She is obsessed with material possessions and appearances. I am a dork with tattoos that just wants to be happy and to hell with what other people think. If they don’t like me then fuck ‘em, I don’t need ‘em.

See… no real common ground there.

The thing is, due to a genetic fluke, this woman who is opposite to me in nearly every way is also my grandmother.

This kind of puts me in a weird place. See I love her, she’s my grandmother. She’s been a part of my life for 29 years. I just don’t really like her. I know she loves me, she just wishes I was someone else. Now I not only feel bad because a major part of my life is going to be gone, but I feel guilty because I don’t feel bad enough…

Though to be honest, I always get kind of numb around death. I mean I’ll cry at her funeral, I always cry at funerals, and I’ll have a few random outbursts of tears, but I don’t usually get this overwhelming sadness. It kind of makes me feel like a robot. See, it’s more that there’s going to be a change from my norm that throws me, because the people that I love will always be in my heart. As long as they’re there, they’ll never really be gone.

Added into this was the fact that I was hesitant to go visit her in hospice. Like I said, we weren’t close, and I’ve watched people die before. It wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. At the constant nagging of friends and loved ones who claimed that she just wanted to see me and Gen one last time and tell us that she loved us, I relented. Actually it was my husband telling me that I’d regret it if I didn’t. The man knows me to well, and if he’s saying I’ll regret something like this, he’s probably right.

We went down Saturday.

Sunday she took a turn for the worse.

Monday they didn’t think she’d make it through the night and brought in her priest to give her her last rights.

Now we’re just waiting.  She passed away at 3:00 am this morning in her sleep, one of her many loving cousins was with her.

I’ve been told she really was just waiting to see us, and to be honest, I don’t have a fucking clue what to do with that information. It’s too much pressure for our strained relationship, and it makes me feel like a shitty granddaughter and a shitty person. I can’t think about it without crying. So I guess I’m not a robot after all.

I could list all the reasons we didn’t get along. I could tell you all the horrible things she’s said to me, but there’s no point in all that now. She’s going soon. She loves me, and I love her. I’ll try and remember the good.

I still remember this one time when she got all cranky pants because “Tubthumping” was on. You know how the chorus goes “pissing the night away”? Yeah, she didn’t know that’s British slang and got all offended. When she insisted that I turn it off I asked her why. She said “because it’s just so crass.” I’m not kidding. Ok, so it’s not really “good” but if you could’ve seen the look on her face…

So this is for you Gram. You’d hate it, and you’d make that face, and you’d be disappointed in me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

When Lydia was abruptly awoken by an alarm blaring, hustled commotion, and some curses that were strong enough to curl her hair she began to wonder if it was the act of falling asleep while on an airship that triggered catastrophe.

Stumbling from her room in a fashion usually reserved for the very drunk or walking dead she attempted to rub the sleep from her eyes. When she’d dislodged enough gunk in order to crack them open, she found a very blurry shape standing in the hall with her. She assumed the figure was a man, since, well, she was the only thing not man and vaguely human shaped currently on the ship. Unless there was suddenly a mirror in the hallway, odds were it was a man.

“Whazza deal with all da noise?” She slurred out, still resembling a very drunken person. If this was what being drunk felt like, she thought in a fleeting moment of mental clarity, count me right out. When the human shaped fuzz started to look vaguely yellow, she knew her moment of making sense was well and truly over. Wrinkling her nose she wondered if she was actually still asleep and having some sort of odd dream.

“I’m afraid we’re under attack Miss Lydia.” The fuzz said in a familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place. Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, she tried to make sense of things.

“Attack? From what? We’re in the air for cripes sake!” Still pressing with the heels, she dragged her hands down her face, pulling her cheeks and lips down. When the fuzz snorted and made a choking noise she remembered the action made her look like a demented bull dog on crack.

“Even in moments of crisis you’re ravishing Miss Lydia.” The fuzz snickered. Lydia made a displeased noise resembling “hiff” as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“What crisis?” She pouted.

“As I said before, we’re under attack. It would appear that the Imperial Dreadnaught we were so unpleasantly introduced to when we whisked you away from your life on the surface has decided they need to have another little chat with us.” There was a loud noise that sounded particularly “boom” like. The ship lurched sideways in a disconcerting fashion. “Except instead of doing something civilized like inviting us ’round for tea they’ve decided to shoot at us. Apparently no one ever told them they should use their words…”

Lydia wasn’t certain if it was his words, which was unlikely since wit was not exactly appreciated in her sleep deprived inebriation, or the booming and listing, which was equally unamusing, but she suddenly realized that she was, in fact, in rather perilous danger. The knowledge had the same effect as being slapped across the face while being plunged into ice cold water. Along with her newfound judge like sobriety, her vision returned and her yellowish fuzz materialized into Grundy’s smiling face. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Lydia noticed that while she had previously thought he was thin, his shoulders were actually broad and well muscled. It was only his waist that was narrow, though even that was just a frame for well defined abs. His entire upper body was covered in the delicate white lines of ancient scars. A line of canary yellow hair divided his stomach and trailed into the waist band of his loose cotton pants. His soft chuckle brought her eyes back to his face, along with a blush to her cheeks.
“Plenty of time for oogling later Miss Lydia.” His voice was dripping with masculine pride. “Perhaps when we’re in a state less perilous to our mortality.”

“Of course.” She said, without really thinking about what she’d just agreed to. Well at least until his Cheshire cat grin splt his face. “I mean… Well… Shut up!” Her little tantrum was made complete when she stomped her foot. “Shouldn’t you be doing something airshipy?” She snarled through clenched teeth.

