So right now we have a concept and have outlined a plot.  We are working this script as an audio drama, told from the perspective of a new employee at a large corporation.  I don’t want to give too many details, but we feel like this will be a fun script to write, and it should turn into a fun comedic drama (not a comedy).

For me the difference between a comedy and a comedic drama is the perspective of the characters.  In a comedy, the characters are at least trying to make jokes.  There are setups and punchlines and the like.

In a comedic drama, the jokes are there, but they arise more from the absurdity of the situation.  This is not to be confused with the type of situational humor where the character is immersed in an embarrassing situation (a classic example of this would be Meet the Parents–a movie which I consider unwatchable because of the degree to which the main character spends his time being in intensely embarrassing situations).   This is when a character finds themselves in a situation that is so absurd that its amusing.  A good example of this is the show Chuck.  While it does sometimes have the embarrassing humor, it more often relies on the characters being put in absurd situations.

All that said, by then end of April I should have a full script of 100 pages, which google tells me that means we are shooting for about 100 minutes of produced drama.  Of course we may end up doing no better than I did for NoNaWriMo, where I managed to only squeak out about 8000 words for the months–not really a respectable pace at all.  But that’s what I get for trying to write, have a full-time job, and spend time with my family.

Here’s the deal: The book came out in 2006.  It’s 3 1/2 years old.  Pretty much 60% of the women that I know about have read it.  Move into the LDS population and that jumps to something like 90% of the women between about 18 and 40.  I’ll be nice and say that the reaction is enthusiastic.

So here it is 2010, and my wife (see…) checks the book out of the library and says to me, “I’d like you to read this”.  That’s fair–I hand her books and tell her that she would enjoy them quite often.  Only when I really think she will, but since I read so much, it’s pretty often that I find one that I think she will like.  So I had this book lurking on the bookshelf in our bedroom (that’s right), and I figure it won’t take me long to read it, so I might as well.

Now I’m going to quote this article by Orson Scott Card (also LDS, in case you didn’t know):

“For instance, I really hate vampire fiction. I don’t understand why anyone is attracted to it. So even though I know Stephenie Meyer to be a faithful Latter-day Saint and a lovely human being, I’m incapable of giving a fair reading to her vampire novels.

That doesn’t mean I have some kind of duty to “save” other people from reading her novels by getting them banned from bookstores.”

Now to be clear, I don’t hate vampire fiction–I quite enjoyed Angel, and I liked Sarah Ash’s “Tears of Artaman” series as it’s a refreshing look at the vampire and dragon mythologies.  But it is hard for me to give Twilight a fair shake despite the fact that I’m positive Stephanie Meyer is a good person.

I’m not going to talk about the story itself much–although I seriously doubt that there are any real spoilers I could give at this point.  Instead I want to focus on the storytelling, because really I think that’s the important part of  a story.  Plot is not unimportant, but to be honest, a simplistic or even revisited plot can be made to work if the story is well-written.

The plot of Twilight is (as far as I know) original enough, but it certainly plays on a lot of familiar themes.  Girl meets boy, falls in love, there are obstacles to that love, they overcome obstacles, all is dandy.

Now the question is (in my mind): is it well told.  The answer, predictably, is both yes and no.  Despite myself, as I read the book, I did find her style engaging.  That said there are two or three things that really bothered me.  First is the occasional grammatical gaffe.  I’m not talking about using who instead of whom, but tense matching (Bella says something about doing something ‘tomorrow’, when she in narrating the story in the past tense; this wouldn’t be a problem if she had been talking to someone other than the reader when that comes up) is important.  If you write a book in the standard 3rd person omniscient past, then you need to stick with that.  Even third person limited.  First person perspectives need somewhat more careful attention, primarily because you know that the person telling the story is going to survive.  In a romance novel, this is okay.  In a vampire-novel, it *might* be okay, but it certainly takes out any sense of real danger.  Nevertheless breaking with the chosen tense and character is jarring.

