Live, damn it! Live! NOOOoooo....

Hey guys...

So...um...

How 'bout them Rockies?  No, never mind, I can't put it off any longer.

My Frankenputer is about to die.  It's held on through thick and thin, new plug after new plug, but I fear it's reached the end of its short, hard life.  Damn it, this is why I can't have nice things. *hangs head in shame*

I'm probably going to buy another computer tomorrow, by mortgaging my soul perhaps, because while it isn't something I can easily afford it is something that I can't live without.  I've got everything backed up, never fear, but if by some freak of chance I am denied computer access for more than a day, the next installation of Love Letters might be late.  Which sucks, because we're finally getting to the action!



I could just cry.  Aaanyway, I wanted you to be forewarned.  This might all be much ado about nothing, but if it isn't, I don't want people to send hitmen after me.

Love Has No Boundaries beginning

For your reading pleasure...read on!  This is the beginning of my Goodreads Love Has No Boundaries story.  I'm up to 20k and still going strong.  Enjoy, darlins.

***

 

I was born in the middle of a desert, at a gas station on the side of the road.  At least that’s what they told me when I was young, and still stupid enough to ask.  Born abandoned, to a poor country girl who couldn’t make it to help in time.  Born with no father, no name and no future.  Born with no hope, so I should be grateful for what I was given, damn it, and stop asking questions.  I suffered through my youth in the desert, I joined the army and was sent to the desert, and a hell of a lot of my freelance work took place there too.  For some reason it’s a lot harder to get a job to kill someone on a tropical island than it is in the middle of a god-forsaken wasteland with nothing but sand, rocks and sun to recommend it.  Oh yeah, and oil.  That was usually the deciding factor.

 

I was sick to death of deserts, literally.  They were just killing fields as far as I was concerned, and so when I retired—by which I mean ran as hard as I could, covered my tracks and didn’t look back—I chose the Pacific Northwest as my new home.  Nothing but rain and trees and mountains.  It had cloudy skies, cool temperatures, and plenty of isolation if I wanted it, which I did.  I found a fixer-upper on the east edge of Renton, Washington, under the shadow of Mount Rainier.  I modified it to my specifications, moved in everything I owned (a U-Haul trailer carrying more weapons than clothes, and no furniture) and accidentally ended up with a dog, too.  The dog wasn’t my idea, I had never had a pet before and had no intention of starting, but the lure of company won out over the inconvenience in the end.  That was how I ended up tramping along the trail behind my house late at night about a year after I got there, walking my damn dog in the drizzling rain. 

 

Della was a good girl, don’t get me wrong, but she was young and training was going a little slowly.  I still didn’t trust her not to get distracted and run off if I let her out at night on her own, so I went with her.  It was Della who found the body, suddenly straining against her leash in a way I’d almost broken her of, whining and eager.  Her gangly paws dug into the leafy trail as she pulled against my grip.

 

“Heel,” I told her, forcing her down by my side.  She subsided, but was still quivering.  “What’s your problem?” I muttered, looking forward into the misty gloom.  It was late spring, still cold by my thin-blooded standards, and the only light around came from my flashlight.  “What?”  She whined again, made an abortive little twitch like she wanted to spring forward and I let her this time.  She pulled me the next twenty-five feet at a brisk pace before stopping abruptly at the base of a thick tree.  Something was propped up against it.

 

Not something.  Someone.

 

Now that I was closer I could smell the blood in the air, that tell-tale tang that you never can forget.  There had to be a lot of it, for me to smell it over the rain.  I told Della to sit a few feet away, so she wouldn’t get any ideas about whether this was a good time to try licking the body, and shined my flashlight down at the corpse’s face.

 

His skin was so pale it was blue, his lips gone purple.  A dark, sticky river of red trailed from somewhere in his thick, dark hair down the side of his face, darkening his neck and the collar of his uniform…oh, fuck me.  His police uniform.  This was a cop.  I had a dead cop less than five hundred feet from my house, from my safety net.  How the fuck had he gotten out here?  Who would go to that kind of trouble?  More to the point, did it have anything to do with me?  There were plenty of people I preferred to remain anonymous to in my new, civilian incarnation.  If one of them had found me, and he was some kind of warning—

 

Then I saw the word scrawled on his chest in smeared yellow spray paint, and my paranoia flipped over into anger.  FAG.  All caps, wide and aggressive.  There was more blood beneath that—Christ, how much had this poor guy bled before he died?  The redness was almost black in the harsh glare of my LED flashlight.  I sighed and moved the light back up to his face, and froze.  His eyes were open.  They had been closed before.

 

He was still alive.

 

“Shit.”

 

His eyes stayed open and focused on me.  There was no expression in his face and he didn’t make a sound, not even a whisper of the pain I knew he had to be in, but he was looking at me.  Now that I was looking for it I saw the infinitesimal rise and fall of his chest, his barely-there breathing.  This boy should have been dead, but he wasn’t.  Well.  That took away some of my options.  Unless I wanted to end this here and now, which…well, it wouldn’t be the first time I had helped someone along who was just too far gone to make it back.  A fast death could be the greatest mercy in the world, sometimes.

 

Della whimpered and scratched the ground near the body, looking up at me with dark, shining eyes. 

 

“Yeah, I know,” I told her sourly.  If I couldn’t leave a dog to die on my property, there was no way in hell I could leave a person, even if that person was a cop.  The last thing I needed were the police looking into me, but maybe…maybe they wouldn’t have to know.

 

I unhooked the leash from Della’s collar, then slid my arms beneath the young cop’s torso and thighs and lifted him up.  His head lolled back, and he did make a noise this time, a hoarse, punched-out groan in the back of his throat, probably not consciously.  I swore and tilted him more against my body, for better support, then walked as fast as I could in the dark back to my house.  I had to punch in the code to unlock the door with my pinkie—the kid was heavier than he looked—and opened it with some difficulty, but eventually we got inside.  I lay the cop down, as gently as I could, on my leather couch.  Della stayed close to me, my own tension affecting her, and we both looked at him.

