yay weekend
Oct. 26th, 2008 05:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrOther than stupid work, my weekend was pretty skippy ^___^ Saw Heywood Banks yesterday with my peeps, and that was much awesome. Then, today, to avoid screwing around on my desktop, I went to the bookstore and drank lots of coffee while I wrote ^__^
I found the most awesome book ever, too. It's The Dracula Dossiere by James Reese. Premise:
Stalled in his writing career and feeling overwhelmed by his charismatic, successful boss Sir Henry Irving, Bram Stoker returns to London in the summer of 1888 determined to turn his life around.
Late one night Stoker decides to take a stroll through the streets of Whitechapel, an impoverished district of London known for its many prostitutes as well as the citizenry crowding its shadowy alleys. Amid the shadows, he spies a seemingly familiar figure, a man resembling a quack American "doctor" of his acquaintance. But before Stoker can be certain, the man disappears.
Little does he know that just a few steps away, the crime spree of the century has begun: a vicious killer has claimed his first victim, a local prostitute. And Stoker somehow becomes the prime suspect. To clear his name, he enlists some of his illustrious friends, including Walt Whitman, Lady Jane Wilde (mother of Oscar), and the million-copy-selling Victorian novelist Sir Thomas Henry Hall Caine. When they discover that the murder weapon is a Gurkha knife owned by Stoker and recently stolen from his home, there can be no doubt that the elusive American doctor—Francis Tumblety—is the very same man terrorizing and taunting London as Jack the Ripper.
Moving from Manhattan to London's West End and Whitechapel, from Dublin to a ritualistic denouement in Edinburgh, this sweeping, magnificent novel is a suspenseful trip into the heart of literature and history, as Stoker sets out on the "true" adventure that will later inspire him to write Dracula.
How frickin' cool is that? *.* Reminds me a lot of Matthew Pearl - who, incidently, was asked to pimp the book. Rockstar!
Now, for those who want it, tiny snippet of story upon which I am working.
Pretty pied piper, won't you play me a song?
The voice jerked him from his dreams, and Kaleo sighed as he stared up at the dark, dusty ceiling of the room he'd taken for the night. He closed his eyes again, but the effort was futile—he would get no more sleep tonight.
Heaving a louder, longer sigh, Kaleo threw back his thin blankets and sat up. He hummed a quick, coaxing tune, and the candle on the side table flared to life. A few more bars, and the lamp on the table lit as well.
In the orange glow of their flickering light, he gathered his clothes and began to dress. His clothes were unremarkable, much the rest of him. Simple, drab browns from head to foot; even his skin was brown from all his traveling, though winter snows were heavy upon the ground now. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown tunic, brown breeches, boots, belt, and all the rest—except for his coat.
His coat was made of hundreds of colors, fabrics, shapes, and sizes. A collection of every place he had ever been, each one reminding him of a time, a problem, a spell—a song. It was his pride and joy, his coat, even if everyone told him he looked a proper vagabond in it.
What was he though, save a proper vagabond? One who carried a King's Seal, though he seldom had cause or desire to display it, but a vagabond nonetheless.
Settling the coat, he then combed his fingers through his hair to smooth out the worst of the tangles, then swiftly braided it, leaving it then to fall between his shoulders blades, stopping just past them.
Yawning, wishing mournfully that he could go back to sleep, Kaleo checked his pack, ensured that he had all his belongings, left an additional coin upon the table for the innkeeper, and departed.
The night was cold, bitterly so, the snow hard beneath his feet where it had started to melt beneath the sun, then frozen again as the temperature dropped with night. High above, the clouds had moved off to give the moon all the glory of the sky she was due—full and silver, a soft shine against the hard glitter of the stars around her, making the snow seem to glow. He walked in a world of hard white, feeling completely, utterly, and wretchedly alone.
Pretty pied piper, won't you play me a song?
Why must he think of Tihan now? He did not even know where Tihan had been sent, or when he would see him again, or if…if when they met again, Tihan would still find him interesting. They were travelers, vagabonds, it was stupid to hope and pine…
Yet every time that voice invaded his dreams, he was pulled from them, subconscious convinced that it was his lover calling to him, and he would see him upon waking….and all he ever woke to was an empty bed.
He was tempted to take out his pipe, to play some tune that would ease his mind, drive back the unrelenting silence of the night, but he dare not wake up something best left sleeping. So, instead of the pipe, he hummed softly as he journeyed on, allowing his mind to focus on the reason he was being sent to a small village in the northernmost part of the country.
Rats, the missive had said. The village was overrun by a plague of rats that could only be the result of spell work.