“Why Miss Lydia, I am doing something airshipy. Unless you don’t consider making sure our new prized crew member doesn’t rush above deck and plummet to her death because of inexperience on an airship at any time much less while it’s in combat something airshipy.” He was entirely too smug, and she wanted to be upset, but he was right. Her first instinct had been to rush right outside and see what was going on. Which would’ve either ended with her getting in the way, or her finding her way back overboard, and this time she wasn’t wearing boots. If she hadn’t been arguing with Grundy… All of the sudden she was very, very cold. When she wrapped her arms around herself to fend off the bone deep chill, Grundy’s smile faultered. “Hey now,” he said while pulling her into a hug, “everything is going to be just fine. Don’t you worry about a thing, luv. Why don’t you just go back into your room and Grundy and the boys will take care of everything. Promise.”

“Seems stupid to just sit on my thumbs while everyone else is in combat mode. Can’t I do anything to help?” Her question came out muffled, since she refused to remove her face from his chest. If she moved, he might see she was crying.

“Well you can try cooking, but I think there’s a rule about running with knives while in combat.”

“The rule is about running with scissors, and it’s at any time, not just while in combat.”

“Well then perhaps this ought to be a new rule. Ship’s rule number one, no pointy objects during combat.” She chuckled slightly at his joke, and he pulled back so he could look at her face. Initially she refused to look into his eyes, not wanting him to see the evidence of her mini breakdown, but when she noticed the patch of skin still wet from her tears she knew there was no point. He knew she’d cried, but clearly if she wasn’t going to mention it, neither was he. The Cheshire grin returned, this time with a mischievous glint in his eyes. Before she could guess what he was up to, he leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth ever so softly. “For good luck,” he whispered into her ear. While she was still stunned, he turned her around and urged her back into her room with a swift little tap on the behind, closing the door on her startled “eep.” By the time she’d come to her senses enough to open the door and slap him, she was just in time to catch him swaggering below deck. Probably towards the engine room, she mused.

Running her fingers over her lips she tried to process what had just happened. It just figured that her first kiss, and it was so not the man she’d pictured, and even less the circumstances she’d imagined. She had to give him credit though, he had taken her mind off of any non Stalk related peril. Of course now her mind was filled with images of what Stalk would do once he found out. It was slightly terrifying to imagine, and she was trying desperately to convince herself it was in no way romantic, but she couldn’t fully suppress her smiles and sighs.

As she envisioned Stalk and Grundy dueling with sabers at dawn, she decided she might as well make use of her time by sorting through the mountains of clothing she was locked in with. For a fleeting moment, she thought that this was what Rapunzel must have felt like, but with clothes instead of hay. Oh, and instead of gold the clothing had to turn into a bed of some sort.

***

Hell was sitting below deck, in a cabin with only one tiny window on the wrong side of the ship, while all around you sounds of what was surely your impending doom were being woven into a macabre symphony. Lydia had managed to make it through a fair amount of clothing before she finally gave up. She’d found the bed, and that seemed like a big enough accomplishment. Now she only had one mountain, two foothills, and three piles. Tops, bottoms, and “hell if I know”.

As she sat on the bed pondering the blue and orange bodysuit she held in her hands (was it some kind of Mexican wrestling outfit?) she noticed several things all at once. First, the sounds of things being fired at other things had ebbed. Second, they were moving faster than normal, as evidence by her careful pile of tops falling over. Third, there was a raucous cheering from above deck. From the hurrahs she figured it was finally safe to emerge from her cabin. She jumped off the bed and flung open the door.

When she walked into a man apparently on fire, she questioned that assumption. Jumping back she began patting herself to put out any flames that might have jumped to her persons. When she saw there were none, she looked at the man again and blushed when she recognized that it was merely Sparks, with his bright orange hair and eyes, all dolled up in an absurd steampunkish outfit entirely of yellow and red fabric. Well that was sure to make him harder to target, she scoffed. Sparks didn’t seem to even notice her behavior, he was too busy swinging her into a fierce hug.

“You must be our good luck charm Miss Lydia!” He said in a hearty laugh. Clearly the man had gotten over his previous ambivalence towards her.

“So I take it we’re home free?” Lydia said with a chuckle, unable to avoid catching the man’s glee.

“We have bravely fought and run away so that we might live to fight another day.” He chuckled as he led her by the arm above deck. Emerging from the darkness of the ship she was blinded by the setting sun. Since she was preoccupied with regaining her vision and using her free arm to shade the sun, she was helpless to prevent a second fierce embrace, this time from Terryl. As she was dragged from his arms by Ash, only to be stolen by Port, then Basher, and even the tiny Queue the crew continued their insistence that she was their lucky talisman.

Grundy plucked her from Queue’s arms and twirled her so quickly that her feet actually left the ground. “You are lucky indeed Miss Lydia. Though I wonder if it was your mere presence, or the kiss you gave me.” It was as if his words cause all activity on the ship to screech to a halt. Suddenly Stalk was beside them, looking none too pleased.

“Miss Lydia?” He said in a tone that was eerily serene. Something Grundy failed to notice.

“Of course, since we can’t be sure if it was the kiss or not, you should probably kiss me before every fight.” Grundy continued, as if World War III were not about to break out on the deck around them.

“You kissed Grundy?” Stalk’s voice was calm, too calm, almost flat. With a great deal of effort she managed to wiggle in Grundy’s arms so she was facing the crew, her back pressed to his chest. Finally able to look into this eyes, she saw the were narrowed and full of white hot rage.