 

He was seeping blood all over my couch.  “God damn it.”  I ran to my bathroom and pulled down my first aid kit, yanking out the gauze bandaging and tape.  I came back, took a closer look at his head wound and grimaced.  That was skull I was seeing in one place.  This kid needed way more help than I could give him, my significant experience with field medicine notwithstanding.  I put the gauze over the wound and taped it down, heedless of his hair, just knowing that the bleeding needed to stop.  His eyes had thinned to thin slits, the irises barely visible, but I could feel their focus on me.  “I’ll get you to help,” I promised him, not caring if he could hear me.  I needed to reaffirm it for myself.  No ambulance, but I still had temporary plates on the Explorer in my garage.  I could rip those off and drive him to the nearest ER, drop him off and no one would be the wiser.  Sounded good.

 

The first part was easy enough.  I prepped my car, carried the kid out and laid him down in the back seat, started up the engine and headed toward town.  The closest hospital was nine miles away.  If I drove fast I could be there in eight minutes on these roads. 

 

There was no wallet or badge on the kid, but he was wearing a name tag that had been obscured by the paint.  I’d had the time to make it out as I was settling him into the backseat of my car.  Officer S. Bennett.  I wondered what the S stood for.  “Sam,” I tried out, keeping my eye on the back seat.  He was perfectly still now, and I couldn’t see his face.  I wondered if he was still breathing.  “Steve.  Nah, you don’t look like a Steve.  Scott.  Simon.”  I ran through every S name I could think of, filling the emptiness of the air with words as I took corners at insane speeds and gunned it even more on the flats. 

 

By the time we got to the hospital I’d been silent for two minutes, stuck at Sakima.  I pulled into the ER lane, pulled the hood up on my bulky, oversized jacket and ran inside.  “I need help out here!” People stared at me.  I swung my bloody fingers at the nearest wall, leaving a watery red spray across a banal painting of a pine tree.  “Now!”

 

In moments the car was swarmed with people, medical staff climbing into the back and transferring S. Bennet to a waiting gurney.  One of them kept firing questions at me: “Where did you find him?  When was he injured?  What’s your name?  Sir…sir, I need your name.  Sir!”

 

“I’ll be right back, I’m coming back,” I told her hastily, doing my best to act rattled.  “I just have to park the car.”

 

“Sir, you need to wait—” She was tenacious, this nurse.  Luckily an ambulance pulled in then, sirens blaring, and she suddenly had more important things to worry about than me.  I got into the Explorer, slammed my door shut and pulled out into the night.  There.  Duty done.  I could go home now.

 

I convinced myself of that for all of about thirty seconds before groaning and pulling a U-turn at the next stop sign.

Love Letters Post #12

 

Notes: We’re at the con!!!  Much fun awaits.  This section is coming so easily, it’s hugely fun to write.  I hope you guys enjoy it. 

PS--the Paradise page on this blog is finally complete.  The whole story is there if you want to re-read.  I’m going to get it ready to go up on Literotica soon. 

 

Title: Love Letters

 

Part Twelve: So, What Are You Supposed To Be?

 

***

 

 

Ben didn’t know much about the con, but he knew going in a suit would either make him stand out like a sore thumb or make everyone think he was cosplaying Tony Stark or something.  Since he didn’t have a costume yet and honestly had no intention of putting one on until he absolutely had to, Ben went with some of his more casual clothes.  It was a minor miracle there were any in his closet at all.

When he’d been doing the publicity tour for his book it had been Linda, naturally, who’d insisted that Ben get some “lovely but casual” clothes for the smaller readings.  Because she had absolutely no faith in Ben’s ability to dress himself in anything other than suits or sweats, that had led to an incredibly embarrassing hour with Linda in a department store picking out outfits and trying things on.  In the end Ben had just said yes to everything she pointed to in order to get it over faster, even the conceited fingerless gloves.

Actually, those gloves had gotten a lot of use.  The heating in his house wasn’t always the most efficient, and sometimes it was hard to type without an extra layer to keep his hands from freezing.

All of her efforts now led to Ben in a nice pair of jeans that he’d forgotten he’d owned, a blue Henley, a black wool jacket that was ridiculously comfortable, and a knitted green scarf, courtesy of Linda’s own knitting needles.  And also the gloves, because damn, it was cold out today.

 

 

Not that the low temperature had stopped other people from dressing up.  Walking up to the hotel Ben saw three elves, all of them wearing little more than gauze and a few strategic leaves, smoking cigarettes and bouncing up and down for warmth.  Inside the revolving doors the lobby was packed with people, some of them in costume, some not, all of them chatting excitedly.  Ben pushed through the crowd toward the desk with a sign above it indicating that it was the check-in and waited in line next to a blonde girl in a black and grey top, military fatigue pants and a complicated-looking gun holster, complete with orange-tipped gun.  She caught his eye and grinned.

“You like it?” she asked, giving him a spin.

 

 

“You look great,” Ben said honestly.  After a moment of speculation her grin got wider.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?”

“Well…no, but that’s probably no fault of your costume.”

“Of course not, because my costume is perfect,” she said with a saucy head-toss.  “I’m Starbuck.”  Ben looked at her blankly.  “Kara Thrace?”  He winced and shook his head.  “Battlestar Galactica?”  Still nothing.  “Oh Jesus, really?”  She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.  “You poor thing, you are so deprived.  How can you not have seen Battlestar Galactica?”  The line moved forward minutely.

“I don’t watch a lot of TV,” Ben said.

“Fair enough, but it’s all available on DVD and Blu-Ray and Hulu now, you should check it out.”  She looked him over.  “Let me guess…more of a Trekker?”

“Ah, no.”

Her eyes narrowed a bit, assessing him.  “Well there’s no way you’re an epic fantasy fan, because otherwise you’d be dressed to the nines.  Those guys are crazy.”

“Pardon me,” a voice echoed from a giant paper-mâché dragon’s head to their left.  “Mind if I sneak by you guys?”

“No problem,” Starbuck said.  They stepped back and let the blue dragon-person through.  He even had a jointed tail that swung behind him.  “Must be ‘cause the Eragon guy is here,” Starbuck mused.  “See what I mean about crazy, though?  Who wants to wear that all weekend?”

Ben had to laugh a little.  It all seemed kind of crazy to him, but who was he to judge?  “I’m not a fantasy fan, no.”