The other thing that really jarred me out of any immersion in the book was the vampire baseball.   As a device to show how strong and physically impressive the vampires are, it worked.  It also worked to set up with the ‘wild’ vampires.  Except for one minor problem–it wasn’t necessary. Now I recognize that a lot of things happen in real life that aren’t ‘necessary’.  I certainly didn’t need to eat that candy bar yesterday, but I did.  But a novel is different–we expect as readers to be shown the things that are most relevant to the story itself.  Some authors are very sparse in this regard, while others (I’m looking at you Mr. Jordan!  Tad Williams, you are at LEAST as guilty!) are very verbose.  Twilight reads like a book that’s reasonably terse.  There’s little in the book that isn’t plot-driven.  Meyer even makes sure to go back and explain why some thing are important.  But the vampire baseball is redundant for showing the physical prowess of the vampires.  At that point in the book if a reader hasn’t figured out that the vampires are insanely strong and fast, they haven’t been paying attention at all.  Edward stops a car with his bare hands then picks up a van with one hand! This guy is strong.  We get that.

So I found that jarring.  Not that there is some objective standard that says it was a bad scene, I just found it jarring because of the redundancy.

Now to the real question: will I read the sequels?  Yes.  I likely will.  Overall, for a book solidly aimed at a different demographic (not males 33 yrs old), it did a remarkably good job of getting and holding my attention.  I don’t love it, and I’m not a fan.  But I do recognize that they are engaging, but I thinks that is more of a function of the storytelling than the plot.  Well done Ms. Meyers.

Note: I have the deepest respect for anyone that can actually finish a book and get it published.  They’ve done more than I have.  Maybe some day.

I read while cooking, waiting for my computer to boot (which is rare–I typically leave it on), during commercials (exception: the super bowl, in which case I read during the game and watch the commercials–or I just ignore the whole thing).  I read at night before bed (last night I stayed up an extra hour or so reading). I also read when I am walking.  People tell me that this is a bad habit, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that.  In fact, I’ve fallen while walking without a book FAR more than while reading.  I do not, however, read while I am driving.  People who do that deserve exactly what they get.  It’s as bad or worse as driving while intoxicated.

And when I am reading, I move through the pages quickly, but never skimming.  Skimming leads to a person needing to re-read pages because a useful bit of information was missed.

At work, about 25-35% of my job is reading journal articles and test manuals (the other part being WRITING journal articles, test questions & manuals and more).  I re-read Robert Jordan’s massive series recently, going through it in fairly short order.

I have never understood people who don’t enjoy reading, or that say they don’t have time to read.  I DO understand people who read slowly because of some problem or other.  I have a number of friends and acquaintances who are highly dyslexic, and I don’t blame them for reading slowly.

In fact, reading quickly isn’t necessarily a virtue.  It means that I have less overall time with the story, the characters, and the setting.  It means that even a lengthy series of books is but a passing friend.  It means that without a solid local public library (I appreciate my librarians more than I can possibly say) I would have long exhausted my ability to acquire books at the rate I read–not having hundreds of dollars to spare on my habit each month.

There are upsides that are undeniable, however.  I have read a lot of books in my life–likely numbering in the thousands, but I can’t be sure.  When a new book comes out, I never have to wait long to finish the one I am on to read it.  Because of this I have been exposed to a myriad of writing styles and stories.  Reading quickly means that I can take a risk in getting an author I don’t know much about–I won’t be spending a month on their stuff, and if I don’t like it, I’ll know that much sooner (of course, with few exceptions, once I start a book, I finish it–only if it egregiously vulgar or poorly written will I abandon it).

Of course, the point of all this, is that I believe that being a quick reader allows me to be a better writer.  Of course, that’s not the only requirement for being a good writer, but it helps.  I’ve noticed that the big names in writing have very different approaches to reading.  Orson Scott Card (whose various columns are quite insightful) seems to read a bit of everything.  I know that David Eddings once wrote that he avoids reading fantasy, though that’s what he writes.

Personally I read largely in the speculative fiction area when I’m reading for pleasure (most people might call this genre ’science fiction & fantasy’, but that’s another post).  There are two major reasons for this: first I enjoy seeing what worlds others will create and second I appreciate that there are some moral, political, social and ethical dilemmas that are more easily presented as part of a plot on a fictional other world than as dealing with examples on our own planet. Of course, I also like to get away from reading journal articles with titles like “Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder: Endophenotypes, Structure, and Etiological Pathways”.  I just like a mental break, and speculative fiction allows me that, while keeping my mind engaged.

So, I may read faster than you, but chances what you read is more carefully selected.  Or you might actually read faster than me.  Who knows?

I am currently  working on a work that is told from the POV of a non-human character, and her reaction to meeting them for the first time.  It’s coming along nicely, but I am still struggling with a few details of it.

