The Writer Is Lazy

Okay, not exactly true.  I just have a ton of things to do, and most of them are a very physical list of cleaning, fixing, etc.

So, my mind is not tuning in to write a blog.

I’m going to leave you with a picture to have fun with and go scrub floors.

 

seaside

24 responses to “The Writer Is Lazy

  1. As the dragon fazed into being the children on the beach were blissfully unaware of the impending doom.

  2. A day at the Kraken beach

  3. Christopher M. Chupik

    After the defeat of the Krakenite invaders, the wreckage of their biomech warships became a popular tourist attraction.

  4. One of the few pleasant side-effects of global cooling was the opening of Coral Fantasy, a waterside park known for its amazing displays of once submerged rock and coral formations. Located on the edge of the now-exposed continental shelf, Coral Park drew people from all over the globe.

  5. Scrubbing floors? And SJWs say you don’t know how to have fun!

  6. It was always sad the day that summer vacation at the beach ended and it was time to go back to the city for the autumn, but when Cthulhu rose from the depths, it was obvious that the season was over.

  7. But scrubbing the floors with a picture would ruin the picture. Also, I can’t imagine it’d be much good for the floors.

  8. *thumps into a seat*

    …sounds like my week.

  9. I am enjoying the picture as it is kind of what my life is like at the moment. We have a roofer coming Monday (leaky roof), a plumber coming Tuesday (2 leaky toilets all of a sudden), a downstairs a/c that just decided to quit cooling. A dragon might be a relief!!!!

    Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there and grandmas, steps and unofficial ones, too.

  10. Oddly enough, some children preferred the real beach to the massive amusement park in the statue of a giant purple octopus.

  11. Little Stephanie concentrated with all of her might. She was determined to get it right this time. Slowly, the gigantic sculpture of the amethyst octopus she was visualizing, appeared on the beach behind her.

  12. It had been a remarkably Cthulu-free month at Bournemouth, but that didn’t mean Harriet hadn’t prepared. The shrieking and acrid stench that accompanied the abomination no longer fazed beach-goers, and most tended to accept their fate with a a characteristic stiff upper lip. Not Harriet though, who calmly turned and grasped the handle of the plunger detonator.

  13. “Sheesh! I told you using these new gravitational wave detectors on the beach to find treasure wouldn’t summon some monster via a wormhole from an alternate universe…”

  14. John in Philly

    Sally turned away from the mind numbing horror and thought, “Not a good day to sell seashells.”

  15. “I wonder what this does?” said the little girl, poking at a strange amulet in the sand with her shovel. It began glowing with an evil light. Across the bay, tentacles surged forth from the portal to the Nether Realms, the demon Cthulhu was released from his prison!
    “Oh, I see.” She gave it another poke, a bit firmer this time, and the glow stopped. Across the bay the immense tentacles of the Dark God rained down into the water, cut off at their bases by the collapsing portal. Cthulhu’s bellow of pain was silenced as the portal winked out. “Stupid squid. You’d think he’d learn.”

  16. I saw from the ocean arise
    A squid of unusual size.
    The children all turned
    To face it and burned
    It with lasers that shot from their eyes.

  17. analytical-engine-mechanic

    “… have fun…” are, as always, perilous words.
    But I did. I simply couldn’t resist the temptation.
    It’s been too long for me. Hopefully this won’t be too long for you…

    ‘Mandy Reinlisch, eleven years old and dressed for a warm day at the shore, drove her spade deliberately into the soft sand of the bayside. Not digging for clams, not any other useful or necessary activity — but, instead, assiduously mining slowly and artlessly for entertainment.

    And this, her mother Anna thought as with a few more swift pencil strokes she began to capture the moment already passing, this is the look, the sound, the smell of it. *This* is the substance and nature of victory, all our victory, in the only real war humanity ever fought.
    Not so much any massive stone monument, but a girl now playing happily in the sand before one.

    Anna Chiaverini Reinlisch, now wife and mother and even occasionally again artist, basked in it, revelled in it, fairly bathed in it. What we all took for granted as ordinary, everyday life… wasn’t.
    Never had it truly been, never could it be selfishly mis-taken for granted again.
    Instead it was a transcendently generous blessing, a gift beyond price, beyond comprehension. Or else, she reflected with a smile that was hardly grim at all any more, it was the best loot ever.

    The very scene before her, already recorded on her sketching paper from background to front, gave the immediate lie to any such notion, if any had somehow survived the Madhouse War and its twelve, well-nigh indescribable, almost transapocalyptic years of, well, *otherness* loosed. It was not, it could not have been reconciled with, the world before the new world that made General and Grand-Maga Reinlisch out of a farm girl from upstate New York, and Ambassador to All the Many Realms Reinlisch out of her shopkeeper husband August.
    Just as it had made Wolverton out of New York City, and the Wolverton Hills out of marsh and bay.
    “And there was a new heaven, and a new earth; and there was no more sea.” Almost, but not quite.

    Wolverton and its (heavily-renovated) background, almost obscured behind the dense heat-haze shimmer of the spherical Dome that (yet) covered and protected it save for the few iris openings that could slam shut in an eyeblink. The lifeless, mundane stone bulk of the Gigged Icosapus, more officially the Vanquishing Memorial, with its four crookedly-upthrusting tentacles reaching still for the sky half a mile or more, four or five other similarly mammoth limbs lying mostly along the ground, many more driven deep into the earth and stone of this world. The oddly-shaped fog spilling around the base of it, more like stalagmites in a cave or folds in a blanket than mundane fog, that always seemed to result when a large ball-ward like the Dome met any substantial body of water; white in the sunlight or dark gray in its own idiosyncratic murkiness by whimsical turns.