“Not even of Harry Potter?” she asked as they inched closer to the desk.  “You could kind of pull of a very adult Draco Malfoy right now if your scarf were a little more Slytheriny.”

“Not even Harry Potter,” Ben confessed.

“Damn.  That’s sad.”  She shook her head.  “We have to fix that for you this weekend, man.  I’ll request some Galactica in the screening room.  Tell me at least you’ve seen ‘The Walking Dead!’ They’ve got a zombie shooting range set up in one of the parlors.”

“I’ve never seen ‘The Walking Dead,’ sorry.”  At this point Ben really was starting to feel like a bit of a freak.

Starbuck put her hands on her hips.  “Then why on earth did you come to the con?”

Ben was saved from answering by their arrival at the desk.  A plump woman in daisy dukes, a mostly-unbuttoned checkered shirt and sporting what were probably custom fangs looked up at him and smiled.  “Hi there, welcome to MileHiCon!  Are you preregistered or do you need to register now?”

“Preregistered,” Ben said slowly, unable to look away from the two thin trickles of blood that crept down the side of her chin and neck and into her very ample cleavage.  They had to be uncomfortable.  “Ben DeWitt.”

“Nice costume,” Starbuck smirked at the woman.  “Let me guess: Southern Vampire?”

“You got it, sugar.”  The lady flipped through page after page of paper, starting to frown.  “Gosh, I’m not seeing you, Ben.  Are you sure you’re preregistered?”

“It might be under Kuzniar,” Ben offered.  “He’s the one who actually registered me.”

“Kuzniar?  As in RJ?”  The woman’s extremely long acrylic nails fluttered up to her cheeks.  “Oh jeez, you’re his guest!  Why didn’t you say so?  Guest passes are in a special section.”  She reached under the desk and rummaged around in a “special” cardboard box.  “Aha!  Here you are!”  She pulled out a lanyard with a nametag attached as well as a half-full plastic bag.  “Here you go!  Keep an eye on everything in your welcome bag, it includes tickets for the zombie shoot, the costume contest and for the banquet at the end.  You get two free drinks included with that.”  She handed it all over with a big smile.  “I’m so happy the organizers got RJ to come this year, my kids can’t stop reading Janie and the Phantom. I’m going to try and get him to sign a copy for them.  Maybe you could help me out with that?” she asked with a wink.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ben promised.

“Great, honey!  Well, again, welcome to MileHiCon!  Next!”

Next to him, Starbuck was just finishing her registration, and the look she gave him said, Don’t you go anywhere yet, mister.  And because Ben had yet to receive a text from Ryan letting him know the younger man was here, he didn’t mind some company in this crowd.

“What did you get in your bag?” she asked as soon as they were clear of the desk.

“It looks like…” Ben glanced inside.  “A bunch of papers, a t-shirt and a few books.”

“Nice.  I just got a t-shirt.”  She looked at it and grimaced.  “And they never give me the right size; I’ll have to switch it out later.  You stayin’ in the hotel?”

“No, I live close.”

“Me too, but I always stay for the weekend.  The bars are open late for the con and that’s the best time to talk to the authors and artists, because they open up a lot more when they’re a little drunk,” she grinned.  “You want to leave your stuff in my room for now so you don’t have to carry it around with you all night?”

Ben could just put his stuff in Michael’s office; he knew where it was and how to get in.  But he was in the mood to be sociable.  “Sure, thank you.”

“No problem.  I’m up on the fourth floor, c’mon.”  She led the way over to the elevator and they squeezed in next to a family of wizards.  Starbuck smiled at them.  “You guys doing the Avistrum Academy?”

“Yes!” the youngest one, maybe six or seven, said excitedly.  “It’s my first time!  I can’t wait to see where they sort me!  I hope it’s Gryffindor!”

“Nope,” her older sister said.  “You’ll be Slytherin for sure.”

“Stop it, no I won’t!”  The little one smacked her sister with her wand.  “Mom, make Katie stop saying I’ll be in Slytherin!”

“Mom, make Stacy stop hitting me with her wand!”

“Katie, Stacy, stop it,” her mother said dutifully.  “Although Stacy, you know, there’s nothing wrong with Slytherin, honey.  Uncle Phil got sorted into Slytherin last year and he had a wonderful time!  And look, this man’s in Slytherin and he’s not unhappy with it!”  The mother looked at Ben expectantly.

“Not at all,” Ben said after a moment’s pause.  The little girl didn’t look mollified.

“No no no, I want Gryffindor.”

“And here’s our stop.  Good luck, guys,” Starbuck said as the elevator stopped.  She and Ben got out and headed down the hall, Starbuck snickering.  “Man, you couldn’t pay me to run the Academy,” she told him.  “A bunch of kids fighting about sorting and spells?  No fucking way.”  She stopped in front of four-ten and pulled a card out of her pocket.  “C’mon in.”

Ben followed behind her, completely bemused.  She set her bag on the table across from the bed and checked her reflection in the TV.  “I need to touch up this tattoo,” she muttered.  “Give me five minutes, okay?”

“Take your time,” Ben said.  She disappeared into the bathroom and she sat down in one of the bland, comfortable chairs and stared at his nametag.  Ben DeWitt was on the first line, and below that was Special Guest: RJ Kuzniar.  Ben had forgotten that Ryan wrote his books as RJ.  He traced the letters with his index finger and wondered how much longer it would be before he could see Ryan.

His phone went off.  “Thank Christ,” Ben murmured, pulling it out of his back pocket and checking the text.  It was from Ryan. 

Im here finally.  Stupid storms over Chicago. R U at the hotel?

Yes, Ben wrote back.  Being educated.  Turns out I know nothing of scifi/fantasy.  I’m a fish out of water here.

Oh baby Ill protect uJ  Should be there soon.

I can’t wait, Ben typed.  And wow, his fingers were trembling.  He really couldn’t wait.

Me 2.

“Done,” Starbuck announced as she came out of the bathroom.  “I should have done these in marker in the first place instead of relying on the decals, but it was so cool that I found them in the first place that I couldn’t resist.  Ready to go back downstairs?  The ballroom’s not open yet but the dealer rooms are.”

“Sure,” Ben agreed.  “Consider me your duckling.”