If it was spell work, it was complicated. He admired the skill, if not the method of employment. Controlling one animal was fairly easy, minus a few species which simply resented being controlled in any fashion. It was harder to control several animals at once, but not impossible. But controlling enough that they could be described as a plague?
That was frightening. Impressive, but frightening, especially since rats were one of those species which resented any manner of control.
He wondered what the mage behind it hoped to accomplish, and what manner of spell work he used to cast it. Each method had its own strengths and weaknesses; it would be interesting to see how the mage cast his spells.
Being from a musical family, Kaleo had taken up that method without hesitation. He excelled at it, and loved it, even when that skill was the reason he travelled endlessly and likely would for a long time to come.
The matter of the guilty mage was one which would have to wait, though, ponder it as he might. Typical of missives, those who wrote them included the crime, the location, and precious little else. At least they had not mentioned his needing support—if the Powers That Be thought a mage would be all right without assistant muscle, then it should not be too difficult a problem to resolve.
It was somewhat disappointing, however, since requiring support might have offered one slim chance of seeing Tihan. Selfish, of course, because he didn't want people to suffer more than they already were…but he was always eager for anything that might bring him Tihan.
Kaleo sighed at himself again, but really, what could he do? Fall out of love? Ha! If that were possible, he might have been able to avoid falling in love in the first place. Unfortunately, he'd had no day in that matter. He was hopelessly, painfully in love with a man who saw him only as a pleasant way to pass the time when their paths crossed. Albeit, an extremely pleasant way to pass the time, and Tihan was closer to him than most others—or so was Kaleo's hopeful impression.
When he felt like making himself particularly miserable, however, he did wonder with whom else Tihan chose to pass the time.
Grimacing, he ceased humming and swung his pack off his shoulders, quickly pulling out the small packet that held a meal's worth of food within it. Handy at times like this, when there was no good place to stop. Resettling the pack on his shoulders, he slowly ate the bread, cheese, and jerky that was all too often all he had to eat. He finished them with bits of dried apple and some lemon candies.
When the sky began to turn gray, he at last found a place he could rest for a bit. It was too cold and comfortable to sleep; at least while he still had Tihan on his mind, but as he still had a day's worth of travel to make it was a welcome respite.
He watched the sun rise, soothed by the beauty of it, if not entirely settled. There were perks to his vagabond of the king life, and this was one of them. Constant travel was both pleasure and pain, and when he was not gloomy over being woken by a presence that was never there when he wished, it was definitely more of the former.
Reaching into his jacket, he extracted his pipe from its special pocket there, and put the enchanted metal to his lips.
He played a song that seemed to fit the cold but pleasant morning. Soft, quiet, cheerfully hopeful. This early in the day, nothing was determined and anything—everything—was possible. He encouraged that, added to it without overburdening the feeling.
Around him, those things which were not bothered by the frigid temperatures and difficult snow began to show themselves, began to explore. Some even ventured closer, caught by the music. He played on, until the sun had well and truly taken over the sky.
When he finally let the music fade away, more than a few creatures had gathered to listen, and they trickled away again only slowly. Kaleo smiled, and tucked his pipe away, wishing everything else in life could be so simple.
It never was, though.
Settling his pack, he walked on.
When he finally reached the proper village, rats were the least of his concerns. Until he saw them, anyway. Black, fat, and bold. Nasty creatures that knew they had strength in numbers, knew there was nothing to fear—and the telltale gleam of bewitchment in their eyes. Like an animal shine, but harder, brighter.
One drew close to him and he lashed out, kicking it hard, sending it into a wall only to fall amidst a pack of his brothers. Kaleo was grateful for the growing dark that would make them harder to see. Better a visible enemy, he knew…but those rats were vile.
His fingers twitched to take out his pipe, to do something about them…but only a foolish mage cast a spell before he knew the whole of the situation. Best to leave well enough alone, even if that meant not getting rid of the rats immediately.
Kicking another one away as it tried to crawl up his boot, he darted into the first pub he saw. Unfortunately, it proved to be filled to the brim. They were probably all here for the very same reason as he; strength in numbers, and though he could see a rat or two amongst the crush, they stood no chance against so many tightly packed humans.
Shoving and elbowing his way to the bar, he all but clung to it for dear life and signaled for an ale. It was just what he needed, when he got it. Not the best he'd ever head, but far from the worst. Gulping it down as quickly as he could, he called for a second, and sipped at it more leisurely.
He sat in the racket and simply enjoyed it. There was no rhythm, no control, nothing but a cacophony, but after his silent days of travel and little sleep of late, it was a welcome chaos. Sighing, allowing himself to forget about everything but food and drink for a bit, he called for a third ale and put in an order for food as well.
