian. Gus, the newest of the three, was the most supportive of all of the Augusts; he, of course, had been the most recent dropper of bombshells, and so he knew better than most what she was experiencing. "Don't worry about them," he said, as the last of the angry Augusts left the room. "They'll get over it, or they won't. Either way, you have your story to tell, and it sounds like the letters will back it up more than most of these guys."

"Yeah, they're just cranky because you being here with all your primary sources are going to keep them from getting read," Auggy, the middle of the three new guys (as they called themselves), added. "I just hope it'll lead some people to take another look at us, too. There were a lot of people who discarded us as - what did they call us, A?"

"'Identity politics run amok,' I think was my favorite," A responded. He'd been the first to come out with the news that August France had been the son of a white settler and Mexican mother, and had faced his fair share of scrutiny because of it. "Because saying that some historical figure isn't white is saying they're somehow not as good, or something? I never really understood it, I just wish my author had been willing to stick up for me."

"His author disavowed him, claiming he'd had back sources," Gus whispered to Louise. "It was pretty harsh, especially when Auggy and I came along with the same narrative. And now you!"

Louise ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't want to be anything special," she said. "I didn't want to be anyone special then, either. I just wanted to study, and a mixed woman wasn't going to be able to do anything in a school. A mixed man, well, he stood a chance. My father was the one willing to keep my secret, and so was Emilia." All four sighed with regret at the memory. "Keeping my secret was what drove her away, though," Louise said softly. "It's because of me that we never married. We never could have been ourselves openly, not if we were to maintain any standing in society."

All of them looked at the floor, lost in thought, before Louise finally stirred. "Well, with luck, we won't be needing to meet anyone new anytime soon. I look forward to seeing you around the Library, though." She stood straight, and each man shook her hand firmly before gathering their books and heading to the door. Once the last of them left, Louise let her shoulders slump again as she took her own notebook and book from the dais.

Back to work, she supposed. At least until the next face of August France appeared to replace her, may it be many years from now.

Day 7 of 31 Stories - Zombie Jamboree

(I'm still going with day numbers, even though that obviously no longer matches the dates of the month. Consistency! Or something.)

Ever since I thought of this story title, I've had the song stuck in my head. Specifically, I've had a version done by Rockapella stuck in my head, and it's a version I have yet to be able to find. It used to live on my now long-dead iPod lo, these many moons ago, but I haven't been able to find it since. Alas! At any rate, please enjoy day 7 - Zombie Jamboree.

The ballroom of the Library was one of the few large places that could host hundreds of people (or creatures, as it were) without causing a big log jam. Sheila still wasn't sure why there was a ballroom in a library, or why it needed to be used at least once a month or so (at least, she figured it was about once a month - time ran strangely in the Library), but so long as there were events in the ballroom and she worked for the food service sector of the Library staff, she would have a job. A very weird job on occasion, yes, but a job nonetheless.

Sheila worked with two other servers to set up the buffet table around the outside of the room, following the hand-drawn schematics their manager had given them. Previously, the only events Sheila had worked had been for, well, people, of various types of human - a group of doctors, one of detectives, another batch that seemed to be law enforcement through the ages, all of whom looked like a typical human-type person and ate standard human-type meals. There had always been some form of salad bar, for example, and a prime rib station, so everything had resembled what Sheila was used to serving in her old job on the outside. This was the first event she'd worked that had been for a more discerning clientele, and she wasn't sure how she felt about it. The food that they were putting out was not what she would consider to be the most appetizing in the world, but it hadn't seemed too strange at first.

"Man, but I hate when the flesh-eaters have their parties," Adam grumbled as he set out another water bath and sterno heater, prepared to hold another tray of food meant to be kept warm. "Give me the vampires any day of the week, man. At least their stuff is fresh."

"Yeah, but there's no garlic," Elena replied as she put out a stack of plastic plates. Sheila was surprised to see the lightweight, cheaper dishes being used; normally, events in the ballroom required the heavy china. "What's the point in fresh food if there's no garlic? Right, new girl?"

Sheila pulled another handful of heavy paper napkins out of their packaging and set them in a stack next to the plates. "I can't say that I would want to go through a meal without any garlic if I could help it," she admitted. "Still, what do you mean by 'flesh-eaters,' Adam? I mean, we don't really have a lot of call for vegetarian groups, do we?"

Adam and Elena paused as they turned to get more supplies off their carts, exchanging looks. Sheila looked between the two of them, wondering exactly what she was missing, and which one of them was going to tell her what she needed to know.

Before either of them opened their mouths, however, their manager came bustling out of the back hallway that served as the service entrance and exit to the kitchen. Donna clapped her hands on the edges of her clipboard to get their attention, and waited with ill-disguised impatience as the three servers turned toward her. "Yes, thank you! We have a fairly small spread for tonight, thankfully, as the master of ceremonies is providing some of his own food for the group, but we do need to get the basics out before our first guests start to arrive. Elena, Adam, you know the drill for these folks, so get to it. Sheila, with me." She beckoned and, without waiting to see if her new hire was following, turned back to the door to the back hall and made her way around the corner almost before Sheila could see where she'd gone.

Elena mouthed "good luck!" as Sheila hurried to catch up, closing the door behind them a little harder than was strictly necessary. Elena then turned to Adam, raising one eyebrow. "What do you think? New girl is on the menu?"

Adam paused in the act of setting up another hot tray and gave the question some thought before shaking his head. "Unlikely. Sheila's been doing pretty well. You know Donna only feeds the poor producers to the clients, and Sheila's been a pretty quick study. I'm thinking she's getting the run-down on what to expect from the more special groups, and seeing if she'll go screaming into the night. We do lose a couple that way every year."

Elena sighed as she continued unloading her catering cart. "Yeah. My friend Dani couldn't deal when we had to serve werewolves the first time - something about the way they ate farm to table really bothered her. I thought it was nice to see how we were respecting the food, going back to the roots of cooking, as it were, but that wasn't a common mindset."

Adam snorted. "No, I don't imagine it was." Wrinkling his nose at the smell, he put the first of the big trays of food onto the water bath and lit the sterno to keep things warm. "Man, I am not looking forward to unwrapping this."