“I did nothing of the sort!” Lydia continued to struggle in an attempt to remove herself from Grundy’s embrace. The task was proving difficult since sometime in the previous few minutes he seemed to have grown a half dozen more hands. “He kissed me.” She ground out as she elbowed Grundy’s stomach. He didn’t even flinch, but Lydia was nearly positive her elbow would be bruised.

Finally breaking his scowl, Stalk rolled his eyes. “Oh well then, that makes all the difference in the world.” As soon as the eye roll was complete his scowl was back, joined by pursed lips and arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh honestly Stalk! He kissed me on the cheek, for good luck, when there was a serious possibility we were all going to die.” She stomped her foot and tried to act indignant, but it was a hard sell wrapped up in Grundy the way she was. “Do you mind?” She growled.

“Not at all.” Grundy whispered into her hair, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

Faulk was suddenly standing next to Stalk, with an equally disapproving expression. “Did you really press your advantage on a woman in my care? “

Grundy threw one hand up in the air, keeping the other firmly wrapped around her waist. “It was nothing, a little kiss on the cheek like she said. We were under attack and Miss Lydia was being asked to stay below deck. She felt scared and helpless, I was trying to take her mind off it.”

” You had no right!” Stalk was growling as he lunged forward to grab Lydia’s arm. Grundy still wasn’t letting her go, but he did shift his hold so only he only had his hands resting on her hips.

“Why?” She could sense the anger in Grundy’s voice now. Even if she couldn’t, the fingers digging into her hips would’ve tipped her off. Lydia couldn’t help but wonder how things had gotten out of control so quickly. “Have you made some sort of a claim on her? Were you betrothed sometime in the past 24 hours without my knowledge?

“We went to the aquarium!” Stalk snarled, his own fingers digging into her arm. When this was over, she was going to be one massive bruise.

“My apologies mate; I didn’t realize it was so damn serious.” Grundy was practically vibrating with rage. “One date. Must be true love. Tell me, did you ever even tell her you liked her before you dragged her from everything she’s ever known, or were you just hoping she’d just guess. “

“That is none of your business.” Stalk raised himself to his full height as he huffed. She wasn’t positive, but it seemed as if he’d lost some of his bluster. Grundy on the other hand seemed to just be getting started.

“Horse shit. You made it our business when you brought her on board this ship. She’s part of the crew now unless I grossly misunderstood the conversation in the Captain’s Quarters.” Lydia wanted to jump in, she didn’t want either man hurt because of her, physically or emotionally, but even more than that, she wanted the answer to Grundy’s questions. Desperately. She’d barely spoken to Stalk since boarding the ship, much less found time to have “the talk.” So perhaps allowing this fight to continue made her selfish, but right at this second, as she was being used as a ragdoll yet again, she just didn’t care. “You don’t get to cause discord on this ship just because you’re too much of a horse’s ass to tell her how you feel.”

“She knows how I feel.” Stalk countered, his tone once again calm, this time with an assurance she didn’t feel.

It was that tone, that assurance that finally broke her from her stupor. She looked at her feet, not wanting to see the expression on anyone’s face, or anyone to see hers. “No, actually, I don’t.” She hated the crack in her voice when she said it, knowing that it would let both men know how much the words had cost her.

When Stalk dropped her arm suddenly she peaked at him, catching the wounded look that crossed his face before he walked away from her. Throwing his arms in the air before lodging his fingers in his hair. Finally able to shake loose from Grundy’s grip, she approached him, resting her hand on his shoulder. He shook it off without ceremony. “Why don’t you go and comfort Grundy since you like him enough to run around and snog him.”

Remembering exactly how public this scene was, she choked back her tears. “Fine! You want to be a… a…” she decided to borrow a phrase from Grundy, “…a horse’s ass, be my guest. I wish you’d fallen overboard.” As soon as she’d spit out the words she was running below deck, tears once again decorating her face. Slamming the door to her cabin, she turned just to be faced with a room full of his possessions. She sank to the floor with her back against the door, slowing hitting her head over and over as she cried. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” The sound of her head against the door was quickly joined by a tentative knock. “Go away,” she snuffled.

“Please Miss Lydia, open the door.” Stalk’s voice was so soft she had to struggle to hear it over her snuffling.

“Please Mister Stalk, fall over board.”

” Lyyydddiiiaaa….” He managed to turn her name into an entire sentence full of anguish.

If anything, she felt even less inclined to open the door. Until she remembered she was once again in a room full of his possessions. She couldn’t manage to escape the tiny man, and suddenly it infuriated her. Scooping up the entire “hell if I know” pile she flung the door open and threw the clothing in his stunned face. ” And take your shit with you!” She quickly slammed the door shut again before she could be confused by the remorse she imagined in his eyes. Tears were coursing down her cheeks in a torrential down pour, snot was leaking from her nose, she never had managed to get her hair brushed this morning and it stuck up in an alarming fashion, and she was covered in bits and pieces of fuzz you get when sorting through mountains of clothes. If she hadn’t wished so desperately to pummel Stalk and make him feel the slightest bit as bad physically as she did emotionally, she’d have been mortified. God, she was such an idiot. She pressed herself against the door, using the feeling of the smooth wood to steady herself as she continued to sob uncontrollably.

“Please, Miss Lydia, I’m sorry.”

” I don’t care.” She croaked out.

“Please just open the door so we can talk.” He begged.

“I did open the door, and we are talking. There, now go away.”

“Damn it Miss Lydia, open the damn door.” His yell was accentuated with a slamming sound, as if he’d hit the door, and it caused her to jump. If he thought anger would change her mind, he had another thing coming.