“And such a cute duckling you are,” she said, ruffling his hair.  “Don’t worry, you’ll be a swan by the end of the weekend.”  They headed back out into the hall and down the elevator.  Happily they were alone in it this time.  “So how do you know RJ Kuzniar?  I mean, graphic novels aren’t my forte but I’ve heard of him.”

“Family friends,” Ben said after a moment’s consideration, because while that wasn’t everything they were, the rest of it was pretty complicated. 

“And you’ve at least read his stuff, haven’t you?”

“Yes.  I loved it,” he told her, with more enthusiasm than he’d been able to muster for anything else they’d talked about so far.

“Yeah, he does a lot with symbolism, right?”  The elevator stopped and they got out, skirting a group of what might have been Jedi Knights.  “I hear it drives his fans nuts.  I don’t follow those threads, but sometimes people cross-post and it’s always someone who’s either convinced that RJ’s predicting the end of the world or someone who’s having a fight with someone else over the meaning of something he wrote, or how he drew a particular scene.  His fandom is rabid, man; better not let them know who you are or they’ll bug you constantly.”

 They entered the dealers room, which was a spacious square meeting room packed to the walls with table after table of books, clothing and what looked like a hell of a lot of leather accessories.  “Keep your eyes open for someone selling cigars, okay?  I left mine at home and the look just isn’t quite complete without one.”

“Sure.”  They wandered through the crowd, Starbuck still leading the way, one hand looped around Ben’s wrist like a leash.  They stopped at a few places but didn’t buy, mostly just made small talk and looked before continuing.

“Harry Potter/Battlestat Galactica crossover?” one of the vendors asked with raised eyebrows as they looked at some whips.  “Really?”

“We like to live on the edge,” Starbuck said with a wink before moving on.

They did finally find her a cigar, which she stuck in her mouth but left unlit.  “Now I feel right,” she said.

“You really take this pretty seriously, don’t you?” Ben asked.  He felt like an alien visitor on some strange new planet.

“Not that seriously.  I haven’t pretended to shoot anyone yet.”

Ben would have said…something…but his phone went off again.  He pulled it out and looked.  Im here! In the lobby.

“That your family friend?” Starbuck asked knowingly.  Ben felt his face heat up.  “Go do what you gotta do, but find me before the opening ceremonies, all right?  I’ll save a seat for you.”

“Thank you,” Ben told her sincerely, then let his feet carry him through the crowd like he was mist, slipping between people without breaking stride.  He made it to the lobby faster than he knew how and looked around.

There was Ryan, in a corner facing away from the horde.  Ben could only see his back, but he knew it was him.  He made his way over and gently touched Ryan’s shoulder.  “Hey.”

Ryan spun around, almost dropping the phone clutched in his hand. He was dressed for the weather in a leather jacket and black scarf, and for the first time Ben saw him with his piercings in, a silver hoop in his left eyebrow, a stud in his labrum and two more silver hoops in each ear.   They looked really good on him, but they were nothing compared to the smile that broke out on his face as soon as he realized who he was looking at. 

 

Just imagine the piercings, guys...

“Oh my god, Ben!”  He threw himself at Ben, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck.  “Holy shit, you’re really here,” he said into Ben’s neck, the words muffled by his scarf.  Ben held back just as tightly.

“So are you,” he said, one hand finding the back of Ryan’s neck and lingering there.  “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s…you have no idea.”  Ryan gripped him so hard his ribs creaked.  “Oh my god, you’re here.”

“I’m here,” Ben confirmed, stroking gently.  Ryan’s hair was soft and smooth at the base of his scalp, and Ben wanted to keep touching it, to delve further, but he held back.  He still didn’t really know what was going on between them.

“I missed you.”

“We talk every day,” he reminded Ryan with a chuckle.

“I still missed you,” Ryan insisted.  And yeah, Ben knew how he felt.

“Do you need to go check in, get ready for the opening ceremony?” he asked after a moment.  The con was supposed to kick off in less than an hour, after all.

“In a minute,” Ryan said, relaxing his grip a little but not moving away.  “Just…not quite yet, okay?”

“Okay.”  Ben closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.  He could handle another minute, or hour, of this.

Here, Swallow Some Expensive Bullsh*t!

I just have to rant about this for a moment.  It's so...it's just so...hang on.

*tears at hair with hands and has a few selectively violent thoughts*

Okay, so.  My man has started a Master's in Software Engineering, and one of the classes he's taking is on IT Management and Communication.  He has to write two papers a week, one a breakdown of a case study and the other a research paper on a particular topic.  This week's topic was on the advantages and disadvantages of telecommuting.

Please note that when I say research, I don't mean that he should be expressing any original ideas or interpretations.  That's looked upon negatively by this particular instructor.  Rather, he should be referencing a large number of sources and compiling a uselessly informative word vomitorium, properly cited.  So, fine.  The instructor's not looking for insight, he's basically looking for a series of definitions and statements of fact.  Ooo-kay.

I help my man insofar as I look up relevant sources and sometimes read them first to make sure they're applicable to the subject at hand.  Today, we read a wonderfully ridiculous paper entitled, "Exploring the Telecommuting Paradox."  Sounds perfect.  Let's commence.

I should say that the majority of my professional writing experience, either as writer or reader, is either in fiction or in papers that are hard science.  Very hard.  There's not a lot of room for bullshit in a paper on MEMS devices or, say, "Multi-Scale Pore Morphology in Vapor-Deposited Yttria-Stabilized Zirconia Coatings."  For people who don't understand the science, these papers are insensible anyway.  The scientists aren't trying to make them accessible to the majority, because the majority doesn't really care. 

So now, going into a sphere where investigations of a softer, more person-oriented nature are taking place, I started out with the assumption that because so much of the scientific jargon was being dispensed with, the authors would take the time to make sure what they were writing at least made sense to the average reader.  I mean, "Exploring the Telecommuting Paradox" has nothing to do with physics, there's no math involved outside of some very brief statistical comparisons...okay, lay it on me.

Please, let me share an excerpt: "For instance, the influence of family, peers, superiors, and subordinates were all seen as relevant to the decision to telecommute.  This suggests that a particular group of people either believes one should telecommute or overtly encourages one to do so."