The pushing and bumping and shoving was to be expected; he scarcely noticed when someone pressed up against him from behind for more than a second—until a mouth hovered by his ear, and murmured, "Pretty Pied Piper, won't you play me a song?"
I found the most awesome book ever, too. It's The Dracula Dossiere by James Reese. Premise:
Stalled in his writing career and feeling overwhelmed by his charismatic, successful boss Sir Henry Irving, Bram Stoker returns to London in the summer of 1888 determined to turn his life around.
Late one night Stoker decides to take a stroll through the streets of Whitechapel, an impoverished district of London known for its many prostitutes as well as the citizenry crowding its shadowy alleys. Amid the shadows, he spies a seemingly familiar figure, a man resembling a quack American "doctor" of his acquaintance. But before Stoker can be certain, the man disappears.
Little does he know that just a few steps away, the crime spree of the century has begun: a vicious killer has claimed his first victim, a local prostitute. And Stoker somehow becomes the prime suspect. To clear his name, he enlists some of his illustrious friends, including Walt Whitman, Lady Jane Wilde (mother of Oscar), and the million-copy-selling Victorian novelist Sir Thomas Henry Hall Caine. When they discover that the murder weapon is a Gurkha knife owned by Stoker and recently stolen from his home, there can be no doubt that the elusive American doctor—Francis Tumblety—is the very same man terrorizing and taunting London as Jack the Ripper.
Moving from Manhattan to London's West End and Whitechapel, from Dublin to a ritualistic denouement in Edinburgh, this sweeping, magnificent novel is a suspenseful trip into the heart of literature and history, as Stoker sets out on the "true" adventure that will later inspire him to write Dracula.
How frickin' cool is that? *.* Reminds me a lot of Matthew Pearl - who, incidently, was asked to pimp the book. Rockstar!
Now, for those who want it, tiny snippet of story upon which I am working.
Pretty pied piper, won't you play me a song?
The voice jerked him from his dreams, and Kaleo sighed as he stared up at the dark, dusty ceiling of the room he'd taken for the night. He closed his eyes again, but the effort was futile—he would get no more sleep tonight.
Heaving a louder, longer sigh, Kaleo threw back his thin blankets and sat up. He hummed a quick, coaxing tune, and the candle on the side table flared to life. A few more bars, and the lamp on the table lit as well.
In the orange glow of their flickering light, he gathered his clothes and began to dress. His clothes were unremarkable, much the rest of him. Simple, drab browns from head to foot; even his skin was brown from all his traveling, though winter snows were heavy upon the ground now. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown tunic, brown breeches, boots, belt, and all the rest—except for his coat.
His coat was made of hundreds of colors, fabrics, shapes, and sizes. A collection of every place he had ever been, each one reminding him of a time, a problem, a spell—a song. It was his pride and joy, his coat, even if everyone told him he looked a proper vagabond in it.
What was he though, save a proper vagabond? One who carried a King's Seal, though he seldom had cause or desire to display it, but a vagabond nonetheless.
Settling the coat, he then combed his fingers through his hair to smooth out the worst of the tangles, then swiftly braided it, leaving it then to fall between his shoulders blades, stopping just past them.
Yawning, wishing mournfully that he could go back to sleep, Kaleo checked his pack, ensured that he had all his belongings, left an additional coin upon the table for the innkeeper, and departed.
The night was cold, bitterly so, the snow hard beneath his feet where it had started to melt beneath the sun, then frozen again as the temperature dropped with night. High above, the clouds had moved off to give the moon all the glory of the sky she was due—full and silver, a soft shine against the hard glitter of the stars around her, making the snow seem to glow. He walked in a world of hard white, feeling completely, utterly, and wretchedly alone.
Pretty pied piper, won't you play me a song?
Why must he think of Tihan now? He did not even know where Tihan had been sent, or when he would see him again, or if…if when they met again, Tihan would still find him interesting. They were travelers, vagabonds, it was stupid to hope and pine…
Yet every time that voice invaded his dreams, he was pulled from them, subconscious convinced that it was his lover calling to him, and he would see him upon waking….and all he ever woke to was an empty bed.
He was tempted to take out his pipe, to play some tune that would ease his mind, drive back the unrelenting silence of the night, but he dare not wake up something best left sleeping. So, instead of the pipe, he hummed softly as he journeyed on, allowing his mind to focus on the reason he was being sent to a small village in the northernmost part of the country.
Rats, the missive had said. The village was overrun by a plague of rats that could only be the result of spell work.
If it was spell work, it was complicated. He admired the skill, if not the method of employment. Controlling one animal was fairly easy, minus a few species which simply resented being controlled in any fashion. It was harder to control several animals at once, but not impossible. But controlling enough that they could be described as a plague?