Elena coughed, covering her mouth with her elbow. "Ugh. Yeah, it's pretty strong, but you know that's how they like it. Leave it until we're just about to leave - no need to let it air out for too long, you know?" Adam nodded his agreement, and together they moved swiftly through the rest of their preparations.

Just as they were finishing up, Sheila and Donna returned to the ballroom. Sheila looked a bit shell-shocked, but also wore an expression of skepticism that Elena remembered all too well. Donna was resigned. "Adam, Elena, let's get the carts out of here. Sheila is going to be serving tonight. Sheila, we'll be in the kitchen if things get too busy for you, so don't let yourself get overrun - if it feels like there are too many to deal with by yourself, ask for help." Donna looked Sheila directly in the eye as she said the last part, and Elena felt a pang of sympathy for the new server.

Adam didn't feel such qualms. "Ready to go," he announced as he prepared to roll his cart back into the hallway. He gave Sheila a brief nod and led the way out of the ballroom, and Elena and Donna followed closely behind. Just as the door swung closed behind them, Elena thought she heard the first moans coming through the ballroom. She shuddered involuntarily, and moved faster through the hall back towards the kitchen.

Donna stayed behind the other two, listening at the door. Music had begun to play through the sound system, but she couldn't hear any lyrics to the songs. The only noises she could hear that sounded like they came from a person were the occasional moan and groan as the party slowly started to make their way into the ballroom. She cracked the door open just a bit, and her nose was assaulted by the smell of warm roadkill from the steam table. Sheila, clever woman, had opened up the food as soon as the first guests started to arrive, and now she was starting to serve.

The zombies were forming a more-or-less orderly line, making Sheila's life a bit easier. Some had obviously been turned only recently, why others were barely holding it together. Donna noticed a few hopping zombies, in addition to the standard walkers. They'd been given enough room to move in the wide arcs that made up their general locomotion, thankfully, so there weren't any of the tangles of zombie knots that Donna had seen in the past.

Opening the door a little wider, she watched as Sheila carefully carved part of a raccoon onto a plate for a fresh zombie. The moans coming out of that zombie's mouth became appreciative, and Sheila smiled in return. "You're welcome!" she chirped as she turned to the next customer. Something about her customer-service smile and cheerful disposition both pleased Donna and made her a tiny bit uneasy. She stuck her head out of the door a bit and caught Sheila's eye, mouthing the question "All good?"

Sheila gave her a brilliant smile and a thumbs-up before turning that smile to the next zombie, a gray-colored man whose afterlife had already outlasted his breathing life by at least two to one. He was remarkably well-preserved, and Sheila was able to chat for a moment as she served him.

Nodding in satisfaction, Donna let the door close behind her and continued down the hall. It looked like the new girl was going to make it after all, and not as a canapé. Now to wash the dishes and prepare for next month's ghoul convention...

Day 6 of 31 Stories - Butlers and Housekeepers #502

So now I'm two days behind, and this one was a struggle. Well, it's better than no words, even if I'm not hugely happy with it personally, and with luck I'll be able to come back to something I enjoy more tomorrow. Here's day 6 - Butlers and Housekeepers #502

She wasn't sure how she'd managed to fall into a role of leadership in the union, but here she was. She'd only joined the union, originally the Scullery Maids United, back when she first started in her first job of service, because her mother had always told her to join a union if one was offered. It helped with her pay, since staff were guaranteed a basic minimum, even if there were some households that refused to hire union labor. She'd heard stories from some of her friends who'd ended up working in those households about how they treated their servants, and she was grateful that she had help from the union to find jobs that followed union rules. She doubted she would have made it through those first few years, especially with that first "gentleman" and his wandering ways, if it hadn't been for the union.

It had just made sense, then, to keep active with the union, to keep going to the local meetings and speaking up about the needs of her neighborhood, and slowly she'd become known as someone who paid attention, someone who cared about the other people in her area who also served, and someone who was willing to fight for everyone to have the rights they were promised. Before long, she was leading meetings, making a name for herself and taking people to task as they needed to be, and people knew who she was. She'd never intended to become someone who was important; she'd wanted to keep her head down and just do her job, but somehow, somewhere along the lines, that stopped being something she could do.

That's probably how she ended up here, in the cellar of some old building, tied to a chair in the dark. She'd been on her way to a meeting, when she'd ended up with a hood over her head and several pairs of hands manhandling her into the back of a car she hadn't seen or heard coming up behind her until it was too late. They'd done it in broad daylight, too, the very cheek - they could have waited until after the meeting, when it was dark, the way a civilized villain would have done. But no, she was plucked off the street by some common vandal, and now she sat, in the dark, alone, waiting to find out why they'd taken her and what they were going to do with her. She tested the bonds on her hands again, just to see if they'd somehow loosened since the last time she'd checked, but they'd been unforgivably rude and stayed stubbornly tight against her wrists.

A door opened directly across from her chair, light flooding into the room and blinding her. She flinched involuntarily, but refused to give them the satisfaction of looking away. "I don't know why you're bothering with such tactics," she stated in her iciest tone. "Trying to scare me won't do you any good. All you'll be doing is causing more trouble for yourself when I'm found and the constabulary take you into custody. Now stop being silly and let me free, and I may put in a good word for you." She kept her posture as perfectly erect as she could, considering her placement against the chair, and glared in the general direction of the silhouette in the doorway.

There was no response that she could hear, only a muffled cry as someone was thrust into the room and the door was slammed shut once again. She waited, listening to the belabored breathing of whoever had been dumped unceremoniously into her cell, and heard the turn of a key in the door and the fading footsteps moving away from the room. There was no light coming through the cracks around the door anymore, so whatever light source had accompanied her captor had been removed as well.

The breathing of her new companion had changed from a struggling gasping for air to a stifled sob, and she closed her eyes to brace herself. It would figure that, if she was to be kidnapped, she would have to share a room and, potentially, a fate with a sniveling child. She counted backwards from ten, giving the newcomer an opportunity to pull themselves together, before she said anything. At the end of her count, the sobs had subsided to a disgusting sniffling noise, which was even worse. She couldn't hold back any longer.

"Oh, do get up and help me out of this chair, and stop that sniveling." Her voice still held the tones of command, even as she had lowered the volume so she wouldn't be heard by those standing guard outside the room. She was under no delusion that they had left her alone after locking her into the room; after all, if she had kidnapped someone, she would make sure to leave guards behind. It only made sense.