 

Does it really?  What an amazing insight!  Amazing for its ability to tell us nothing at all.  Are those groups listed encouraging the individual concerned to telecommute or not to?  Who comes down on which side?  It's never specified.  The rest of the paragraph doesn't help.  The paper is filled with mockeries of the readers' intelligence, or, to think about it in a kinder light, examples of the authors' own inability to express themselves clearly.

 

Why am I perturbed, you might ask?  Because these kinds of classes are a bloody expensive waste of time.  They're the classes a university puts in front of you to get through before you get to the good stuff (I mean, for fuck's sake, my man's a research scientist.  By all means don't ask him to draw logical conclusions based on the data you give him, no, that would be foolish.) and the source material is at times so poor, I have to wonder who the fuck gave the author the all-clear to put it out there.  Just...GUH!  ARG!  *smashstabflail*

 

Higher education is ostensibly so valued in this country, and so inexplicable at the same time. 

 

***Let me add one of my favorite useless definitions from another paper we read last month: "Work system life cycle model:  the model of a typical work system lifecycle."  Clear as mud!  Thank you for using your definition to define itself, that helps sooo much!  Jackass!

 

Okay, I'm sorry, I'm done.  I'm going to go do something enjoyable for a while.  Write some Love Letters, maybe.  By the by, I know I'm very far from a perfect writer, I absolutely do know this and I have the reviews to prove it.  But no one is going to be basing their thesis or grade off of something that I write.  Or if they are, wow, can I come and get a PhD in Speculative Erotic Fiction with you?  :)

Love Letters Post #11

Notes: *Head thunks down onto desk*  So…after an extremely busy weekend (read: hosting someone who invited themselves over for a visit, huzzah) I’m finally on track again.  I’ve got so much writing to do it isn’t even funny, but I’ll handle it.  And hey, I always make time for Love Letters.  We’re almost to the con, people!

 

Title: Love Letters

 

Part Eleven: A Memory Barely Better Than A Lie

 

***

 

 

Ben actually did manage to do some work in those final two weeks before Ryan came out for the con, and while it wasn’t work that necessarily made him jump up and down for joy, it was work that he was suited for and that made Linda very, very happy.  Ben wrote the foreword for the 50^th anniversary edition of his grandfather’s book.  An Educated American was a ridiculously successful biography, and had sold more copies than any other book in the same genre except for one about John F. Kennedy.

Because the book itself was a personal look into the life of Benjamin Franklin, not just about his myriad political and scientific achievements but also about his family, his hobbies and his philandering, Ben though it was fitting to write a more personal foreword about his grandfather.  Various editions of the book had already expressed Benjamin Bache’s education (at the University of Pennsylvania, where anyone with their family’s pedigree could get in), his family life (married to Ben’s Grandma Joelle for thirty years, before she died of cancer, and after that never married again) and his personal interests (Revolutionary-era art, Revolutionary-era original documents, pretty much Revolutionary-era everything).  What Ben was supposed to provide now was the truly personal touch that only a family member could.

That was where things started to fall down.  No one in Ben’s immediate family had been much for “personal touches” in any sense of the word.  His grandfather had been so absorbed in history, so positively steeped in a world that had long since been laid to rest, that it was almost impossible to draw him out of his studies, memories and contemplations of the past long enough to remember to eat and sleep.  He had been an invisible presence in Ben’s life, not an active grandfather, despite the fact that he and his mother had shared this house with the man for years.  Ben might see him sometimes in the morning getting a cup of tea, and they usually ate a rather silent dinner together in the evenings, but that was it.

It was no wonder his mother hadn’t turned out better at expressing her affections, Ben thought morosely as he stared down at the blinking cursor on his computer.  Ben had been lucky to get a pat on the shoulder from her as a child, never mind an actual hug or kiss.  He thought for a moment about the open physical affection that DeeDee had displayed back in North Carolina, and wondered how it would have been to grow up with a mother who had wanted to touch him.

Ben snorted derisively.  He’d seen the effect of that family’s child-rearing, and it didn’t escape his notice that both Brody and Ryan had done their best to get away from their parents as soon as possible.  Circumstance had brought Brody back but from what Ben saw Ryan had pretty much severed all ties, and it would take another funeral to get him back to Concord.  The grass really was always greener on the other side.

Fine, then. If that pithy phrase was true, then there had to be something Ben could say about his grandfather that would appeal to readers.  Something personal and heartwarming that maybe Ben had forgotten or overlooked.  Ben stared around the living room for inspiration but none struck, probably because all of decorations that had been there before were still stowed in his grandfather’s library.  He sighed, got to his feet, and walked a little heavily down the hall to the library’s door. 

Ben hadn’t gone into the library since his deconstructive rampage, and he really didn’t want to go back in either, but the strongest memories he had of his grandfather were associated with this room.  Something would spring up.  Otherwise he’d just make something up.

The library was the largest room in the house, with a very high ceiling but only one window, whose drapes were always drawn to prevent the sun from damaging the books and documents.  The air smelled of leather and dust and, very faintly, of pipe tobacco.  It was funny; Ben’s grandfather had never smoked in here, another precaution against damaging anything, but he’d stowed the pipe in a drawer of his desk when he wasn’t using it.  The smell had faded from the rest of the house, but in here, where there was very little air movement and Ben hadn’t bothered to clean in those entire two years, the smell still lingered.

Pipe smoke, pipe smoke…Ben shut his eyes and focused on the scent, urging it to spur a memory, any memory, that he might use.  He could see his grandfather, see the tweed jackets and faded brown corduroy pants, the full white beard and neatly combed head of hair.  He could see the stained teeth and the thick, ropy veins running across the back of the man’s hands as he gesticulated or turned a page.  Hands…Ben hadn’t liked those hands on him, they had always been batting his own hands away from things while his grandfather shouted, “Don’t touch!” 

That was the memory that stuck the most, those knobby knuckles rapping on the back of his hand while the man yelled, “Don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch!”  Not exactly the thing Ben wanted to write about in a foreword.  He opened his eyes and stared despondently around the room, looking for anything else that might inspire him, anything else that might save him from committing a literary lie.  In the corner furthest from the window, on a specially-made desk with an incorporated display case, sat The Letters.  Benjamin Franklin’s personal letters.  Not the ones to his family, but the ones detailing his more outstanding scientific achievements, shared amongst friends.  Two leather-bound notebooks lay within as well, filled with notes on his work. 

