Closing Time

Yesterday was my last blacksmithing class for the semester.

We were fortunate in that the professor let us use the first few hours to do some last minute forging, so I got a few more projects done – two small knives and a different design for a large serving fork than I was able to complete earlier. It was nice to get that last bit of time with the hammers and anvil before the class was officially over.

Then we completed some paperwork – class evaluations, final projects – and we were treated to pizza before we got down to the real work. You see, it’s a tradition at my school that you spend the last day of the class cleaning so that everything’s spic and span for next semester.

First I cleaned and oiled the hammers, hardies and anvils so nothing would rust or deteriorate over the summer. There won’t be another class in the blacksmithing lab for several months so it was important that the tools are safely stowed. I’ve picked up a hammer or two for myself but I’d spent “quality time” with quite a few of the school’s pieces, enough that I had definite favorites among them.

While I was doing that, the floors were swept, the propane lines were bled and the quench tubs were emptied. Once everything was cleared out, another classmate brought in the hose and we washed the floors and cleaned them with what were essentially giant squeegees.

Finally, we lowered the doors, an unexpectedly solemn moment for me. While there is some overhead lighting, most of the light in the lab came from the sun. With the doors closed, it was darker than I’d ever seen it in there. We waited for a few minutes more while the professor talked about final grades and thanked us, and then we filed out of the darkness and into the bright sun.

And then I left class and met up with my girlfriend, who surprised me with a fancy rotary tool kit she got a deal on during her Saturday thrift shopping rounds. It was a good reminder that the end of the class doesn’t have to mean the end of my work.

I still have some things we did in class that I want to talk about, so don’t worry, there will be plenty more to read in the next couple of weeks.

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Overloaded

This entry is part 7 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

It was too late by the time I understood it. Yrena was dead, little more than circuits strewn across the Los Angeles sidewalk, and she wasn’t the only one. Most of the heroes involved in this were people I’d never met. Some of them, I’d never even heard of.

We were only there because we wanted to help, but wanting to help did nothing but get people killed while multidimensional godlings played games.

I was more angry than I could ever remember being, and the air around me was sparking like a summer storm, and it felt like I was watching myself from outside as my brain and my powers went haywire at the same time, frying the invaders and their ship, burning half a dozen heroes at the scene, and knocking out power to most of southern Los Angeles.

I was brain dead for almost a minute, the doctors told me later.

I was a hero, the NSA agents told me later, but I was unregistered, and so were my friends, and the property damage and the people I’d injured…

I laid there while the agents talked to Charles and Alex, who tried to defend me as best they could, but eventually I couldn’t stand to listen anymore.

“It doesn’t matter,” I told the agent. My voice croaked.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I’m not putting the uniform on again.”

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Right of First Refusal

This entry is part 8 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

“Hey, Tai, do you—”

“No,” he said, cutting me off.

“Okay, your loss.” I shrugged and turned away. As I walked, I counted quietly to myself. One, two, three…

“Wait, Robin.”

I turned, trying to look casual. “Yeah?”

“What was it?”

“What was what?”

“What were you going to ask me?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said. I could tell I wasn’t doing a very good job of sounding natural, but Tai didn’t seem to notice. He had never learned to pick up on sarcasm, let alone bad acting.

“Tell me.”

“You said no.”

“I want to know what it was.”

“But you already said no. Why should I bother?”

“Because I want to know!”

“Then maybe you won’t say no so fast next time.”

“If I say yes, will you tell me what it was?”

“Sure.”

“Then yes.”

I smiled. “Thanks for agreeing to do my chores tonight. I appreciate it.”

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Playing Games

This entry is part 5 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

Jian and I had been playing xiangqi, a Chinese game in the same family as chess and shogi, for weeks before I beat him for the first time.

“Ji?ngj?n,” I said as I moved my chariot into position threatening his general. I phrased it as a question because I didn’t think I could actually have him in checkmate. Surely there was a rule I was forgetting.

Jian studied the board for a minute, presumably thinking something similar, and then smirked to himself.

“Not bad, Blaser. Now you get to teach this game to Tai.”

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Shatter

This entry is part 6 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

It became a habit.

After I got out of the hospital, I ended up smashing virtually every mirror in the house.

I didn’t mean to. It just happened, one at a time. I’d see her and I just reacted. No thinking, just doing.

And then my reflection would be broken, just like me.

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In Medias Res: Graduation

This entry is part 4 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

Dylan looked around the apartment he’d shared with Alex and Alan all year. It didn’t really look much emptier — their books had neatly filled the vacuum his had left, migrating out from the other rooms even before they took him out last night for a farewell bar tour. His bedroom was empty, but he doubted it would stay that way for long. They were still asleep at the end of the hall.

He wanted to feel loss, or sadness, or some kind of closure. He felt obligated to. Here he was, graduating, leaving college for the last time, and all he could manage was a mild sense of relief.

All he really wanted was to leave. Yes, Alan and Alex were good friends, but they’d be done in another semester and there wasn’t really anything else left for him here… just bad memories and one particularly vicious ex-girlfriend.

He wondered if Jade knew he was leaving.

He realized he didn’t care what the answer was. That was almost a relief.

The car horn beeped below. His father was waiting.

Dylan took one last look around, trying desperately to summon up some emotion.

He shook his head. He closed the door.

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Apart

This entry is part 3 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

“I’m a decoder at heart, though. My day job is just that, a day job, nothing special. I cut and paste. It’s dull, empty code. It’s taking things apart that appeals to me, really. It’s what I love, not just the hack itself but the philosophical aspect to it.”

His eyebrow went up at that, just the one, and I figured it at least meant he was listening. “Philosophical?” He sounded doubtful, but I was desperate to prove myself to him.

“It’s half nihilism and half analysis. I take things apart. I see how they work.”

“That’s all well and good,” he said, “but why are you here, in a church?”

“The gods are next on my list.”

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Returns

This entry is part 2 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

It was hard enough just walking up to the door.

The house looked quiet. Last time I’d been here, there were apprentices, students, servants everywhere. This time there was no one, only the huge outdoor garden blowing in the wind. In the rush of wind I felt like all the plants were reaching for me. Continue reading

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Protected: Taking Orders

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Nobody Gets Off In This Town

This entry is part 1 of 15 in the series StoryADay '11

The shrine is dark and nearly abandoned. It needs a lot of work, and there is only one monk here these days. The occasional pilgrim or traveler stays the night. Once a week, a young man comes up from the village with rice and vegetables.

I’ve been whispering to the monk for years now, but he has always ignored me. I’m patient, but I’ve begun to worry that he will die and the place will be forgotten, with no one left for me to tempt.

I needn’t have worried. A new monk appears, young and curious.

I continue tempting the old monk out of habit, but I keep my distance and watch the young one. The old monk warns him about me, about why they guard me and how dangerous I am, but the younger one has never seen me, and he laughs when his teacher isn’t looking.

Finally, the old monk dies. I wait a bit longer, just to be sure. But not too long; I don’t want the young man to give up or leave.

One night he enters the shrine in the early morning. I can smell nightmares on him. If I had a mouth, I would be smiling.

I’m going to destroy him, and he doesn’t even believe I exist.

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