Both of the above remind me of why so many authors choose to write things that are told from either third-person omniscient or even a semi-omniscient narrator.   Telling a story from an unusual POV or about alternate realities quickly becomes a great deal of work.  Somehow I end up choosing things that are not easy to write.  I guess I’m just that self-flagellating.  One day, I will finish writing something, and it will be worth reading!

The basis for the story is that at some point an empire is founded and called the Empire of Guam.  The founding of this empire is done using the Time Machine, and the results are that most everyone ends up living in massive clock-work cities where the houses and shops are built on the gears and cogs of the clock-works, the people use the chains and pulleys that connect the cogs as transport, and all this is powered by massive steam-driven technology.  Of course WHY this clock-work assembly exists or what purpose it serves is something that will be revealed in the story itself.

The protagonists in the story are setting out to find out more about the Empire in which they live, and how it came about.  One is a private detective and the other is his client, a worker in a grease factory (these grease factories produce the lubricants necessary to keep a massive multi-ton cog & gear system moving) both of whom have discovered that what they think they know isn’t really all that accurate.  Which isn’t surprising considering that there is a time machine involved.  It was originally meant to be a short story, but I find that I simply cannot write the story that needs to be told in a short space.

Which is, of course, my major obstacle in finishing a draft–I keep realizing that there are details that must be added and idea and subplots that MUST be addressed in order for the story that is there to be properly told.  All this would be fine if I were a published author who had the leisure of doing nothing else but write.  As things stand, I actually have to work for a living…

Here’s to finishing the story!

To date I have at LEAST 4 unfinished manuscripts with a word count well over 10k words.  One is about 25k words, and another is in the 20-25k range.  And they are all nowhere close to being finished.  I have ideas at bare plot sketches for another 3 or 4  stories.

The problem?  First off, time management.  I have a LOT of other things that I enjoy doing or need to do, and those inevitably end up taking priority for various reasons.  Family, work, & finishing my dissertation all take priority.  Then, because I’m rather stressed after all that I find the need to relax looming a bit larger than I’d like.  So I end up playing video games a lot more than I should.  Which leads me to be curious about the internal workings of the game, and then I start playing around with the editor, and that then becomes a very fascinating toy (and oddly relaxing, even though it can be very mentally challenging).  I’ve done this with various games (warcraft 3 is my current poison, but I’ve also played with Diablo II, which doesn’t even have an official editor!) and I always end up learning enough to make me feel that I’ve mastered something new, but I never really push the limits of it because I don’t want to put too much time into it.

So writing becomes a hobby that I love dearly, but I simply never make as much time for as I would like.  This, of course, means that I don’t blog well.  Even when I have wordpress to do the work for me.

This website sums it up for me quite well:  http//:you.are.a.disorganized.freak.andyousuck.com

Made by my good friend Big-O, it’s a pretty neat little site. Maybe I’ll figure out a way to organize myself eventually, but for now…I languish in the pits of chaos, a freak twisted and spit out by the churning of societal insanity.   But enough self-loathing and despair.  I’m actually going to post this and another thought as well…