Ben walked over to the display and laid his hand on the glass, smudging it but not caring.  He followed the spine of the top notebook with his finger, and remembered doing the same thing as a child.  That notebook he actually had been allowed to touch, very briefly as his grandfather readied it for a professional restoration.  It had been sitting on the desk on a piece of parchment paper, and while his grandfather was out of the room Ben had reached out and run his finger very gently over the leather binding.  It hadn’t felt like much, cool and a little dry. 

When he’d looked up again his grandfather was standing in the door, not angry, not saying anything at all.  Ben had jumped away from the desk and tucked his hands behind his back, not wanting them to be smacked for touching, but his grandfather had just come to his side and knelt down next to him, and they had stared at the notebook together for a moment.  “It’s history, Benjamin,” his grandfather had said softly.  “It’s our history.  It’s important to preserve it like the treasure it is.  Don’t touch it again without gloves on, all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good boy.”  Except Ben had never touched it again at all, he’d never gotten the chance to.  After the restoration the documents were locked up and never removed, despite requests from numerous universities in Philadelphia, Boston and Baltimore.  His grandfather had just…refused.

Ben wiped a hand down his face.  He remembered some of those arguments, various librarians and historians coming here and getting into shouting matches with his grandfather, a few even trying to sue him for withholding the letters from a wider consumption.  It hadn’t been pretty.

Well.  At least Ben had one decent memory to write about.  Now to couch it in ways that diminished the assholishness of its origin.

It took a week to get the foreword down and another week to get it ready for Linda, who read it in fifteen minutes and called him immediately, filled with raptures.  “Benjamin!  This is loooovely!  What a sweet moment between the two of you, I’m sure you learned so much from your grandfather!  This was such a good idea, I’m just about to throw my own shoulder out trying to pat myself on the back.”

“Oh don’t do that,” Ben said absently, flipping through the second volume of Janie and the Phantom.  Janie was trying to reach the end of a maze, where the Phantom promised her she’d find a magical item that would help her on the rest of her journey.  The trick was surviving to the end; the maze was filled with monsters, and each time Janie confronted one she had to find a new way to fight it.  The battles were all based on classical examples: she beat a sphinx by answering a riddle, a gorgon with its own reflection, and an enormous spider by betting it its silk wasn’t strong enough to hold it, and tricking it into tying itself up.

“-enjamin.  Benjamin!  Are you even paying attention to me?”

“What?  Yes!”  A little guiltily, Ben put down the graphic novel.  “What did you just say?”

Linda sighed.  “I was asking if you’d come up with a new topic for your next book yet.  Any luck?”

“No.  Not yet.”

“Benjamin…”

“Please don’t start,” he told her.  “I’ll have it, all right?  At the beginning of April.”

“The first of April, Ben, that’s as far as I could push it.”

“The first of April, then.”

“Good.  Lovely!”  And just like that, Linda’s mood was back on track.  “I’ll make sure everything goes through with the publishers for the foreword, and it’s just wonderful, Benjamin, really.”

“Thank you.”  She hung up and Ben took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then glanced at the clock.  It was the last Friday of the month, and Ryan was flying in today.  Ben had offered to pick him up, but apparently the hotel had already supplied a shuttle and Ryan felt bad cancelling it, so Ben was going to meet him at the con instead.  Along with Michael, who was so delighted by the prospect of sticking his nose into Ben’s business that he’d actually been calling Ben once a day, just to fuck with him.

“It’s fate, darling,” he’d said yesterday.  “Fate that I meet your lovely lad.  I have to vet him, after all, make sure enough he’s good for you.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Ben said. 

“No, you’re right.  Rather, I should vet you after meeting him to make sure you deserve such an adorable young thing.”

“You are not my relationship counselor,” Ben told him with a groan.  “You’re not my anything.  Your opinion is immaterial.”

“I’m your friend,” Michael reminded him gently.  “And friends help each other.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to spike your wheel, but I do want to meet the boy in order to evaluate the possibility of this all going pear-shaped and leaving you with yet another hole in your poor, battered heart.”

“If things go wrong, it’ll be my fault, not his,” Ben said honestly.  “You know how I am.”  “Challenging” was the way Michael had described Ben at the end of their intimate relationship.  “Rather too much of a challenge for me right now, darling.”  And Ben knew it was true, he knew he was a hard person to get to know, but that was the beauty of what he had with Ryan.  Ryan already knew Ben; he knew more about Ben than Ben could remember about himself, thanks to the letters.  And for reasons Ben still wasn’t entirely sure of, Ryan seemed to really, really like Ben. 

“Hmm,” was all Michael would say.  “So, are you dressing up for the con, darling?”

“Ryan’s bringing a costume for me.”

“Let me guess…Sherlock Holmes?”

“No,” Ben laughed.  “Although he was thinking about it.  No, I’m going as Hawkeye.”

“Ooh, very nice!  You do have rather the same cast to your features, don’t you?”  Michael hummed contemplatively.  “I happen to have a long leather jacket and an eye patch left over from a brief foray into piracy, I think I’d make a smashing Nick Fury.”

 

 

“Positively smashing,” Ben agreed.

“Oi!  Don’t insult me with your terrible attempt at being British, mate, it makes you sound like even more of a poor hapless American.  Right, then.  Hawkeye for you, Fury for me…what’s your man coming dressed as?”

“Black Widow.”

Michael laughed.  “Oh darling, we’ll have to confine the pair of you to the hotel to keep from causing accidents in the street.  This will be a very exciting weekend.”

“Yeah,” Ben said, smiling wide in anticipation.  “It will be.”

Love Letters Post #10

Notes: Again, no accuracy with regards to MileHiCon, that happened in October, not February.  But here it is, a new part, in which our hero toys with the idea of a nervous breakdown and our other hero can’t make microwave popcorn to save his life.  Enjoy!