    Just the sight of the last two together was enough to drive many survivors into catatonic rigor or terror-fit frenzy, to the point that they stayed either within the miles-wide Dome or on the other side of it. One of the most outlandishly *effective* traits of the Eldritch Ones, the Great Ones themselves and also many of their henchmen (ah, hench-critters?) and fellow-travellers, was their sheer *alienness* — not just to “ordinary” humanity but to so many of the alter-humans “we” spent so many years half-doubting, half-believing. But necessity is ever the mother of invention… and once it was clear the Old Ones wanted our world, for itself and next for a bridgehead to gain in turn all or most of the Deeper Realms too, “humans” and elves and dwarves and others had found a way.

    And so even on this side of the Dome, away from the comforting but Johnny-come-lately bulk of the Hills, there were some who ventured into plain sight of the Icosapus itself. You couldn’t really see the Spear Siggungnir from this far off, of course, it had been “only” six rods long and was still (most stubbornly) near-buried in the stone. Mundane but quite extraordinary stone, that by the latest assay contained five elements previously unknown to science at levels of more than one percent, that was by the few proper tests ever run on it some hundreds or thousands of times stronger than granite or sandstone or basalt.

    That *had*, till that ten-ton spear, forged of river-silver fortified with kobald-nickel and wolf-metal by the dwarves of Darkhome, charged with a petrification spell worked by a Great Circle of twelve circles of twelve “ordinary human” witches (and a few dozen light-elves, and some dark-elves, and a gorgon or medusa or five), wielded by a First Generation dragon, had struck home in the largest of an Old One’s three hearts — all been not stone, but the living flesh of the largest Eldritch One to ever make the Crossing to Middle Earth.

    That was the part Anna remembered: *had been* living. *Had been* magical, until the dragon had made seven threefold circles about it to bleach it of all residual enchantment, of all connection to the Eldritch Ones and their Far Realm. It was a memorial to a pivotal victory, not some undead corpse.

    Anna finished sketching the foreground. Suzanne Amanda, who’d always insisted on answering to her middle name (Amanda, she who is loved). Her great-aunt Emma, sitting nearby. Some other brave or simply adaptable people and a few boats. Closed her leather sketchbook and laid it to one side. She needed the sketches to get the outlines right; but she also needed to look at the colors and textures and store them away in her memory too, lest the final painting some days hence lack in some essential seasoning or taste.

    She could, if she concentrated, feel or even see the stealthed pixie nearby, always nearby, even more than two years after the end of the War. Always ready to call her back to her active duty, at real need, by those same brief and too-familar words, “Mrs. Reinlisch, you’re needed.” Hopefully even then, still never followed by “soon” or “urgently” or (worst of all) “badly” — not ever again.

    But if called she would answer. College girl, granddaughter of a North Italian Strega “witch” (as others said), war leader and all the later rest, she was more than anything descendant of people who had lived the frontier here in the frontier days, and she’d do what was needful. As she had, as others had, as they still did and would. For her people, and for all of her people.
    Wolverton was called as it was for a reason: the cold logistical syllogism of no farms, no food, next no cities. Their only effective protection had been the packs of were-wolves hunting the far smaller but still deadly… things, that followed after the Old Ones in their terrible eldritch glory.
    Sixty percent killed or maimed in action hadn’t stopped them doing their duty. Thus, Wolverton.

    Even watching her little girl play in the sand, still careful of her outfit, was a glorious reunion with the unordinary landscape of normal life — not snatched in scant handfuls home on leave, not read about secondhand in Emma’s letters — glorious and priceless, to be present in her own proper and rightful life. August was Away in one of the other Realms, but even he should rejoin them soon.
    She’d make this painting a window into all that mundane magic, all that precious commonality, as seen through the eyes of one who’d seen too much else.

    It was the Year of Our Lord and Lady eighteen hundred and ninety-five. Anna dared to hope the dawn of the Twentieth Century in barely five and a half years would see Amanda a young woman starting a brand-new and *very* different age. But if not — all Earth’s children had by now become the most potent weapon of all. And their Vanquished foe towered yet toward the sky in witness.

    • Professor Badness

      Okay, where’s the rest?
      I want to throw money at it.

      • analytical-engine-mechanic

        Alas, as the much-missed Jerry Pournelle used to say/write, it’s (almost!) true here that there is no “rest of it” — this vignette (on a picture cue) came direct from the image, without any of those ‘previous characters or situations’ that have underlain some earlier famously/infamously over-length vignettes.

        This is one of those Truly Amazing Stories (pun intended) that came together almost by itself over 2-3 hours of writing and maybe 3/4 hour of editing; and it’s also literally the first bignette/story/anything of a horror-fantasy theme or nature I’ve ever written or tried to write. (Freudian typo, that; now I know what to call ’em, just like filk songs.) A.k.a., proof of principle.
        (Writers’ workshops?!? We don’ need no steenking writers’ workshops …?!)

        However, there is some left-over background, so watch this space for another (now half-written) vignette set soon after this one. And I *do* know (as in plot outline) what happens in the Madhouse War, at least at the macro level; and maybe even some interesting Twentieth Century postbellum stuff.

        And as far as the “throw money at it” part, thank you and I’m working on that…

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