The response to her order was something of a surprise. She heard a gasp, and the sound of cloth rustling as though someone were rummaging through their pockets. The sniffling had stopped, at least, for which she was grateful, but she would be even more so if the person would get themselves off the floor and over to her chair, where they could do something useful. The sound of a nose being blown into (she hoped) a handkerchief destroyed any hope for stealth, but it gave her an idea of where her new companion was in the room as they began to move around.

"Mrs. McCormac? Can that really be you?" The voice came from much closer than she anticipated, and only the ropes holding her so tightly against the chair kept her from leaping in surprise. The voice came as a whisper, which she couldn't quite place, but it was familiar, and that gave her some modicum of hope. She heard the other person's breathing as they moved behind her, and she felt the ropes around her wrists being traced gently as the person determined where the knots where and how they were tied.

"Yes, that's me," she said in return, dropping her voice not quite to a whisper, but to an even lower volume than before. "And I'll thank you very much for getting me out of this predicament if you can, as I don't seem able to handle it myself at the moment. To whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm surprised you don't recognize me, Mrs. McCormac," the whisper said, having moved to stand directly behind her now. They began working on the knot that held her hands together, and she could feel a few pinches as the rope bent and twisted under the stranger's fingers. "Then again, I guess you didn't get a good look at me. I'm glad I found you, though. The members of the union were getting really worried about you, when you didn't show up for the meeting."

"Yes, well, as you see, I was a bit indisposed," she replied, fighting the urge to attempt to help her companion pull at the ropes. She knew that anything she did right then might have the reverse impact on freeing her hands, but she had never been one to sit idly by while work needed to be done. "So you came looking for me, did you? How did you find me?"

"We received a message, saying that these people had you, and they needed one of us to come and pay your ransom before they would release you. We put together the money, and I volunteered to come out here, but of course, they double-crossed us. They were never intending to let you go, and I suppose they decided that I was too much of a liability, as well. Thus, here I am."

She twisted in her chair as far as the ropes would allow her, trying to get a look at the shape of her companion's face. There was no light coming into the room, of course, so it wasn't as though actually looking at them would have helped her see, but she felt as though it were necessary either way. "Ransom? Who demanded ransom for me? And who paid it?" She was geniunely curious as to how much she was worth in this situation, but felt that it wasn't a question a lady would ask. Still, a ransom, like something out of a penny dreadful! It was nothing to sneeze at, that was certain.

"The union paid it, and we're still not sure who demanded it," the whisper continued as they patiently worked on the knot at her wrists. "They just said that the union was getting to be too big and powerful, and that no, ah, well, no woman of your standing should be able to demand an audience with any peers of the realm." She could almost hear a blush forming on the unseen face of her co-inmate, at she could only imagine what words were actually used to describe her and the ways in which she demanded attention from those best positioned to provide service to the union. She gave a deep sigh, resigned once again to the idea that she would always have a stigma to her status.

Suddenly, her wrists were free, and the tension that released felt like a flood in her arms and wrists. She was able to move her hands around to her front, and she began massaging them, working the blood back into her fingertips and trying to shake away the pins and needles feeling that came rushing in. "My thanks," she said, allowing her relief to carry on her voice. "Now what do we do?"

Her guard was down; that was the only reason she could give herself for what happened next. She was so certain that the person thrown into the room with her had been sent to rescue her, and had released her hands in order to help her, that it didn't occur to her that something else could be afoot. That was why she didn't notice, until it was too late, that the voice that whispered to her didn't sound like someone who had been sobbing; that the person's breath came back to them far too easily for one who had been panting heavily upon landing in the room; that the person had been able to find her in the room, in the pitch black, when she'd only spoken once. There hadn't even been the slightest hint of confusion around where she might be - the voice had simply gone from sniffling somewhere in front of her to whispering next to her ear in the blink of an eye. But by the time she noticed all of this, it was too late.

Five minutes after throwing him into the room, his employers came back with a dark lantern to see what progress he'd made. His face stood in sharp contrast against the woman's dark blue dress, as he carried her over his shoulder and out of the room. "Well?"

"She won't be a problem anymore," he replied, and his voice was clear and high with no trace of accent or tears. He was a professional, after all, and emotion was weakness in his line of work. "I'll take her back out to the road, make sure the constables find her and report her incident. I expect my fee to be waiting for me."

"Of course. We appreciate your work." The man with the lantern moved aside, and Mrs. McCormac's head bounced down the hall toward the door. The problem was solved in the end.

Day 5 of 31 Stories - Superhero Dispatch

Still playing catch up from missing a day last week, but I'm getting there. We watched the new Suicide Squad movie earlier tonight, which may have sparked an idea or two. Enjoy day 5 - Superhero Dispatch.

People think the superhero gig is all sunshine and roses, saving the day and fighting the bad guys. Everything's black and white, no body is every unsure of themselves or concerned about whether or not they're doing the "right" thing or doing it the "right" way or for the "right" reasons. Anybody who doesn't see things as clearly one way or another is obviously a villain, because nothing can be a gray area if the only thing you see is the light of truth, right?

What a crock. Nine times out of ten, we're not saving "the world," we're saving the ass of the person who's willing to pay the most. And yeah, a lot of times, those people are the ones trying to make the world a little less awful, but most of the time it's because they've realized how badly they screwed things up in the past, and now they're trying to make amends or something. It's like they've suddenly realized that everything can and will become public, so they're trying to shine up their image before word of all their nasty little backroom dealings comes to light.

Sorry. I can be a little cynical, I know - it's hard not to be when you spend most of your days figuring out who to dispatch to watch situation, and determine if the "right" side (there's that word again) has the proper authority and/or the proper currency to have us deal with it. Like everyone else who starts out in the main office, I came in with stars in my eyes and a song in my heart, and it didn't take long for the stars to fade and the song to turn into a marching cadence.

When you see the superheroes in the news, you never think that there's a whole bunch of bureaucracy pulling the strings in the background, do you? Nah, it always looks like they just show up where they're needed, like they have some kind of sixth sense to tell them where there's trouble. Well, that sixth sense is us - Dispatch. We take in the information from around the sector, we distill it, have analysts that determine what the best return on investment is, and we send them out into the world to save it. Well, save the specific part of the world that we deem worth saving this go-round.