 

Title: Love Letters

 

Part Ten: It’s a Ben Complex, Not an Oedipal One

 

***

 

Halfway through February, Ben’s muse was still eluding him.  He looked through book after book for inspiration, and found himself gravitating toward personal letters between friends, between husbands and wives and from parents to their children.  Ben couldn’t do letters again, though.  His last book had cited almost fifty of them, and as Linda kept emphasizing, he had to choose a topic different enough to appeal to readers already familiar with his style, while being similar enough to bring in new readers who had heard about him and wanted to get in on a good thing.  This made very little sense to Ben, but then he had no real ability with marketing.  All he was good at was research and writing, and even that was questionable these days.

It was eight in the evening on a Friday night when Ben set down the book he was reading and sighed.  Not because Abigail Adams wasn’t a fascinating woman—in fact, her correspondence with her husband John was some of the most personally revealing and explicitly affectionate available from the time period—but because he was suddenly reminded of the fact that a woman who had lived and died over two centuries ago had had more of a life that he did now. 

Ben stared tiredly at the wall in front of him, where a print of the famous painting of Washington crossing the Delaware had been hung by his grandfather over fifty years ago, and remembered for the first time in months how little he actually liked the painting.  Not for its subject matter, but because it was one more artifact in a house full of artifacts that seemed designed to remind him of everything his future would be.  Ben’s future, all of his professional aspirations, rested on the past.  There was nothing contemporary about him; even his jackets were tweed with little patches at the elbows, and goddammit, he was only thirty-two! 

A strange mood crept over Ben as he glanced from the painting back down to the book, where Abigail Adams’ stiff gaze looked out at nothing.  The desire to pick up the heavy book and smash it into the painting, shattering the glass and ruining the print, came on hard, a violent and almost overpowering feeling.  Ben rolled his chair away from his desk and clenched his hands together, averting his eyes from the first president standing so nobly at the prow of a boat. 

It was no good, though.  There were paintings everywhere, almost all of them revolutionary in tone with a few daring pieces here and there deigning to reach into the nineteenth century.  His grandfather had everything from a portrait of Paul Revere to not one, not two, but three different depictions of the Declaration of Independence.

The prize of the art collection was an extremely valuable original portrait of Benjamin Franklin, painted by Gilbert Stuart, that rested in the environment-controlled, bulletproof display case in the library that also held some of their cache of Franklin’s letters.  It had been priced at half a million dollars, not that anyone in the family had ever been inclined to sell it.  When his great-grandparents had been penniless, their farming hopes wiped out during the dustbowl in Oklahoma, they had still kept that damn painting and carted it around with them to their new home in Denver.  They had been faithful custodians of the past, which had survived all these years to now end up in Ben’s ungrateful hands.  Ungrateful, because right now just thinking about that painting made Ben think that selling it would be the least of the evils that sprung to his mind.

Destroying everything, the rational part of Ben’s brain piped up, wasn’t a good option.  There had to be another way to purge his sudden, vicious animosity towards everything historical.  After a moment’s consideration, Ben got up, reached over his desk and almost threw his back out hauling the giant Washington print, in its unfathomably heavy oak frame, down from the wall.  He carried it back to the library and leaned it glass-down against the wall behind his grandfather’s leather easy chair.  Better.

Twelve more paintings and framed manuscripts joined it in the next fifteen minutes.  When Ben was done the walls were completely bare, but at least he wasn’t looking at them like he wanted to take a claw hammer to them anymore.  It was a little depressing though, to realize that without his grandfather’s collection up, there was literally nothing else to look at.  Ben hadn’t put anything of his own on the walls; he didn’t even have anything to hang on the empty, forlorn hooks anymore.  He had lived in this house for almost two years, and he’d never bothered to put any personal touches in beyond the contents of his closet and his computers.  Even the dishes had belonged to his grandfather or mother, one more part of his heavy inheritance.

A text alert on his phone jolted Ben out of his depressing reverie.  He picked it up and took a look.  What r u doing tonight? J

Ben stared at the message for a long moment before bursting into slightly hysterical laughter.  Ryan had to have some sort of sixth sense when it came to timing, because he was somehow always there lately when Ben was starting to feel like Jack Torrance from The Shining.  He typed out, Contemplating whether or not to burn my house down and start over and sent it before he could talk himself out of it. 

Ryan’s reply came back almost immediately.  Sounds kind of drastic.  Is it haunted?

Well, after a manner of speaking.  Just feeling a little claustrophobic tonight, maybe.  That was better than telling Ryan that he’d taken all the art off the walls and hidden them in a room he rarely went into.

U should go out.  Get drinks with suit porn guy!

“Oh, not going to happen,” Ben scoffed under his breath.  You just want him to send you pictures of me drunk.

Id settle for pics of u relaxed and happy.

Yeah, those would be nice.  It had been a while since Ben had felt really, honestly happy though.  Happy with life in general, not just when he was on the phone with Ryan.  God, he couldn’t even remember the last time…maybe…possibly not since before his book was published.  Publishing had been a lot less about happiness and a lot more about stress than he’d expected.

Then you should come and take some, he settled on at last.

I will soon.  2 weeks!!!

Ben smiled down at the phone.  Ryan was the only person he corresponded with who could get away with excessive punctuation.  Even Brody hadn’t been immune to Ben’s admonishments when he sent texts along like MY TEAM LOST N LAST FUCKING MINUTE OF THE FORTH QRTER JEZUS CHRIST!!!!  The caps lock Ben had overlooked—that was just Brody, loud and in your face.  The exclamation points had been a deliberate mockery, though.

Its going to be at the Hyatt, right?  That was where MileHiCon had been last year.

No, the Sheraton.  They only moved it a month ago, organizers have been busy as hell.

Oh, no.  Oh hell no.  Texting wasn’t fast enough for the kind of confirmation Ben suddenly needed.  He called Ryan and waited breathlessly for him to pick up.

“I knew you had to hear the dulcet sounds of my voice,” Ryan teased as soon as he answered, and the tension that was building into a headache just behind Ben’s eyes eased without him even realizing it had been there before.  All joking aside, it was really, really good to hear Ryan speak.

“Yes, it’s like listening to a choir of angels,” Ben replied.  “Listen, do you mean the Sheraton downtown or the one close to the airport?”

