A Whiskey-Fueled Melodrama

I wrote this to illuminate something a character I play in a MUD is going through, but I think it can stand on its own too, so I decided to post it here. It is, as the title suggests, rather melodramatic -- which here can be taken as a kinder way of saying "emo." There are some world-specific location references, but everything you need to know about those locations is provided in the story, so you really aren't missing anything by not knowing the setting. You probably don't need to know why he has blood on his clothes, either, which is good because that's a very very long story.


Even though it was written as part of roleplay, it was also deliberately intended to work as a standalone story. Which makes this the first short story I've ever written! So, hooray! I'll find a cake and balloons or something.


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Fuck it, I'm staying up.


Demens pulls himself away from the man in his bed, trying not to look at him. He moves toward the wardrobe and gets as far as throwing it open before remembering that all of his things are at the Crossroads. The clothes on the floor will have to suffice. He's been through hell and back, he may as well look it. Most of the blood got on his armor, but even without it there are stains.


Down in the smoking room, he ignores the stares. He's not here for fellowship, he's here for liquor. That's the opposite of fellowship, isn't it? Blacked out memories and ornery mumbling aren't great for making friends. He orders a glass of whiskey and takes a long drink. It's the same brand served at the Crossroads, which lends it some familiarity. The reminder isn't entirely welcome, though -- that place is a shithole.


Despite the unpleasant associations, the drink is gone in minutes. As he sets it down and settles a gaze upon it, the empty glass proves to be a puzzle for Demens. He can go back up to bed, but he'll just lie there -- he won't rest easy. But where else can he go? A frustrated grimace settles on his features, remaining there for an eternity of a moment before it melts with a resigned sigh and he orders another drink. It can wait. Well, actually, it really can't wait, but the whiskey can help him forget that for a little while longer.


He's a little annoyed when he hears the deep tolling of bells. Even at this distance and through the walls, he's keenly aware of that reminder offered by the clock tower overlooking the Crossroads. He'd rather not acknowledge the hours, and just let them pass by without ceremony. Isn't that easier? Time could just as well be measured by counting glasses of whiskey. For instance, it is now two glasses, on the dot, but the hour has already begun ticking into number three. Actually, there might be something to this new system -- it seems to be much better at indicating the state of his world than any clock.


But despite his silent, addled protests, the bells ring. Most people, he muses, would hear the five chimes and tell him that the sun must be rising soon, because it's nearly time for daybreak. And he would shake his head, brandishing his half-empty glass at them for emphasis as he explains that the past is no model for the present, and the sun may just as likely turn around and fall back the way it came, even if it shined without fail every day before that. He's seen things which are just as certain fail just as spectacularly, and he would not be surprised to see it again.


He's proven wrong, though. As he eventually stumbles through the foyer toward the staircase up, the blithe sun mocks him. Ignoring it, he trudges up to the room to rejoin his lover in bed. Out of habit, he slips his arms around Tamas' form as he glances around the relatively sparse room. He's been sleeping there regularly, but he still hasn't moved in any of his things. He suspects that he'll never really get around to moving out of the Crossroads.

Random Seed Poetry 4: "The Trials of Oddity"

Seed words: century, subject, raving, attachment, hum
If you don't know what this means, read the first post in the series for an explanation.

"The Trials of Oddity"

Oh, please don't mind my raving;
I do it all the time.
They've called it "misbehaving,"
but so far never "crime."
I'm baffled by this century,
this inquiry,
this perjury.

Commentary: This one is a bit short, I know. I tried to add on to it, but I kept finding that I had nothing to add. And it's also a bit late, I know. I haven't gone to bed yet, so I'm still going to count it.

This one is partly inspired by some specific past experiences of mine which I will not thoroughly detail here, but mostly it's a reflection on how people react to me. Or, rather, how they used to react to me; I've changed since then, and I'm honestly not sure how to feel about that. There is value in being strange, and I think the pressures that "they" placed on me might have robbed me of it to a degree. But of course, I do still try to utilize what I've got left, as evidenced by the perhaps overstated name of this blog.