“I’m not boasting!” The familiar denial flows with ease from Jara’s lips. It came with readiness, and he had the good sense to look embarrassed this time. Perhaps he was finally realizing how ridiculous his claims were.
He had only been in Aerth town for two days, but already his outrageous stories—and denial of fabrication—had earned him the reputation of a braggart and liar of the highest order. True enough he had some gold, and spent as if his supply were infinite, but his claim of crossing the Northern Mountains and bested a dragon were just too much. In living memory no one had ever crossed the mountains and only a few had tried.Jara’s claims to have bested a dragon were even more preposterous. In Aerth, dragons are fables that no one believes, and even in the fables dragons were never slain, just appeased. Oh, there were legends of heroes driving a dragon to seek easier prey, but of actually slaying one, or finding its lair there has never been an account.
Yet here sat Jara not only claiming to have seen a dragon, he claims to have found its home and killed the beast. Ridiculous? No, inconceivable! Any child could have beat this charlatan at sword-play, and the weakest girl over ten could have wrestled him to the ground.
So while he had money, he wore neither armor nor weapon of any type. He even wore a robe—as if he were a mendicant priest! His staff wasn’t even like a ceremonial ornament, but neither was it a weapon. Just a crude walking stick, the staff appeared as if he had carried it for years. Add to that the fact that the first thing he did upon arriving was get falling-down drunk.
No, this was no explorer or hero, but a ruffian of the worst kind. He sat there, enduring the sneers of the other tavern patrons until he was too drunk to even sit properly, let alone stand. Then Aril, the tavern’s owner, had him carried to a bed. His gold was good, and what he had spent in just two days was enough to allow Aril to close shop and live like a king for the rest of his life.
Aril wasn’t the only one who had benefited from Jara’s largess. The blacksmith had been paid fifty gold coins to tend his two horses, and the general store had been given almost triple that for a week’s supply of food and few paltry items of equipment.
Truly he was the talk of the town, but no one credited his fanciful stories with even the slightest modicum of truth. Around midnight he stumbled back into the commons, groggy but cognizant. He sat down and ordered strong coffee from the tired barmaid who was still running the shop.
Raising her eyebrows she complied. When she brought it back he ordered some food. She brought him a platter of cold meat, bread, cheese and fruit, all of which he devoured. Just as she watched him finish the last bite, the door opened and a striking figure entered from the rain-driven night, a stricken look on his face.
“Who!? Who has done it?” The question was piercing, and his voice trembled slightly, incongruous with his large and imposing frame, which was encased in heavy armor. No one move, and confusion reigned, until he spoke again. “Who has slain StormClaw, Ancient dragon of the North-lands?”
Stunned, the patrons who had scoffed at Jara’s stories turned and stared as the diminutive man stood and walked to face the warrior who so fervently demanded attention.
“What concern is it to you? The fate of a dragon?” The question was smooth, un-fazed by the imposing presence of this stranger. Surely, thought the barmaid, this is not the drunkard who earlier boasted so outrageously to us all—so suddenly commanding and strong with a certain air of power.
The warrior stared hard at Jara, then hung his head. “StormClaw was the protector of the North-lands and king of dragons. I am Alger, first-knight of the Dragons, and preserver of dragon-lore. Who are you?”
Jara smiled, the brash youth of earlier gone. He stroked his beard, and the barmaid realized for the first time that he was truly handsome. “I am called Jara. That is all you need to know. It was I who slew StormClaw.”
Immediately the warrior began to draw his sword, then stopped half-way as if frozen. His veins bulged, and his face reddened, as if straining against a tremendous force. After a moment he seemed to relax and then his sword dropped back into its sheath.
“Are you a wizard? Speak truly, for I can slay you without my sword.” The knight was suddenly calm, and power radiated from him as well. Wiser patrons were clearing the room, sensing that the impending fight would not be pretty.
“No good knight Alger, I am no wizard. You know that magic of that type is forbidden. I, like you, am a knight, though of a different order. Honestly, I am surprised you do not recognize me for what I am.”
“I don’t know what you are, but you die tonight for your crime. I am honor-bound to call upon the powers given me, so that if you indeed slew StormClaw, you will be smitten dead.”
A white bar of light sprang up, surrounding Jara, but he stood calm, unconcerned by the potential danger. Alger gasped, then dropped to his knees. “What are you?”he stammered finally.
Jara smiled kindly, and walked out of the light and helped Alger stand, and whispered to him. The knight paled, then turned and fled into the night once again. Returning to the bar, Jara calmly ordered more food and some wine.