The first few weeks of training are always the hardest, because that's when we have to break the newbies down. They have to learn really quickly that they can't save everybody, and it's not worth burning themselves and the superheroes out trying to. It's heartbreaking, it really is, the first time you see them make a call - deciding which job is worth sending the best to, and which won't even get the third-stringers. No one likes to see their local town get wiped off the map because a storm went in a direction we couldn't have predicted, but sometimes, even our analysts get it wrong. We work with the information we have at our hands, and we do our best with it.

At least we don't have to deal with all the crap the poor folks in the government have to contend with. We at least get to work off of what will help or hurt the most people, generally - we don't have to account for the political bull that can make blowing up a city full of people an acceptable loss. On my worst days, I'm not sending a crew of super-powered people to blow up the only factory that provides work in a town. We might end up taking down the owner of that factory if it turns out they've been polluting the groundwater or something, true, but at least with that we have teams that come in afterwards to try and kickstart the economy with other, less eco-deadly methods. We leave them with options, is what I'm saying.

I sound defensive, I know. And I am. I'm not going to lie - sometimes, missions go wrong. Sometimes, our intelligence isn't as good as we want it to be, and we send the wrong people, and people get hurt or die. Not every superhero is created equal - anyone who's read a single comic book or watched even one episode of a TV show about superheroes knows that sometimes you get the guy who can leap tall buildings and deflect bullets, and sometimes you get the guy who can talk to fish. Both useful, but in very different (and sometimes, extremely limited) circumstances.

I try not to get too close to them. I don't have any powers of my own, other than a little bit of bureaucromancy, and that's more learned than innate. As far as the average superhero is concerned, I'm nothing more than a fragile bit of potential collateral damage, so they obviously aren't going to invest much time or effort in me. I get it. I mean, I hate it, because I get to know them from the inside out, with the access to all their medical records and files and backgrounds, but I get that they don't see me as worth the risk. I try to see it as a way that they're protecting me from them, because everyone knows that superheroes that have people they love out in the open are just asking for villains to kill those people.

So, I try to stay out of the way. I keep my cool, keep my distance, make sure they don't see anything that would make the world notice me. I know that the superheroes know who is taking care of them, and that they appreciate me - us, I mean. They appreciate us, as a team. We get some pretty good gifts for Administrative Professionals day, I'll tell you that. It's not a bad thing, to work for some superheroes who are loaded. They can afford to shell out for some pretty hefty gift cards, if nothing else. And sometimes they'll cater lunch, or, well, have us order lunch and put it on their expense reports, you know, because they're a little busy saving whatever part of the world needs saving that day. You can't expect superheroes to order their own lunch, right? Talk about a little beneath them.

But I know. I know that they appreciate what I do for them, making sure that their costumes have all the little extras taken care of - every seam double-stitched, every pocket and pouch lined to make it water- or air-tight as needed, all the various potions and capsules and the like labelled in the way that they find easiest to detect in the dark. And sure, it might not be exactly part of my official job description, but it's those little extras that make you good at the job, right? They're what show your bosses that you love what you do, and going above and beyond is how you move up in the world. So I give them the best information that I can, and I send flowers to the appropriate parties if things go wrong, because I want to make sure we look like we have a heart. We have to be people-oriented, of course, otherwise people won't want the superheroes to come save them. 

And if I happen to add a little bit extra to their info packets, telling them about a good taco place I know in the area or some neat little touristy shop they might want to stop by - after the mission, of course - then what's the harm in that? I know what the superheroes like, and I know better than anyone that they don't really get a chance to take vacations. So why not give them a chance to turn a work trip into a mini-vacation now and then? Nothing wrong with mixing a little bit of fun with the work, right?

Sometimes, they even bring back something for me. Well, for the team, but you know, I'm the one that told them where the tourist shop was, or where they can find a little street market that sells authentic, hand-made scarves and such, and I have seniority, so you know, it's addressed to the team, but I know who it's for. I share, though! I always make sure my team is taken care of. Just like the superheroes make sure I'm taken care of.

I don't get too close, of course. But I know. And they know that I know. They know I'm watching, and whenever they decide it's worth the risk, they know I'm here. Just like I know where they are. I always know where they are. I sent them there, after all. They trust me to know where the best place to send them is. They know I won't steer them wrong. And I know that they trust me.

I know. 

Day 4 of 31 Stories - By the Sea

As you can see, I'm currently a story behind. Yesterday was extremely slow going, so I didn't manage to finish the story until today. I'm hoping to get caught up this weekend, but we'll see! In the meantime, for something completely different, enjoy day 4 - By the Sea

I managed to make my way to the surface just ahead of Alea, which was one of the few times I'd managed it. "Ha!" I cheered, spinning in a circle when I saw her head pop up from under the water. "I beat you, I beat you, I beat you!" My tail countered my upper body as I did my happy dance around her in the sea.

"Are you quite finished?" Her tone was mild, but I could see the glimmer of a smile on the edge of her face. She didn't let me win - she would never do that, her pride would never let her - but she could appreciate the effort and joy that I had put into beating her, and it warmed my heart to see her notice the work I'd put in. I had been training more recently, trying to get faster with my arms and tail, trying to catch up with the rest of my pod, and finally, it looked like I wasn't the last one left anymore.

I did one more spin to show off my extra dexterity (it had taken weeks for me to get the balance right, get the spin just perfect and not end up falling back into the sea with my mouth filled with water again), and then I smirked. "Yeah, I'm done." I swam closer to her. "OK, now what?"

"Now, we wait," she replied, moving toward the shore. When she got to the shallows, she kept moving, tail changing into legs until she was walking upright by the time she reached the dry sand. She put her hand on the spot where her tail had met her body, now the place she called her hip, and called out to me. "Are you coming, or not?"

I should have known. I'd gotten better at swimming, and was finally doing well enough to keep up with the pod and breathe air on command, so now she wanted me to move to the next pool and walk. I'd tried getting my tail to transform a few times, but it hadn't worked before. She had said that it was because I was under water, that it wouldn't work until I was breathing air and moving on land, but once I was doing those things, it would move naturally, like everything else. I glanced around, but fortunately, the sheltered cove we'd entered was empty of everyone but the two of us. At least no one else would see my failure.