Random Seed Poetry 3: "Sight"

Seed words: cross, blessed, engine, astronomy, con
If you don't know what this means, read the first post in the series for an explanation.

"Sight"

The purest truth dissatisfies;
knowledge will ruin me.
An honest con with laser sight
never sees perfectly.
The engine's not the motive force,
it only carries it.
Before the fact, a vision forms,
something more beautiful.

Commentary: Alright, the random word generator is screwing with me now. The day that I have promised to write about something other than religion, the first two words it gives me are "cross" and "blessed." In any case, I did manage to write about something else, although I'm honestly not as happy with how this one turned out as compared to the last two. That may be due in part to two new structural things that I'm trying here. Firstly, I deviated from my usual tendency to use a single repeated metrical foot; instead, the lines alternated between iambic and dactylic meter, which I think gave it an interesting sort of staggered rhythm. Secondly, I wrote it unrhymed — which may not seem like a big deal, but rhyme is usually what I use to tie my poems together, aesthetically. Without rhyme, it risks seeming less cohesive, which might actually have happened — you'll have to tell me.

The topic is probably not very clear. I didn't state things very directly in this one. What I'm getting at is the notion that the experience of something is often more beautiful than the understanding of it. When analysis runs too deep, it can undercut and completely miss the things that made the investigation worthwhile to begin with. And yes, I am painfully aware that this sounds rather reminiscent of a certain pair of rapping clowns, but just because the way they say it is so inane, that doesn't mean there isn't any validity to the philosophical notion that they are trying to discuss. Except, unlike them, I'm not going to go around shouting angrily about scientists.

Random Seed Poetry 2: "Theodicy of a Cynic"

Seed words: staff, partitioning, flour, circuitry, consequence
If you don't know what this means, read the first post in the series for an explanation.

"Theodicy of a Cynic"

Among the dead, some live instead,
no less deserved of death,
the consequence of actions hence
defied with ev'ry breath.
The wrath of God, through Aaron's rod,
was illustrated plain,
but these few laugh and mock the staff
and yet they still remain.

Our laws defied and vilified
by villains and their gall,
we can't avoid that we're devoid
of any laws at all.
No justice then, within our ken,
appears to be at play,
and we cannot describe our lot
with what the prophets say.

Commentary: I know, there seems to be a pattern forming here. I'll try to get onto a new topic tomorrow. I suppose my religious views have been on my mind a lot the past couple of days, but to my credit this is at least about a different aspect of them. Here the title is fairly on-the-nose. It's a somewhat cynical discussion of theodicy (which is the field of religious studies concerned with answering the question, "Why does God allow evil to exist?"). The speaker of this poem isn't really me, it should be noted. I don't share these views precisely. It's simply a perspective which I find interesting to consider, and which arrives at a similar conclusion to mine.

Random Seed Poetry 1: "Trinity"

Inspired in large part by Jonathan Coulton's Thing a Week and Jonathan Mann's Song a Day, I have decided to take on a similar (but far less ambitious) project. Every day, I will randomly generate 5 common nouns and use two of them in a new poem. I will publish them to this blog as I complete them, along with a commentary of some sort (since, unlike many writers, I like explaining my work). Let's see how long I can keep this up!

Seed words: socialist, known, contraception, prayer, receiving

"Trinity"

I can't remember my last prayer
  living in this earthly box
there once was power in the air
  sealed away with cosmic locks
in lack of faith, I'm like a stone
  so sure am I, so solid here
I drop the soul and keep the known
  I place my faith in what is near

Commentary: This poem discusses my drift towards agnosticism and eventually atheism, which occurred over the course of my adolescence. I tried something new and possibly gimmicky with this. Try reading the poem three times — once in its entirety, once skipping the indented lines, and once skipping the unindented lines — and think of each as a distinct poem. The idea is to show a sort of internal back-and-forth, with different perspectives emerging from the conflict. The name is suggestive of both the Holy Trinity which I used to worship and the trinitarian nature of the poem itself.