The next day he left, and Aerth soon forgot about him. He traveled further south, this time for a month, picking up supplies as he went. In every town a similar scene was repeated, each time Alger demanding to Jara’s death, and each time Jara was unscathed. No one suspected the truth—not even Alger, who could never remember what happened after Jara whispered in his ear. At every town the knight was surprised to learn that this ragtag man had slain the mightiest of dragons. At each town he was unable to draw his sword and his powers were useless against Jara.
One month of southward travel, and then a second. Many more months passed, and then they were on the south sea, where the Black-earth Mountains meet the ocean in a violent clash of primordial forces. The village that nestled between the wet and dry thrived at nearly twelve thousand people. They called it a city, but both travelers knew better.
Jara’s home was the great city of Yorse, which dominated the plains of the great north. At nearly twenty million persons, it was the most advanced and powerful in history—or so he claimed.
Alger hied from a smaller city, but even at only ten million, Avar was worthy of note. Even so he had visited Yorse numerous times, and knew what a city was. This tiny mountain place was nothing like the cities he knew. The people here knew nothing, and like those in countless other villages, these knew nothing of dragons or wizardry. Like all the others, the night’s spectacle should have faded into distant memory as quickly as a pool evaporates in the desert sun.
The encounter began like the others. Jara arrived two days ahead of Alger and began drinking heavily. The second night he passed out and was put in bed by an innkeeper who could now retire from the gold garnered from his short stay.
Around midnight Jara came down the stairs, at some food, and finished it just before Alger burst in. The encounter was identical until Alger watched as the white light engulfed Jara. Glaring, something snapped and Alger suddenly leaped forward.
“You!” He shouted, and Jara smiled.
“Yes, it is me. How did you finally recognize me?”
Alger glowered. ” I don’t know, but you are to die tonight.”
“To what end? I have committed no crime.”
“What?” Alger thundered. “No crime? Slaying a dragon is forbidden, even for one of your order.”
Jara nodded and then said, ” You know the law full well. No one may be punished without proper trial. How do you plan to take me to Yorse for trial? You have no way to force me and I will not come.”
“You are right on all accounts but one. You are right especially on how well I know the law. Article twelve sub-clause four of section C in the Resolution of Military Rights states that the head of any order may condemn anyone to death for murder on any evidence, provided that they are confident that it will pass in court. I am confident, and you are condemned to death. Your order requires you to follow the law. Will you submit? Or must we fight?”
Hanging his head, Jara nodded slightly. “I will not resist any longer.”
At that moment the white bar of light appeared a second time and Jara crumpled to the floor. Alger prodded the corpse, paid the innkeeper for his trouble and left.

The fresh grave was unmarked as no one in the village cared for the stranger aside from the gold he had carried. No one knew how he died, and no one recalled seeing him before he was found dead in the town square. The hours passed and the sun sat on the tiny mountain village. The moon rose, and then, in a violent surge of earth, that grave broke. The shaped that came out was odd—first human, but then changing quickly.
Down in the village two lovers lay gazing at the moon. She gasped as the moon suddenly silhouetted a strange shape. Many others saw it, and for years the village talked about how the dead stranger was resurrected as a dragon.
Northward, years later, a lone knight is banished from the city and stripped of all rank. Alger, one time leader of the Knights of the Dragon, hangs his head in shame. He is not killed—not because there is no evidence, but because of his determined and dedicated service for so long. No one questions his loyalty, only his wisdom and sanity.
The legend would spread and he would become known as the traitor who slew the great dragon. Yet, in a cave deep in the mountains just north of Aerth Town the truth is well-known, and an ancient dragon smiles, for now humans no longer believe in his kind, the last of the true believers banished. Now he is truly free to do as he pleases, and Jara StormClaw is at last able to sleep in peace…

For the planet Balochian there is only one word: cold. Not just the weather, but everything there is frigid, especially the people. Don’t expect any help from them! How do I know this? I am stuck here, and I have been here for a very long time, centuries it feels like. The eternal ice has infected the people, the government, and everything. Nothing here cares about anything. How do you explain that you want to leave to officials that don’t care? How do you bribe an officer whose only concern is the system?How do you start a conversation with these people? You cannot. So I am stuck here, in hell. Yes, that’s right, Hell. Anyone who thinks hell is hot only needs to visit me here, and they will know the difference. Hell is cold, and if a mortal can visit there while living it is this planet. Actually, I am beginning to think that hell would be a better place than this planet.
How did I get here? Good question, and I ask myself that same thing every day. The answer is simple, but requires explanation so that you don’t think I am crazy. You see, I chose to come here. I knew it! You think I’m crazy now. Well, you might be right, but please let me explain!
It started four years ago, on the pleasant world of Xys, where I had the privilege to be raised. It is a wonderful place, Xys. For the most part it is lush and green, with generally mild seasons and a long growing season. As a result it is given to two points of commerce: farming and tourism.
Being a young man there is not difficult—one can always find work either on the farms, as a tour guide, or in one the hundreds of stores that cater to the needs and wants of the infinite stream of tourists. I chose guide others across the open terrain, showing them how to ‘survive’ by eating the lush fruits and avoiding the very few dangerous animals left on Xys.
It was a fun life, and I enjoyed it too much, but that all changed the day that a wealthy gentleman came and paid me to escort him and his family for a four month excursion. The trip was good, and I was handsomely paid. I don’t know why, for I am not normally given to boasting, but on this occasion I found myself claiming to be able to survive in any climate.
From here, one might think my destiny was certain, but it is not that simple. You see, we made a deal; if I could survive for three years apiece on any four planets that he named, he would give me enough money to live like a king for the rest of my life.
Thus I am here on Balochian, freezing to death. I have been here for three and a half years, and I can’t leave. No, the deal is over you see, as what no one told me is that one cannot leave this planet until they have been here for twelve years.
Last week was the capstone of my misery, however, when I received word that my rich benefactor was killed in riots on Verial 5. So I will never leave this icy grave, and that’s all right because I will die tonight, and end my own misery.