That was frightening. Impressive, but frightening, especially since rats were one of those species which resented any manner of control.
He wondered what the mage behind it hoped to accomplish, and what manner of spell work he used to cast it. Each method had its own strengths and weaknesses; it would be interesting to see how the mage cast his spells.
Being from a musical family, Kaleo had taken up that method without hesitation. He excelled at it, and loved it, even when that skill was the reason he travelled endlessly and likely would for a long time to come.
The matter of the guilty mage was one which would have to wait, though, ponder it as he might. Typical of missives, those who wrote them included the crime, the location, and precious little else. At least they had not mentioned his needing support—if the Powers That Be thought a mage would be all right without assistant muscle, then it should not be too difficult a problem to resolve.
It was somewhat disappointing, however, since requiring support might have offered one slim chance of seeing Tihan. Selfish, of course, because he didn't want people to suffer more than they already were…but he was always eager for anything that might bring him Tihan.
Kaleo sighed at himself again, but really, what could he do? Fall out of love? Ha! If that were possible, he might have been able to avoid falling in love in the first place. Unfortunately, he'd had no day in that matter. He was hopelessly, painfully in love with a man who saw him only as a pleasant way to pass the time when their paths crossed. Albeit, an extremely pleasant way to pass the time, and Tihan was closer to him than most others—or so was Kaleo's hopeful impression.
When he felt like making himself particularly miserable, however, he did wonder with whom else Tihan chose to pass the time.
Grimacing, he ceased humming and swung his pack off his shoulders, quickly pulling out the small packet that held a meal's worth of food within it. Handy at times like this, when there was no good place to stop. Resettling the pack on his shoulders, he slowly ate the bread, cheese, and jerky that was all too often all he had to eat. He finished them with bits of dried apple and some lemon candies.
When the sky began to turn gray, he at last found a place he could rest for a bit. It was too cold and comfortable to sleep; at least while he still had Tihan on his mind, but as he still had a day's worth of travel to make it was a welcome respite.
He watched the sun rise, soothed by the beauty of it, if not entirely settled. There were perks to his vagabond of the king life, and this was one of them. Constant travel was both pleasure and pain, and when he was not gloomy over being woken by a presence that was never there when he wished, it was definitely more of the former.
Reaching into his jacket, he extracted his pipe from its special pocket there, and put the enchanted metal to his lips.
He played a song that seemed to fit the cold but pleasant morning. Soft, quiet, cheerfully hopeful. This early in the day, nothing was determined and anything—everything—was possible. He encouraged that, added to it without overburdening the feeling.
Around him, those things which were not bothered by the frigid temperatures and difficult snow began to show themselves, began to explore. Some even ventured closer, caught by the music. He played on, until the sun had well and truly taken over the sky.
When he finally let the music fade away, more than a few creatures had gathered to listen, and they trickled away again only slowly. Kaleo smiled, and tucked his pipe away, wishing everything else in life could be so simple.
It never was, though.
Settling his pack, he walked on.
When he finally reached the proper village, rats were the least of his concerns. Until he saw them, anyway. Black, fat, and bold. Nasty creatures that knew they had strength in numbers, knew there was nothing to fear—and the telltale gleam of bewitchment in their eyes. Like an animal shine, but harder, brighter.
One drew close to him and he lashed out, kicking it hard, sending it into a wall only to fall amidst a pack of his brothers. Kaleo was grateful for the growing dark that would make them harder to see. Better a visible enemy, he knew…but those rats were vile.
His fingers twitched to take out his pipe, to do something about them…but only a foolish mage cast a spell before he knew the whole of the situation. Best to leave well enough alone, even if that meant not getting rid of the rats immediately.
Kicking another one away as it tried to crawl up his boot, he darted into the first pub he saw. Unfortunately, it proved to be filled to the brim. They were probably all here for the very same reason as he; strength in numbers, and though he could see a rat or two amongst the crush, they stood no chance against so many tightly packed humans.
Shoving and elbowing his way to the bar, he all but clung to it for dear life and signaled for an ale. It was just what he needed, when he got it. Not the best he'd ever head, but far from the worst. Gulping it down as quickly as he could, he called for a second, and sipped at it more leisurely.
He sat in the racket and simply enjoyed it. There was no rhythm, no control, nothing but a cacophony, but after his silent days of travel and little sleep of late, it was a welcome chaos. Sighing, allowing himself to forget about everything but food and drink for a bit, he called for a third ale and put in an order for food as well.
The pushing and bumping and shoving was to be expected; he scarcely noticed when someone pressed up against him from behind for more than a second—until a mouth hovered by his ear, and murmured, "Pretty Pied Piper, won't you play me a song?"