“She’s obviously not interested in what you’re selling, mate.” Grundy’s smooth voice sounded tense and angry, even through her door. Stalk must not have noticed his approach, because the hall was filled with a very Stalk like growl as soon as the words were spoken.

“Stay out of this, haven’t you caused enough damage.” Lydia had never heard Stalk sound quite so feral.

“Oh no, you did this all yourself.” Grundy issued a short, derisive chuckle to accentuate his point.

Someone, probably Stalk, hit the wall again. “Why did you have to go and kiss her anyways? You don’t even like her… Do you have to do anything you can to stick it to me?”

“Oh that’s where your wrong mate, this had nothing to do with us.” Grundy’s voice was a silky purr now, and it terrified Lydia. She almost considered opening to door if only to get between what was sure to be eminent disaster. “If I thought for even a second that she would have me I’d wrap her in my arms and never let her go. I’d have stormed onto the deck mid battle and made the Captain marry us right then and there. Women like that don’t come along every damn day, especially for men like us. You’re blind if you can’t see that.” Then he added in a voice so low she knew she wasn’t supposed to hear it, “You hurt her, and I’ll kill you.” The words were followed by his clomping steps retreating from her door before descending the stairs.

“Miss Lydia, please, please talk to me.” Stalk sounded tired, but Lydia still didn’t want to speak to him. Not now, maybe not ever. Instead of responding she collapsed into a heap on the floor. “Fine. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

Lydia couldn’t help but wonder if hell would freeze over while he waited.

***

She was still on the floor hours later when another soft knock came at her door.

“Miss Lydia, the Captain and I brought you some super. It’s just the two of us. Would you please open the door?” Lydia had been expecting Stalk’s voice, but it was Terryl’s soft deep timber that spoke to her instead. It shocked her for a moment, stealing whatever angry reply had been on the tip of her tongue.

“I’m not hungry.” She quipped instead. Her voice still sounded off from all the crying, almost masking the petulant tone.

“Please Miss Lydia; you have to keep up your strength.” He sounded all too reasonable, and she found herself pouting all the more for it. After all, she didn’t think she had to keep up her strength, she just had to wallow in self pity and then die.

“No thank you.”

“Miss Lydia, I demand you open the door this instant.” Captain Faulk’s regal tone made her jump. Where Terryl had been soothing, Faulk was setting her back on edge, in danger of crying again. She clung to anger in a desperate attempt to force back her tears.

“ Faulk… “ Terryl began in a chiding tone. He didn’t manage to finish whatever his thought was.

“No, she is a member of my crew and I will not have her sulking like a child.” His prim voice was enough to fan the embers of her temper back into a blaze. As Terryl was gasping and spluttering at him, Lydia scrambled up off the floor. The world went a little dizzy when she stood too quickly, and she realized that she probably could do with something to eat. It just figured, now she wasn’t even capable of taking care of herself. The revelation did little to soothe her battered emotions. She threw open the door to find Terryl and Faulk squaring off in the hallway, a bowl of soup dwarfed in Terryl’s massive hands.

“Tell me Captain,” she said in a voice saccrine sweet, “should I act like a pissed off woman instead? How many of those have you had on board? Seems like this crew would be pro at rubbing women the wrong way.” Faulk opened his mouth to offer what was most likely a cutting remark, but Terryl slapped a paw over his mouth.

“Please Miss Lydia, if we could talk to you for a moment.”

Lydia crossed her arms and huffed, but she knew it was pointless. After all, Faulk did have a point, he was her captian. The last thing she needed was to be fired on her first day. “Fine, but not in here, there’s barely room to breathe in here when it’s just me and the clothing.”

“Of course, please, we’ll all sit and have a civil discussion in my quarters.” Now mollified, Captain Faulk’s voice was once again warm, or as warm as a prim and proper voice could be. The three of them walked into the Captain’s quarters where he quickly closed and locked the door. It seemed as if he was about to speak, but Terryl cut him off again, making a big production of setting the soup down and seating Lydia at the table.

“Is there anything we can do Miss Lydia? Anything you need? Anything you want?” The gentle giant placed his hand on her shoulder, its warm weight a reassurance in itself. The simple act finally loosened her tongue, allowing her to speak without anger, hurt, or shame for the first time in what felt like forever.

“I want to go home, but I we came to an agreement and I’m not going to run away because of a bruised ego.” She took a tentative sip of soup. It was bland, but edible, and sat well in her very empty stomach, so she ate with more gusto.

“Excellent!” Faulk crooned while clapping his hands together. “Can you please go make up with Stalk then?”

Lydia’s eyebrows jumped into her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Excellent job easing into it sir…” Terryl rubbed his head with one hand, while still keeping the other on her shoulder. “What the Captain is trying to say is that the ship was damaged in the fight. We need to make port for repairs and supplies, but navigating to the flying cities is tricky, especially while avoiding Dreadnaughts. We need Stalk.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with me.” She dropped her spoon, her meal forgotten, and crossed her arms.

“ He won’t leave his room.” Terryl said.

“Oh so he can sulk like a child then?” She glared at Faulk accusingly.

“No, but if he doesn’t want to be helpful, we don’t make it to Olmec. Even if we force him from the room he still doesn’t have to help us. Really, we need you for this.”

“Or you can leave us stranded, the choice is yours.” Faulk offered with a snooty little shrug. Lydia had the urge to dump her soup on his head, but when she looked down she found she’d finished her serving sometime while she wasn’t paying attention.