I swam to the shore, and forced myself to keep moving once my tail felt the first bits of floating seaweed. The floor of the sea here was so much rougher, so much more changed by the passage of time and the churning of rocks and birds and animals, that it didn't feel like the same ocean I knew. I winced as my flukes first started to drag across the rough pebbles and sharp, broken shells that hadn't yet been worn down to a smooth dullness with the tumbling of the waves. I kept my eyes on her as I kept moving forward.

It happened so fast, I almost didn't catch it. One moment, my flukes were starting to feel tight, warm, as though I had an illness, and the scales were beginning to itch against the sand. An instant later, my flukes were gone; in their place, something that I hadn't felt before but somehow still felt like me. They were warm, and covered with the same scale-free skin that my arms and chest had, but without any of the toughness borne of long days and nights swimming against heavy tides and bathing in the sun that streaked down beneath the sea's surface. They bent both like and unlike my arms, and ended in things that were and weren't hands.

My startled shout caught her attention, and she came out to the edge of the water, close to me but not quite in the water again. "It's all right, beloved," she called, her voice floating on the breeze. "Keep coming toward me, and your legs will know what to do. It's as simple as breathing, as easy as loving me." She gave me the crooked smile that stole my heart every time I saw it, and instinctively I continued my journey toward her.

The water fell away from me, and I had a moment of sheer terror as I felt the air against the part of my body where my tail normally began. It felt wrong, and harsh, like a knife cutting me in half, but it wasn't as bad as seeing her move away from me. She kept taking steps back, beckoning to me, and I followed her. The fear of letting her go was greater than my fear of losing half of myself, and so I followed.

The sand under the edge of the water was rough, but it was nothing compared to the sand just beyond the water. The ends of my legs, these not-hands that I still didn't recognize as my own, caught on the rocks and shells that no longer had the water to soften them, and I found that the parts of me that I hadn't know were still capable of feeling the pain I always had known. If anything, the pain was greater, as it came from a place I didn't understand, and I didn't know how long it would last or if there would be more of it when it finally did fade away. I learned quickly, however, that touching some parts of the sand didn't cause the same kind of pain, and so I started to avoid the spots that caused more pain and to pay more attention to where my not-hands touched the sand.

Still, through everything, she stood in front of me, her hand outstretched, just beyond my reach. She kept moving backwards, displaying a grace that seemed magical to my eyes - not only could she move with these legs, but she could do so without watching where she placed her not-hands. I briefly wondered how many times she had stumbled out of the water here, and if she had done so with others before me. Would she do so again, after I was gone? Now was not the time to worry.

With a final lurch, I managed to throw myself in her direction and trusted her to catch me before my entire body landed on the too-hot, too-dry sand. Sand should never be so dry, so harsh, so gritty; sand is the cushion upon which we sleep, the soil in which our gardens grow, the foundations of our homes and lives. Such dry, crumbling stuff as this would be useless for anything we would need; surely it couldn't be the same thing as what lived under the water with us.

She caught me, of course - I knew she would. Leaning, she maneuvered us back into a reclining position, where she sat directly on the harsh not-sand and I leaned against her almost completely. I finally looked as these legs that had taken the place of my tail, and I was torn between fascination and revulsion. The skin was fish-belly white, with tiny streaks of dark lines the color of my hair scattered across them. Tentatively, I ran a hand over one, and shuddered to feel the streaks raise against my fingers. The dry not-sand clung to the skin, making it itch and raising tiny red spots where ever it had been brushed away. Curling my hand into a claw, I reached to scratch at the itch, and she grabbed my wrist, stopping me.

"It will hurt, if you do that," she said mildly. "It may draw blood, because the skin is fragile, but you don't know that yet. Leave it for now. The next time, we will have something here to brush the sand away from our legs, so we don't hurt ourselves. For now, rest, and look." She pointed over my shoulder, out in the direction of the water we'd left.

I tore my eyes away from my legs, from my love, and followed her direction to the sky. There, the most magnificent changes were happening. The sky, which had been a bright white-blue when we first surfaced, had gotten darker, and in the time it had taken me to get to the sand, to my love, it had changed colors. It was pink, with streaks of dark purple and blue, and the sun was no longer visible anywhere. I was used to not being able to see the sun, of course, but never when we broke the surface. The sky had never looked like this before when I was in the air, and even as I watched, the sky kept changing.

Now there was orange, and red, as though one of the dangerous coral had somehow grown large enough to blot out the horizon. No fish swam around it, however, and from one blink to the next, it had changed again. Now it was more purple, more blue, and the bright pinks and oranges were fading toward the bottom of the sky, reflecting off the surface of the water. I had seen the water used to reflect small things before, but never the entire sky! And yet, here it was, doubling the colors in a reversed order, and still, the sky changed further. Now the purples were fading into grays, and the blues to a deep, inky black. Within that black, however, there were tiny spots of white - small points of discrete brightness against the darkness. Another blink, and the colors of the sky were gone, leaving only the black, and the spots of white.

I began to speak, and she put her finger to my lips. "Lie back with me and look up," she said, stretching out on the strange not-sand. "Just for a moment. We can go back soon." I looked on in confusion, and she gave me that smile again, and ran her hand down my arm.

I never could deny her anything. I lay down next to her, trying to ignore the strange texture under my back and failing, until she pointed up. "Look!" Once again, I followed her, and then it felt as though everything was different.

Hanging above us, as though they would fall at any second, were thousands - no, millions - of the white spots I'd noticed before. They'd multiplied when I looked away, and covered the black sky so thickly that it was impossible to think it was dark any longer. How could it be, with so many bright points in the sky?

Her hand fell back to her chest, and we both kept staring up at the sky, watching as more and more spots appeared. They seemed to start moving after a fashion, groups of them slowly dancing around each other over our heads. Though I couldn't hear any music, I was certain that they could, and all of their rhythms were expressed in this slow, steady dance. Without taking my eyes off of the sky, I reached for my love and took her hand, the one she had used to point to the changing sky, the one she had used to beckon me onto the dry land.

She entwined her fingers in mine, and we lay back watching the dance in the sky for a long time, only the sound of our breath and the water lapping at the ground breaking the silence. Soon, as we watched, the moon joined the dance, moving slowly over our heads in a steady arc. The moon was only a sliver of a crescent, not nearly as powerful as it could be, but it pulled the water to us nonetheless.