“Um, downtown, I think.”  There was a rusting of paper for a moment, then Ryan said, “Yeah, it’s the one downtown.  Why?”

                Ryan was going to love this.  So was Michael.  Shit.  “Because suit porn guy is the events coordinator there.”

                “Really?”  Ryan sounded excited.  “Cool, I’d love to meet one of your friends!”

                “I think you two will get along really well.”

                “Aww, don’t worry, we won’t leave you out, Ben,” Ryan cooed.  Ben rolled his eyes.  “Have you started thinking about your costume yet?”

                “What costume?”

                “Whatever costume you want to wear for the con.  You can’t just go to a science fiction and fantasy con and not dress up, Ben!  This is, like, the only type of event other than Halloween where adults can cosplay without people looking at you like you’re a freak.”  Ryan hummed thoughtfully.  “You could pull of a classic Sherlock, I bet.  Or maybe Dr. Who.  Or you could go all out and do something against the grain, like, I don’t know, Hawkeye.  You kind of look like that actor and I personally would love to see you in skintight black and purple holding a bow.  I could be a gender-bended Black Widow!  We’d look amazing together.”

 

Seriously, just picture her with less chest and less hips, I could make her Ryan:)

                “Hawkeye and Black Widow…are they from the Avengers?”

                There was silence for a moment.  “You haven’t seen The Avengers?  Really?”

                “I don’t get out a lot,” Ben admitted.

                “That’s because you’re working too hard,” Ryan said.  “That’s what makes you think wicked thoughts about burning down houses.  You need to relax.”

                “I’m on a deadline.”

                “I’m always on a deadline too, but that doesn’t mean I don’t go out when I can.”  Ryan sounded kind of serious now.  “You’ve got to take the time to relax and let go of your work.  I get some of my best ideas once I haven’t been staring at a drawing board for eight hours.  Do you have an Amazon account?”

                “Yes…”

                “Start downloading The Avengers.  Seriously, right now, it’s an awesome movie.  Once you’ve got it I’ll start it up over here and we can watch it at the same time.  Do you have any liquor?”

                Ben knew when he heard that sentence that this was going to be something he would regret.  He also found that he didn’t care at all.  “I’ve got some gin.”

                “Cool, I’ve got a bottle of tequila around here somewhere.  We’ll watch the movie together, and every time it makes you laugh, like for real, we do a shot.  This is going to be so good for you, Ben.”

                Ben opened up his computer and logged in to his account.  “I’ll call you back once it’s downloaded.”

                “Ooooor,” Ryan drawled, a little of the south coming back into his voice, “you can keep talking to me while I make popcorn.”

                “I’ll just distract you and it’ll get burnt like last time.”

                “Last time was a total fluke,” Ryan said.  “I can handle it this time, I can.”

                And really, Ben didn’t need to be talked out of spending more time with Ryan.  “Okay.”

                In the time it took the movie to download, Ryan burned not one but two bags of popcorn, at which point he gave up and switched to pretzels instead.  He found his tequila, Ben grabbed his gin and when they were ready, Ryan counted down and the started the movie simultaneously.

                “You see?” Ryan said a few minutes in.  “You see what I mean?  He totally looks like you.”

                “My arms aren’t that nice.”

                “Shut up, everything about you is nice.”  They kept watching, and when Ben laughed during Natasha Romanov’s botched interrogation, Ryan said, “Shot!”  They both did a shot.

                By the time the movie was over, Ben couldn’t really remember the first half of it but he totally agreed with Ryan as to its awesomeness.  And that guy had an awesome costume.  It was just… “Awesome,” Ben told Ryan.

                “I told you so,” Ryan replied, then giggled.  “God, I’m so drunk.”

                “So’m I.”  Ben checked the time.  “Wow, it’s midnight here.  So it’s…” How many hours ahead was Boston again?  Meh, didn’t matter.  “Even later where you are.  You should go to sleep.”

                “I don’t want to stop talking to you,” Ryan said matter-of-factly.

                “But you’re sleepy.”  Ben knew he was, he’d heard the man yawning.  “Sooo sleeeepy,” he sing-songed.  “Put down the booze and go to sleeeeep.  But drink a glass of water first.”

                “Yes, Mom,” Ryan snarked.  He immediately followed up with, “Oh, but no, I totally don’t think of you that way, that’s so gross, I so don’t want to sleep with my mother, just with you.  I’m not Oedip…Oedib…edible?  It’s not that but it sort of sounds like that, but anyway I’m not, so just don’t even listen to me.”

                “Okay,” Ben said agreeably.  He was tired…but he felt better than he had in days.  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?  Sleep well.”

                “You too,” Ryan said, sounding reluctant but exhausted.  He hung up the phone, and Ben stared at his empty screen and thought hard for a moment.  Something Ryan had just said…it was kind of important, made him feel good, it was on the tip of his brain…ugh, he couldn’t process thoughts right now.  He needed sleep.

                Because Ben might not have been drunk for a while but he did have a long memory when it came to hangovers, he made himself drink a glass of water, left another beside his bed along with some Tylenol, and pulled the wastebasket within easy reaching distance.  Sleep came easily, for the first time in weeks, and was entirely dreamless.

                When Ben woke up the next morning his mouth was foul and his brain ached a little, but not nearly as bad as it could have.  He took the Tylenol anyway, forced himself to get up and shower, brush his teeth and make coffee and do his best to be a normally functioning human being.  Halfway into his first cup, he got a text from Ryan.

                It was Jasmines bottle of tequila. Shes so pissed. I owe her a new one soon as I can stand to go out in the sunshine.

                “Oh no,” Ben said in quiet commiseration.  Poor suffering creature of the night, he sent back to Ryan. 

                The next text read, Did I say anything embarrassing? :/

                Only when you assured me I wasn’t your Jocasta. 

                …good?

                GoodJ

               

***Oedipus: the focus of a famous Greek tragedy where the title character returned to the kingdom he'd been abandoned by as a baby, killed his father the king and married his mother Jocasta, the queen, all unawares.  Later he gouged his own eyes out as a result.  An Oedipal complex is where a boy subconsciously (or not so subconciously) wants to kill his father and marry his mother.  Thanks for that, Freud!