The phrases “choices” and “Olmec” triggered a memory of some old game show in her head. “The choices are yours and yours alone…” She mumbled while wondering if there would be a hidden temple at the end of this journey.

“Excuse me?” Faulk squinted at her.

Lydia waved her hands in front of her face as if she was swatting away thoughts. “Nothing. Fine, I’ll go talk to Stalk, but I make no promises.”

“We’re just asking you to try.” A soft squeeze to her shoulder accompanied Terryl’s soft words. She looked into his eyes and wished that she could have fallen for him instead of Stalk; things would’ve been so much easier.

“Can you tell me one thing?”

“I can tell you he does care for you.” His surety made Lydia snort.

“If you say so buddy. Actually, I wanted to know what the deal with those two is…” The ceiling must have become interesting, because Terryl and Faulk both looked at it rather than answer her. She peaked, but as she suspected the answer wasn’t written there. “Well?”

“What do you mean?” Terryl squeaked out. Well if her curiosity wasn’t raised before, something that could cause a giant to squeak would certainly do the trick.

“Oh, I don’t know that whole scene on the deck?”

“Oh, well that was because Grundy kissed you.”

“About that, did he harm your person in any way Miss Lydia?” Faulk jumped in, clearly trying to alter the course of the conversation.

“Oh of course not and you know it. Now stop changing the subject. You both know exactly what I mean.”

Terryl heaved a massive sigh. “I think it might be best if Stalk told you himself.” Lydia crossed her arms, refusing to stand.

“Fine… But you didn’t hear this from us.”

“Where else would she have heard it from?” Faulk’s eyebrow quirked with the question as he turned to face Terryl.

“Do you want to get to Olmec anytime soon?” Lydia felt absurdly powerful for the first time in her brief stint as a pirate. Doubly so when Faulk’s only reply was to grumble and pout.

“Stalk and Grundy are brothers.” Terryl finally said after several long silent moments.

“Excuse me? Brothers? How is that possible, they look nothing alike?”

“Half brothers actually. Stalk is the younger bastard son of their noble father.” Terryl’s voice was soft, the kind you use while sharing secrets. Faulk had retreated to the window, trying to ignore the conversation, probably so he could claim he had nothing to do with it.

“And his mother?”

“Servant.”

Looking at things through this new perspective made the entire fight take on a whole new meaning. One were Stalk wasn’t entirely to blame. He was still an ass, and they still needed to have the talk, but she could see how he might interrupt this as just another case of big brother coming in first. “Well shit.”

“Pretty much.”

Where was I going with this?

Oh yeah, my failure. So we go to watch Half-Baked last night and found that our copy won’t play. Well, I mean, it will play, but for some reason the sound and the video decided to play at different speeds… So in a panic, I turned to Phin and asked him to sum up the movie for me. Which he couldn’t, which is just as well because that would have been dishonest and wrong.

So you’ll just have to wait for my review of that fine piece of cinematography.

I have decided to continue with my other reviews though, as the show must go on. So without further ado:

Movie Name: The Crow (1994)
Blurb: A man brutally murdered comes back to life as an undead avenger of his and his fiancée’s murder.
Ginny’s Thoughts: Before there was “The Matrix,” before there was “Fight Club,” before there was “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” there was “The Crow.” It was the go to movie for angsty teens of my generation, and the only excuse I have is that I was 11 when it came out. Watching it though, well it was like I was sucked back into the 90s. To the point where I’m pretty sure my cousin had the same hair cut as Sarah. All it needed was someone trying to hack the planet and… HEY WAIT! TIN TIN IS LORD NIKON! Well then, never mind. This movie was the 90s, all wrapped up in a nice little package. Complete with electrical tape used as clothing.
In the interest of not making this review go on for hours, here are a couple of things: Brandon Lee can’t act. I spent the entire movie knowing it was the cause of Mr. Lee’s death, which bummed me out. Crows freak me the hell out. Teenage me was even more of a downer than adult me can be on a bad day, so getting back into her headspace is not something I try to do.
Does it hold up?: Oh good lord no. Watch it if you were an angsty teenage freak in the 90s, but otherwise I probably wouldn’t bother. I’m glad I watched it, and it did tug at some sentimental heartstrings, but… I’d rather watch “Hackers” or “Tank Girl” for my trip down outsider memory lane.

Movie Name: Office Space (1999)
Blurb: Comedic tale of company workers who hate their jobs and decide to rebel against their greedy boss.
Ginny’s Thoughts: So as the movie was starting my darling husband turned to me and said “just so you know, this movie isn’t that great. That’s why I never insisted you watch it.” This is one of the many reasons I love the man, we’re just so in sync. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get the fuss. The movie is funny. John C. McGinley is hilarious as always, along with several of the other actors, and some of the scenes made me lawl… but seriously, that’s what all the hype is about? That’s the movie I just HAD to see? Oh, and the stupid line about the stapler? Yeah, that became as annoying as “have you seen my baseball” from that other popular movie I hate.
Does it hold up?: Yes. I don’t understand what all the hype is about, but putting aside the use of floppy disks and the Y2K crisis, this could happen today. Especially the part where someone burns down there office. THAT COULD HAPPEN RIGHT NOW! *puts away her lighter*

Movie Name: Big Trouble In Little China (1986)
Blurb: An All-American trucker gets dragged into a centuries-old mystical battle in Chinatown.
Ginny’s Thoughts: Let me just give you the run down on my interruptions during the movie:
Crap, now I want to watch 3 Ninjas.
Is Kurt Russell imitating John Wayne?
He is, isn’t he?
Big Ben this here’s Rubber Duck… (It’s my go to 16 wheeler joke; if you don’t get it go listen to the song Convoy now)
HOLY SHIT THIS IS THE BEST MOVIE I’VE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE. HOW HAVE I NEVER SEEN THIS BEFORE?!?!!?
Does it hold up?: I don’t think it held up back in 1986, and I’m really hoping that’s the point. If not, I’m saying it is because DEAR GOD I LOVED THIS MOVIE SO MUCH. I ordered it on blu-ray, because that’s necessary.