Silently, we sat up and began to return to the water, which had closed the distance and was now lapping against our legs. She went first, and as the water enveloped her legs, I saw the shape of them change back into their proper form. I was emboldened by the transformation, and eagerly joined her in the water.

Shortly, we were swimming back away from the shore, our skin and hair absorbing the good, cold sea, but I found myself hesitant to dive again. I kept looking up to the sky, to the dancing spots, to the moon. She noticed, of course, and took my hand again. "We'll come back," she told me, pressing a kiss into my hand. "I promise. Now, show me how well you swim again." With a wink, she let go of my hand and dove. And I, of course, followed.

Day 3 of 31 Stories - Confessions of a Real-Life Barista

Today took a little longer to get the words out, and I'm not as happy with it as I would like. I guess that early rush of enthusiasm may be starting to wane a little, which may be a problem, considering it's all of day 3. So, erm, enjoy (with the usual caveats) day 3 - Confessions of a Real-Life Barista

Even though time in the Library didn't follow the same rules as they did out in the "real" world, even the cafe closed after a while. Grant was on the closing shift this time, which was one of his favorite times to work. There was something satisfying about clearing the clientele out and locking the door behind them, then taking a minute to breathe before cleaning up and getting ready for the next day.

It wasn't the kind of gig he'd expected when he'd answered the ad in the paper, but then, he'd been desperate. He'd been laid off from his last job at one of the mega-chain shops, and it had been long enough between jobs that he was getting to be less picky than he probably should have been. Still, he'd interviewed with the very kind, rosy-cheeked owner of the cafe, who basically just wanted to know if he knew how to make a couple of types of coffee and was fascinated by the idea of cold brew, and he'd been given a lot of paperwork to fill out before he started the next day. Things moved fast, but the pay was extraordinary, the benefits were great, they even set him up with an apartment, and he didn't have to worry about wearing a mask or quarantining so long as he stayed in the Library. It had taken a few weeks before he realized that nearly everyone he interacted with was, you know...fictional.

Clean the tables first, or sweep? Mentally he tossed a coin, and it came up tables. He hummed to himself as he prepared the bleach rags and put on his gloves. Jen, another person from what he couldn't stop calling the "real world" but she called "Prime," had been working in the cafe for a while, and she said that the gloves weren't necessary. Things didn't work in the Library they way they worked in Prime, and his skin wouldn't get dry or scratchy from the bleach they way they did back home. Grant was still skeptical, and he found himself falling into his normal habits when he didn't have someone around to tell him otherwise.

He still didn't understand why the people who worked in the cafe had to be from Prime, instead of from a book, but that seemed to be the policy for any of the places that served food in the Library. Jen had referenced some kind of manual that probably existed somewhere, and Grant was a little leery of seeking it out just yet. He wasn't sure why, but it didn't feel right to inspect things too closely. He was still convinced that this was all some kind of fever dream, and that he was likely to wake up at any moment to find himself still sleeping on his sister's couch, scrounging for change to hit a cheap fast-food joint and hoping that the phone call from the hospital wouldn't come. He winced as he thought of his father, stubborn to the end, lying in the hospital bed and still refusing to admit that the virus was as big of a deal as everyone was telling him.

Grant finished wiping down the tables mechanically, putting the seats up as he finished each table. There were some benefits to working in a location that was based in fiction - for one thing, boring chores didn't take nearly as long in writing as they did in real life, so the vast number of tables were cleaned in the blink of an eye. He tipped the bleach bucket down the sink in the kitchen, rinsing and drying as needed, and pulled out the broom and mop. Closing duties were much easier when he only had to deal with the highlights, as it were.

There were still some growing pains he was dealing with; for instance, he was unable to think the brand names of the places he'd worked or the businesses he patronized out in Prime, no matter how much he would have liked to. He didn't seem to be able to spend time just staring off into space blankly, but rather had some kind of constant narration running through his head; at least with that he got to choose what kind of voice he wanted to hear it in, and he'd had a lot of fun playing with that the first few days. He still alternated between Morgan Freeman and Dolly Parton, just because.

Satisfied that the cafe was as clean as he could get it, he finished putting his cleaning supplies away and started turning off the lights. Once he got back to his apartment, he planned to play around on his phone for a bit, maybe give his sister a call, then see what video games he wanted to play. He was grateful that Prime technology still worked in the apartments - he couldn't bear thinking about losing all the tethers to his old life. With one last sweep for anything he'd missed, he headed out of the cafe, locking the door behind him and moving swiftly toward his home. His strange, mostly fictional, possibly induced by a fever dream, home.

31 Stories in 31 Days - sure, why not??

 So, I've been fortunate enough to be able to spend a little (lot) more time working on writing-related stuff, and I came across this challenge to write 31 stories in 31 days. I spent some time with some of the members of the Lady Astronaut Club, Mary Robinette Kowal's marvelous online community, brainstorming ideas, and I figured I'd go for it. I managed day 1, yay!

The overall theme tying these together is the Infinite Library - essentially, all of fiction lives in one library, which is kinda/sorta Ygdrassil the World-Tree. I had started by asking people for ideas of genres that I could play with, because I was getting stuck, and that led to some entertaining story ideas that started right away.

There are prompts that The Writing Network (the folks running the 31 Stories challenge) are providing, and as needed or as I want, I'll use them. In the meantime? Well, enjoy* day 1 - Noir Rehab.

*Caveat for today and all other days - these are literally draft zero, fresh from my brain, no editing done. This is less "tell me what needs to be fixed" (because I know it's roughly EVERYTHING) and more "look, I put words on a page, ain't it cool?"

I didn't want to be here, but the big man upstairs had told me that I needed to show up or it would be more than my job was worth. My job was all I had left, so for the moment, it was time to swallow what little pride I had left to sit down and let some medico, some head-shrinker come talk at me for an hour. So long as I didn't shoot my mouth off or try to punch anybody, the big man said I could go back to my job, no problem.

I turned up the collar of my trench coat and lifted my hat a bit, trying to make out the number on the door in front of me. It was a good door, marbled glass taking up the top so whoever was inside could see the shape of someone outside, but not enough to know who it was. There was a little brass plaque saying "Dr. Morris, therapist" next to the door, and I rolled my eyes. If my dear mother, departed all these years, could just see me now... I beat a quick tattoo on the door and walked in when I heard the yell from the other side.