[Editor’s Note: Martin Gusirian, erstwhile tour guide and gambler died at age twenty. One week later, the planet Balochian was ordered to allow free passage to all persons on the planet. Two weeks later, Richard von Armol was found, having been missing four weeks after the terrible riots on Verial 5, and presumed dead. Mr. Gusirian was found to have died from self-inflicted wounds.]

Once, in the distant eastern lands, a very noble thing happened, and this story will try to tell the wonder. Yet no one knows exactly what happened, or what caused it. Rumors ran rampant for years after, but the truth of what changed in a bitter young man may never be known. So, while there are many versions of what happened, this is the tale I like the best. Nobody told me this version, but many have heard it from my lips and they will hear it again before all is done.
Shad was a young man like many others—strong, active and more than a little mischievous. He was different in one very important way, and this difference made him the talk for miles. Some people pitied him, but most held a deep dislike for Shad. True, he was handsome, and even successful as a blacksmith, but he was more than a little surly, and the tales he told to other young men were usually lewd and bawdy, or sometimes dark, and frightening. Everyone knew that his attitude toward life was cynical, and his bitterness turned heads.
One time he was found making a flawed hammer. When confronted he lashed out at the man who called him to own up. He broke arms, and noses, with his sudden attack. The time he spent in the stocks only seemed to embitter him further.

After that people accepted his sometimes flawed work as a matter of course. His only further comment was that the people buying from him were flawed, so they didn’t deserve equipment better than they were. This bitterness extended to every aspect of his short life. Customers always had to wait before he would acknowledge them, and his work was always late. The area had no other blacksmith, and so they couldn’t go anywhere else and Shad always complained that there was too much work and that no one was ever grateful for his ability or work.
Strangely enough he was never short on business, but he complained that he never had time to spend his hard-earned money. As a result he was extremely wealthy. In turn this made him suspicious of everyone. Anyone caught lingering was a thief in his mind, and those who were nice to him were mere opportunists who wanted nothing but his money.
Despite Shad’s attitude there was no shortage of pretty young ladies who thought they could change him. These he shunned more than the rest, claiming loudly that all they wanted was his wealth. Nothing, it seemed, would help Shad, for he did not want help.
Yet all that was destined to change. As I said before, no one is certain why, or exactly when it began, because it wasn’t all at once. I believe, although some would disagree, that it started on the day that Eia came to town.
Eia was a stranger, but one that everyone instantly liked. She was young and beautiful, and yet far from arrogant. Some thought her a princess, but there was never a princess like Eia; for all her sweet smiles and kindly ways, Eia was a wild spirit, the kind of girl that refused to learn any of the normal things that a girl learned in that village.
Of sewing and needlecraft she knew nothing, and the only cooking she did was over a campfire. Medicine was a foreign thing to her, unless it was to dress battle-wounds. In fact her only skills were those that were usually only learned by woodsmen, hardened soldiers and the deadliest of fighters. She could hunt and kill any prey, and her skill with the bow was unsurpassed by any. The first day she was seen she got into a fight with Shad. It happened like this:
Early one morning she appeared in his shops and woke him, for that was where he slept, having no family or friends. She demanded that he make her a sword, and paid him gold for his immediate work. Scowling, he agreed to forge the weapon, but when she returned for it, he had not yet begun. The normally sweet girl, who had already endeared herself to the innkeeper and his family, turned furious. Coldly she demanded that Shad begin immediately, and she was going to stay and watch. The dour young man only laughed bitterly, and cursed loudly, saying she could wait like all the others. Eia had had enough, and told him that he would start immediately or return her gold.
Shad had never had anyone stand up to him, and girl or no, he wasn’t going to let anyone start. Swinging his fist, he intended to teach her who was going to win every conversation. The fight was short, and Shad was beaten in the blink of an eye. He agreed to her terms, cursing the whole while. The sword was made quickly, despite his broken nose and stiff that Eia provided for him. Was she hurt? Not at all, and when she commented to others that Shad must have lost a lot of fights because of his lack of skill, she did so innocently.
That turned heads. Shad was generally acknowledged as the best. When someone pointed this out, Eia only laughed, saying that he fought like a half-dead lap dog. Two days later someone mentioned this to Shad, who grabbed his sword, determined to show this upstart girl what he could do. He found her teaching some children how to shoot a bow. Screaming he attacked her, only to find that she was his better. He lost his sword quickly, and she gave him a scar to wear for his attempt.
I have been asked many times why this didn’t make things worse. Some people ask if they were married, and lived happily ever after. I can’t say why this didn’t further embitter Shad, but I do know they never married. In fact, shortly after that, Eia left for two years.
During that time, Shad changed somewhat. For the first time someone had proven they were better at fighting than him. Soon Eia became a fantasy for him. No, he did not love her. Quite the opposite in fact. He dreamed constantly of how to defeat her. Then one day he heard a tale of her, and thought to follow it. Here—here was his chance for revenge! Finally he could fight her and show her his skill. So he left, riding north into the mountains.
Four months he was gone. Some say this is when he changed, but I know that even once he returned he was still bitter, but something did happen while he was gone. He traveled for a month, following rumors of her location. It seemed that everyone knew her name, and everywhere he went people only spoke the best of sweet Eia.
“Oh!” they would exclaim. “You are looking for Eia? She was here but a month past. She went to the duke’s castle.”