Movie Name: Friday (1995)
Blurb: Craig and Smokey are two guys in Los Angeles hanging out on their porch on a Friday afternoon, smoking and drinking, looking for something to do.
Ginny’s Thoughts: As soon as I realized Chris Tucker starred in this movie, I said “you know this is just going to be 90 minutes of me loving Chris Tucker, right?” Ok, it was the second thing, after a Ruby Rod joke… After watching it for awhile, I thought back to high school and suddenly so many conversations I’d had made so much more sense. I’m pretty sure that this movie is what actually shaped the minds of many of the people I went to high school with… There isn’t much more I can say without sounding like a white girl who grew up in a small town in New Hampshire, or implicating people I’ve known in illegal activities (even if I personally don’t feel they should be illegal…) so I’ll just say I really did enjoy it and move on.
Does it hold up?: It’s a movie about being unemployed and smoking pot. How could it not hold up?

That’s all for now, join me March 2nd for more stunning movie reviews!

I might lose my girl card for saying this, but I really hate Valentine’s Day.

Paranoia: I’m taking away your “modern woman” card.
Me: What? Why?
Paranoia: Because you said you have a “girl” card.
Me: So?
Paranoia: So you’re not supposed to use the word girl to refer to anyone over the age of 10.
Me: Really? Why?
Paranoia: Because it’s offensive to women. It should be offensive to you.
Me: That’s stupid.
Paranoia: Well do you call men boys?
Me: Yes.
Paranoia: Well… I… But… You can’t do it anyways.
Me: *sigh* Fine.

I might lose my *insert politically correct term for humans who’s sexual organs go in instead of sticking out* card for saying this, but I really hate Valentine’s Day. It is probably the most pointless holiday in the history of holidays. Seriously, Flag Day is better.

Paranoia: Is that really appropriate.
Me: I’ll restart this post again, so help me God.
Paranoia: Fine…

This could have something to do with the fact that being dateless every Flag Day in high school was less embarrassing then spending every Valentine’s Day sans boyfriend, but probably not.

Bring it in while I break it down for you:

Cards: I am morally opposed to the greeting card industry in general. I think having to pay $3 for a funny picture of a cat is absurd. I’m not against sending cards or snail mail; I just think a handmade card means more than that slightly inappropriate card with naked men on it that I always want to get my husband.

Flowers: There is no reason a dozen roses should cost $30. None. I have a general dislike of receiving cut flowers because A) flowers die in seconds and B) I fail at drying them. I have no real issue with giving cut flowers from a garden with the exception of the fact that I always get lavenders and they make me feel like someone just poured molten lava into my sinuses.

Chocolate: Ok, I have no issue with chocolate. Not a huge fan of sampler boxes, but they’re chocolate. They can stay.

Jewelry: I am actually allergic to most metal and I rarely wear jewelry because of it. Also, I lost a pair of diamond earrings so clearly I can’t be trusted. I have received a few pieces that I love, and I cherish, and I keep close by, but again, I rarely actually wear them. Plus I still can’t help but feel that giving a piece a jewelry “just because” means way more than “hey this was on sale and I don’t want to sleep on the couch for the next month.”

Non-standard gifts: The best gift I received for Valentine’s Day was a set of Pyrex baking dishes that my husband bought me shortly after moving into our first apartment. Everyone we knew looked at my husband as if he was suicidal. It’s what I wanted. It’s not like he brought it home and said “no make me a pie.” We were at the store, and I had to plead to get them. See he knew what people would think. I honestly think they would’ve been less upset if I said “he didn’t get my anything for Valentine’s Day, but he got me this set of Pyrex as a housewarming gift.” Totally absurd.

I was going to put in something about receiving lingerie as a gift, and the obligation for sexual congress (sex should never be an obligation, that’s too much like a chore) but my soap box is in the shop and standing on my chair while at work is not only dangerous, but will probably draw attention to the fact that I’m blogging at work…

Really though, my objections to the holiday boils down to the notion that you should be romantic and caring to the people you love all year long, not just on the one day you feel obligated to. It’s the same objection I have to Mother’s Day…

Of course… this post is total bullshit because I actually love any excuse to give Phin and Gen gifts. When midnight rolled around and Phin said “Happy Valentine’s Day baby” I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to grab his present for him. From Genny of course. He got a box of chocolate covered cherries and a tiger wither peanut butter cups that sings the world’s most annoying song. The tiger, not the peanut butter cups. Gen got a giant bear (that is bigger than her) and an awesome Dinosaur Train book that she keeps looking at and going “BUH-DEE” which is adorable, as you might have imagined.

On a totally unrelated note:

Last night while I was half asleep I laughed and it sounded just like my cousin’s laugh. Which, of course, caused me to wake up fully and wonder why my cousin was in my room late at night. I had to add this because when I finally realized that she was not there (having an affair with my husband, which is always my assumption when I hear a girl giggling in my house) I said “maybe I’ll post about that…” and my husband and cat were both very confused. You know, since that’s the only part of the conversation they’d been privy to.

It has been a really weird week, even by my standards, so the post will be late this week. I’m sorry.