I had my back to the rest of the people in the room, pushing the door closed again, so I didn't get a good look at everyone right away. I saw that there was a coat rack next to the door, so I took off my hat and coat and paused. The rack was about half-full, which wasn't that odd. What was odd was that almost every coat and hat on the rack looked...familiar. Some of them were a little older than mine, some a little newer, but they all followed a pattern that I knew all too well.

"Don't just stand there, put your hat and coat up and take a seat," I heard behind me. The voice almost sounded like the one I heard in my head every day, but not exactly. I was almost afraid to see what I would see if I turned towards it, especially now that I could hear more people sitting in the room, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats.

I wasn't ready to deal with that just yet. I found a spot for my hat and coat, directed a rusty prayer in the vague direction of where I remembered heaven to be, and turned around to find a place to sit. I didn't look at any faces, but I could see that there were a lot of chairs set in a circle, and maybe half of them were occupied. I steered myself toward an empty spot in the circle and sat down, still forcing my eyes to remain on my shoes for the moment. I heard a little bit of snickering on one side of me, and I scowled. I didn't like being scared, but I didn't know what else to do about it. On my other side, I felt better than saw someone leaning toward me.

"Don't worry, it freaks everybody out the first time." This voice wasn't as close to mine as the other one had been, so it made it a little easier to sit up and glance up. The face that I saw was younger than I would have expected, but not quite a kid. Based on the clothes, one of the newer coats and hats must have belong to him. He put out a hand. "Jacob Miller, 2012. What about you?"

I grunted and shook his hand. "Ralph Barstow, 1952. I didn't think our type still had an audience these days, much less enough to have new people coming on." Jake had a firm handshake and looked me in the eye while he shook it, making it just a little more personal than I would have liked, myself. I recovered my hand sharpish.

"I'm a pastiche," he said matter-of-factly, and nodded at my blank look. "Everything old is new again, you know, and there are anthologies of the classic stuff being given a modern 'twist' every few years or so." He twirled his finger in the air on the word "twist." "You know how it goes, I'm sure."

It made sense. I'd heard tales about Sherlock Holmes, and all the twists that poor bastard had done, so it shouldn't have surprised me that our time had come up. "What are you doing here, then? I'd think you were set for being more, what'd they say, appropriate, than someone like me?"

Jake sighed. "They like to make sure all of us get at least one session, just to make sure we keep ourselves up to date, and it was my turn. Truth be told, it's lonely in the more modern side of Detective - not a lot of people in my branch who know much about the good old days."

I snorted, and heard a few others around the circle follow suit. I finally looked around and saw what I had known, in my head, would be there. We were all takes on the same cookie-cutter character, with our own little takes on the story. I thought I might have seen an original or two from the 30s in there, but I couldn't be too sure. A lot of us looked like they were my vintage, and we all were ticked off about being here. I nodded at everyone in a sort of general way, and they nodded back.

The door opened again, and a good-looking dame with gams to her eyes-

"Ah, I see we have some new members today!" The voice was cheerful but sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes were locked on me as she spoke. Her luscious red-

"Mr. Barstow, 1952, is that right? I'm Dr. Helen Morris, and I'll be leading this session. I trust you understand why you've been sent to me." She held a clipboard in front of her and was tapping a pen against it as she waited for a response. Her smile was brittle, and I could feel the other guys around the circle get tense just from her presence. Apparently, kitty had claws.

"Yes, Mr. Barstow, that is exactly why you're here. 'Kitty had claws' indeed." She scribbled on her clipboard then moved into the circle, sitting down directly next to me, on the other side from Jake. "Mr. Spayed, don't you get started either," she added, pointing at another spot in the circle where another guy was snickering. Actually, now that I squinted...

"A cat?" I asked, dumbstruck. "There's a cat here, too?"

Jake rolled his eyes. "The genre got really popular for a while there. It happens." The cat-detective hissed at me, then started cleaning his paws with his tongue, muttering to his neighbor (who, as far as I could tell, was a person, but now I didn't know anything for sure). The whole time, no one else seemed to give a damn, so I tried not to, either. I focused back on the doc, who was looking at me again.

"Mr. Barstow, you are the product of a less-enlightened time," she stated flatly. It stung, I had to admit. "It's not your fault, obviously, but we've noticed that more and more of the noir detective types are going un-read and weakening the overall Detective branch of the Library because society has moved on in its depiction of women, and you and your subtype remain in the dark ages." Everything she said was matter-of-fact, with no emotion, and between that and her pale hair and eyes, it was too easy to see she was an ice-cold b-

"That, right there. That description you were giving me in your narration. That's what we're talking about." She interrupted me smoothly, but it still made me jump. I didn't spend much time outside of my own universe, so I wasn't used to people being able to hear what I was thinking. There's something wrong when there's no place that's safe, not even the inside of a fellow's head. I swallowed hard, though, I nodded.

"Now, you knew your mother, isn't that right?" Doc flipped through the pages on her clipboard, and I'm guessing that meant she had some kind of file on me. I cleared my throat, figuring it was time to make things easier on her.

"Yeah, Ma and I were close until the cancer got her a few years ago." Murmurs of sympathy came up around the room, which was kind of nice. "I tried to take care of her best I could once Pops was gone, and it was just me and her."

"Very good. Now something I want you, all of you, to keep in mind." Doc stopped focusing just on me, which was a relief, and turned to face the rest of the room, too. "Your dear sainted mothers, aunts, sisters, fathers, uncles, and brothers, whoever and whatever raised you to be the person you are today, they deserved the utmost respect, didn't they?" Everyone around the circle nodded, looking at the doc like she had two heads. I was right with them. Of course Ma deserved respect! What kind of question was that?

"Well, what I want you all to remember is that every person, every character you meet, they are the sainted relative or dear friend of someone who feels the same way about them that you feel about the people who raised you. They all deserve that same level of respect from you, the same way your people deserve that level of respect from everyone else." She looked around the room again, meeting all of our eyes, but only until we looked away in shame. It didn't take long for me, I know that for sure.