At the castle he would be told that she was gone for some days, but wasn’t she a sweet girl? No, they didn’t know where she went, but it was to the south. Riding hard he found she had gone north again. So went the whole time, until he found himself lost in a blizzard. Heavy snow mired his horse, and he shivered bitterly.
That night found him shivering. His horse had died, and this was death coming for him. As blackness found him and he prepared to die, his bitterness struck him. Grudgingly he admitted his pain, and recognized that he was unhappy. It may have been hours or minutes, but somehow he was found and when Eia brought him to the shop where he had once worked, everyone stopped and stared. No one doubted that he hated her, but here she brought the half dead man and nursed him back to health. When he gained his health, she was gone. During this time is when I believe he changed the most. He saw the days pass, and everyone came to help, never asking for anything in return.
Months and years passed, but everyone who helped him found, with no payment, much needed tools repaired or made without asking. Slowly, people noticed the change in Shad. He was still surly, but tools were made better than ever before. Prices dropped, and service improved. Nobody mentioned it to Shad more than once. Then it happened, all at once. Eia returned, this time in a beautiful dress instead of leather armor. This time she had a young groom, and their child was a year old. Everyone waited for Shad to attack her, but she went into his shop alone, and was gone five minutes. When she came out she was smiling. She and her husband left promptly.
I have never found out what was said, but Shad was never the same. He only saw Eia twice more. A year after his final change he married, and she appeared at the wedding, wished them luck and was gone. Shad did live happily after that, and although his beautiful wife asked many times, he never told her what had been said in those magical five minutes. Yet she was grateful for Eia. Shad never mistreated her, and was a perfect gentleman to everyone. His service to those around him became legendary, and was given a magnificent funeral. Thousands came to see him, and his grave is clearly marked.
Yes, a noble thing happened, for a heart was changed. The bitterest of souls became the most loved among men. There is nothing more noble than that.  What’s that you ask? Oh, the last time Shad met Eia? Why, just before he died, she showed up—still young and beautiful. She took him aside and they spoke.

“Has it been worth it?” was all she asked. His only reply was to take her hand, kiss it and smile, before tears flowed from his eyes.

“My lady, as you say.”

“Good, then your life has been full.” She left immediately, and hasn’t been seen since. I don’t know where she is now, but chances are she is still hunting, camping and fighting.

My buddy Big-O for all his help.

Obviously the original theme designers (link at bottom of page), and credit to these guys for some of the images I’ve taken, played with and made my own.  Every image they provided I modified in some way using inkscape, which is a invaluable tool for the gear-loving steam enthusiast.  I’m not a graphic artist, but I am capable of taking an image and manipulating it to my advantage.

So with all that said, the Time Machine of Guam lives.