I’d blame it on Phin being deathly ill last yesterday, but since I accused him of not loving me last Thursday I think he’s had enough irrational blame for awhile.

To hold you over, here’s the beginning of a story I know you’re just dying to read:

Post apocalyptic story, first (very rough) draft. It’s kind of an experiment in first person present.

“Tell me you want it baby.” It’s dark and the alley smells like piss and garbage, but it’s a more pleasant aroma than the breath of the man currently humping my leg. One of his hands holds a knife to my throat, and the other’s fingers are digging into my waist. I can feel the bruises as they form. His hair appears to be the color of shit, but it’s hard to tell since it looks as if it’s never been washed. It hangs in clumps across his eyes. Eyes that would have been a brilliant shade of blue if they weren’t dead and flat, like a fish that’s been sitting at the market for too many days without refrigeration. His pock marked face is disinteresting, with a plain nose above a mouth full of crooked teeth framed by thin and bloodless lips. “Come on lover,” he purrs in a voice as smooth as wool, “I can make it feel real good.”

He views me as smaller and weaker because I’m a woman, and therefore an easy target, but I know something that he doesn’t know. I am a breaker, and breakers… well, as the name implies, we break things. I remove his arms from my persons with a fluid movement, capturing his wrists in mine and squeezing until the knife clatters to the pavement. Without hesitation, I shatter his right arm.

“Tell me you want it baby.” I coo into his ear, but he’s too busy wailing like a child while cursing me to the deepest darkest parts of hell. Too late, I muse, I’m already there. “Come on Lover, I can make you feel real good.” I whisper, shattering his left arm. The irony seems lost on him as he continues to complain about his mistreatment, the screams becoming louder and the language more profane. I hope that he doesn’t think this will be enough for me to stop. If a wolf wants to go out and hunt sheep at night, he’d better make sure that he doesn’t piss of a bear by mistake.

I strike like a cobra, bashing my forehead into his nose. I hear a sickening pop and smile as I feel the blood travel down both of our faces. It will take me a week to feel clean after getting this scum’s blood on me, but it is worth it when I pull back and he catches sight of my grinning visage. There is a wet warmth against my leg where his groin still rests. I raise my knee to encourage him to give me some personal space. He isn’t screaming anymore, just moaning and crying, praying that I don’t kill him. As if his Saviour would help him.

Whistles sound from the end of the alley as two fresh faced Republic Peace Operatives charge towards us. I wonder, vaguely, if perhaps the Saviour views this potential rapist as the lesser of two evils. It was, after all, His word that the Republic had claimed as the reason they put all breakers to death. I release my new friend’s wrists and he collapses to the floor in a blubbering heap. I feel nothing but contempt and disgust for him and step on him as I move to great the Peace Operatives.

“Well met friends!” I say in a tone too cheerful for a woman in an alley at night with someone else’s blood on her face. The Peace Operatives see through my ruse and draw their weapons, standard issue laser weapons. I am positive they are not set to stun.

“Place your hands behind your head and get on your knees.” I sigh. Their rhetoric is so incredibly unoriginal. Not for the first time I wish that just once a Peace Operative would come up with something original, perhaps command me to do something else. Or a rapist for that matter.

“Funny, that’s exactly what he was wanted.” I say as I lace my fingers behind my head and drop gingerly to my knees. “I wonder, are your intentions as honorable?”

“Shut yer mouth” The apparently more senior of the two barks as he keeps his weapon trained on me. “Cuff her.”

“Me?” The junior squeaks. “Shouldn’t I check on the victim?” He tries to hide his fear, but the cracking of his voice makes that an impossible feat. The senior officer’s eye roll mirrors my own. Sadly, it is not a bonding moment for us.

“He’ll wait. Cuffs first.”

The junior trembles as he circles behind me and I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do. Almost. As he reaches for my wrists I grab his and throw all my weight forward. The junior Operative goes flying into the senior knocking them both to the ground. I sigh as I get to my feet and brush myself off. The complicated knot of limbs that is junior and senior is still attempting to sort out what belongs to who. I had hoped that it would be a little harder to take out two of the Republic’s finest.

I should kill them. They’re the enemy, and it would be a mercy to end their lives quickly instead of the fate that will await them when their report their failure to capture a wanted Collective Breaker Terrorist, but I have dallied too long already and I have places to be. I relieve them of their weapons, tucking them into the waist of my pants before adjusting my jacket to hide their bulk and walk back onto the main thoroughfare.

It takes an effort to hide my rush as I meander through the crowds, carefully watching for signs that other Peace Operatives are following me. When I’m finally sure no one is following me, I head to my safe house. A relatively plain building in one of the middle class trade districts if Alpha Sector. Bypassing the security measures with my usual efficiency I head to the basement of the structure and the hidden entrance to the tunnels that lead from Delphi, the sparkling capital of the Republic to The Strip, the barren expanse of ruins that separates the Republic and the Collective.

When I emerge from the rubble that used to be a church and begin my dash through the strip it has been 20 minutes since I escaped the Peace Operatives. 30 since I set the bombs in the weapons factory in Delta Sector. I look back at the glittering jewel in the crown of the republic and smile as the first smoke rises from Delta Sector and forms swirling patterns in the light from the moon. I think of Vaughn, the Republic’s golden child, prized Senator, and most likely candidate for the next Overseer. My childhood friend, and the man I had stupid girlish fantasies of one day marrying. Back before the Reckoning. Before the word of the Saviour and the first Overseer. Before the Republic and the Collective.