Once she'd given us all the evil eye, she sighed and her face softened. "It's not easy, I know. It's not a short trip. But you have to remember, every investigation starts with that first clue, right? And that was your first clue. Now, let's repeat our method of discovery, and start working through the rest of our case." She put the clipboard down on the floor and stood up, holding her hands out to direct the rest of us up, too. Like a bunch of choir boys, we did as we were told.

"'Method of discovery'?" I muttered to Jake as we climbed to our feet. He just snickered softly.

"Now, repeat with me," Doc said, raising her hands up to the sky. Skeptically, I watched as the other people in the circle, even Jake, followed suit.

"Grant me the vision
To find the real clues
Through the red herrings;
To trust the right people,
And not those who will betray;
To recognize that I am not my job,
And I have worth without a case;
To remember to eat,
And that self-care matters;
And that some lost items
Simply won't be found."

It was depressing as hell, but somehow made me feel better in a way I couldn't define. Jake didn't meet my eyes as we sat down, so I think he was feeling the same way. Just what had the big man sent me to?

"It's all crap, you know," one of the older guys called out. We all faced him, and he sat with his arms crossed over his chest. Doc took a deep breath and put on a bright smile again.

"Why do you say that, Mr. Lawson?" Her voice had a little bit of that edge to it again, but it didn't seem quite so sharp this time. I exchanged a glance with Jake, who made a face. "Stay out of it, Ralph," he muttered, putting his hands up. "They've been fighting like that since I first showed up."

"'Why do you say that, Mr. Lawson?'" the old guy mimicked. "I say that because it's crap. I am my job, and my job is me. If I'm not there, then things go wrong. Kids go missing and they don't get found. Dames like you get their jewels stolen and nobody finds them. Or your man runs off with some painted hussy, and you don't ever know what happens, because you don't have me go to find him and get pictures of him and the new missus and you're just left to wonder. You need me. And none of what you're saying about people not reading us means anything. They always read us. We're CLASSICS."

There were some nods around the circle, and I had to admit that the old guy had made some good points. Still, it didn't quite feel right. I raised my hand a little, even with Jake shushing me. "Excuse me? I know I'm new here, but I know they only read some of us these days. I'm from the 50s, and I know I don't get taken down from the shelf nearly as often as I used to. I think I've been out of print for, I don't know, thirty years or so?" A couple of other guys who looked to be a similar vintage nodded. "I've got a buddy who works in the Library proper on one of those teams, you know, and he comes back with the stories about how readers in Prime just don't want to hear about, what's she call it, 'old white guys in trench coats calling everybody kid and dame,' I think that was it." It had stung when she said it, and I could see some of those words hitting home with some of the others.

"Not that we all fit that category, obviously," I added, recognizing a few faces that didn't fall into the 'old white guy' mold, "but I think I lot of them are a newer vintage than I am, at least. Things change all the time. The general idea is there, and that's a classic, there's no doubt. But maybe there's something to be said for updating a little bit. You don't keep wearing the same trilby once it's fallen apart, do you?"

Lawson stood up, and I saw that he was not quite so young as he'd originally seemed. At least, he as a character wasn't. His clothes, though, looked like they hadn't seen a lot of love in years. One of his shoes had a hole in the upper, and his sleeve had a rip that had been inexpertly fixed. Poor guy had probably tried to do it himself. Still, he had a spine straight as a tree and he had to be at least two or three inches taller than me. If this got physical, and it sure looked like it was going that way, I was pretty sure I knew who would win. I was glad I hadn't worn my new shirt for this gig, that's all I'm saying.

He stood there for a minute, and you could have heard a pin drop in the room. Finally, he looked around the circle and seemed to catch on to the fact that no one else was going to stand up with him. His shoulders fell a little, but he kept his head up. "To hell with this, and with you," he spat, directing the last bit at the doc as he stormed over to the coat rack. He grabbed a hat and coat and was out the door before anyone even thought about following.

Doc Morris sighed. "Well, I think I knew that was coming, so that's OK. He's one of the originals, so it's only to be expected that he'll be resistant to change." She smoothed her skirt over her legs (I forced myself to think in only the most basic terms, the way I'd want someone to think of dear Ma), then she picked up her clipboard again. "Let's get through an exercise before our time's up, shall we?"

I looked back at Jake and mouthed, Exercise? He rolled his eyes and grinned. You'll see, he mouthed back. This didn't sound promising. Sure enough, Doc Morris told us to split off into pairs and get ready to role play a scene she'd written. She even paired me up with the damn cat, so I knew she had to be punishing me. The cat didn't seem too happy about it, either, but he was a good sport in the end. Still, pretending to be a cat stuck in a tree while an actual cat pretended to be a firefighter come to rescue me has to be one of those experiences that I'll never want to think about again, and will probably pop up in my poor, abused brain at the worst possible moment. Even Doc Morris couldn't hide a smile, and Jake? That bastard was laughing his fool head off, along with all the rest of them. 

I had to admit, though, it was nice to be in a room with people who kind of knew what it was like, being a private eye. We shared something in common, even if most everything else was a little different. There was even a space man! His hat was a helmet, but it folded up into the trilby so he could still wear it while walking around and not in space. That was nifty.

Things ended not long after we did our little skits, thankfully. The cat and I (the cat was Christopher, but he actually didn't mind being called 'the cat' all the time - said it was easier to tell if someone was talking about him) were the last ones to go, so everyone left on a laugh, at least. Doc Morris gave me a piece of paper with a copy of the method of discovery on it, and I folded it up and put it in my billfold. It had sounded kind of dumb, true, but there were one or two good things to remember. I shook her hand just like I would a man, and she rolled her eyes a little when I did.

"You don't have to specify that you shook my hand the way you would a man, Mr. Barstow," she said in a friendly but tired voice. I winced - it was still so strange to have someone hear what was in my head - but I nodded.

"I'll...I'll work on it, Doc. Thanks." I nodded to her and headed over to the coat rack. Jake was waiting for me there, but most everyone else was gone. It made it easier to see what was left. My coat was shoved to the side; since it had been on top most everyone else's, they had to push it aside to get to theirs underneath it. I pulled it off the hook and shook it out, draping it over my arm, and reached up to get my hat. I paused, my hand in mid-air, and Jake cocked his head.

"What's wrong?" I just started laughing and pointed at the beaten piece of cloth left behind.

"Bastard took my hat."