He’d be standing at the solid wall of windows in his penthouse apartment in one of the city’s most affluent buildings in its most affluent district in its most affluent sector. He too would be watching the smoke rise in the moonlight, and he would know I was the one who’d done it. I tip my imaginary cap to him.

“All in all, not a bad night’s work.”

The winner is Heather!

Thanks everyone for commenting

As she watched the dawn with a warm blanket of contentment wrapped around her, a niggling little thought entered her mind. “Hey, what is it we steal, exactly?”

“Information.” The three men standing in front of her said in unison, just as plain as you please.

“Come again,” Lydia asked, assuming she’d misheard them.

“The Imperials seek to block the free flow of information and ideas.” Faulk explained, the words flowing so quickly it was as if he’d spoken them before, and frequently.

“But… why?”

“Miss Lydia, surely you understand that information is the most dangerous thing to the Empire. Knowledge makes you mighty. It makes us the most dangerous criminals there are. It’s why the dreadnaught was after us. Well that and Stalk’s obsession with the surface.” He explained to her as if she was a small child.

Stalk bristled. “Oh yes, it was just that and not…” Faulk cut him off with a glare. It struck her as odd, and she was sure under any other circumstances she would’ve asked a follow up, but she was still stuck on the whole “stealing information” concept.

“So you’re talking like government secrets and not like the latest pop song.” It was a statement more than a question, but Terryl responded none the less.

“No, we steal those too. We traffic anything there’s a market for. All ideas are worth sharing, even ones about poker faces.” His smile was wide and warm. “Don’t get us wrong, while we’re liberating this information we also help ourselves to imperial credits, food stuffs, and other supplies. We’re not saints.”

“And I’d imagine there isn’t much profit in stealing information.” She mused.

“There probably could be…” Stalk said tentatively, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “but that’s not really the point of stealing the information. If we charged an exorbitant amount, people wouldn’t be able to afford it and the information would be as exclusive as if we’d left it where it was.”

“So you don’t charge?” It had been a very long 24 hours and Lydia was beginning to feel very stupid.

“No, we charge. We just ask people to pay what they can, or what they think the information is worth.” Lydia blinked. She was on a ship full of socialist pirates. Perhaps she had lost her mind and all this was a fanciful illusion she’d created while still standing watching the penguins.

“I’m sorry, can you explain this all from the beginning so this makes some sort of sense.” She asked. Since she couldn’t go back and prevent herself from asking what it was they stole, at least she could get the whole story. Or, at least, that was her initial thought, when she noticed Stalk and Terryl both going wide eyed with terror and making frantic motions she questioned how good of a plan this was.

“Well it all started with Mu.” Faulk said his voice prim as he slipped into what was clearly a well rehearsed speech. Stalk and Terryl groaned. “Mu was a highly advanced and prosperous civilization, which of course made their neighbors jealous. One day, when it was clear that war loomed on their horizon, the Mu simply took the sky. Over the years, they found other civilizations in similar predicaments, and gifted them with the knowledge of how to create floating cities.”

“I’m sorry, floating cities?” Lydia asked.

“Don’t bother; he can’t hear you once he goes into lecture mode.” Stalk stage whispered. Faulk shot both of them an ugly glare.

“All in all, 13 floating cities were created. Mu, Atlantis, Roanoke, Indus, Khmer, Olmec, Aksumite, Minoas, Cucutenia, Nabata, Cahokia, Mycenae, and Moche.” She snorted. Like she had any chance of remembering that. “For an age they had peace and prosperity. The world in the sky thrived and there was what you might call a renaissance. Until the people of Roanoke became greedy. Their city was the smallest, and they grew jealous of the lands their fellow floating cities had, covetous of their power, and…”

“They invaded Indus.” Stalk cut in, earning him a glare. “And formed the Empire.”

“Are you telling this story, or am I?”

“Oh come on Faulk, I think we’d all like to get some sleep in the next year.” Terryl said through a yawn.

“Fine. They formed an Empire and began plotting to take over more territory. The Empire now controls Roanoke, Indus, Nabata, Cahokia, Mycenae and Minoas. They’re attempting to get the others under their rule under the promise of ‘prosperity through unification.’”

“Which is, of course, a load of shit.” Terryl added helpfully, causing Faulk to frown.

“This still doesn’t explain how you came to be in the business of stealing information.” Lydia said.

“I’m getting there.” Faulk said, obviously offended that she wasn’t appreciative of his history lesson. “We, the three of us that is, were all in the Imperial Army together.” Lydia tried to picture the three of them in uniform, but couldn’t. Instead she pictured Peter Pan and the Lost Boys playing at war. The thought resonated and she realized that not a single member of the crew appeared to be a day over 25. She figured that must mean she was Wendy. Not an entirely comforting idea. Stalk elbowed her when he noticed that she’d zoned out and she found that Faulk was still rambling. “…was a mission where we were asked to destroy an enemy store house. When we got there, we found it was full of information. Reynolds asked why we were destroying information, and our commanding officer shot him.”

“They shot Reynolds!” Lydia gasped. She wasn’t sure why, she didn’t even know who Reynolds was. Perhaps it was guilt for zoning out when he was introduced into this tale.

“Indeed. We figured out pretty quick that something was amiss, and we mutinied. We took the ship and the information and left our commanding officer there. When we looked at the information that was worth killing for, we found that none of it was actually dangerous. No plans on building bombs, no biological weapons, nothing. It was mainly romance novels and catchy pop songs. The most damning thing we found were some essays lambasting the government and some history books that told the truth about how our civilization used to be.”

“And how did it used to be?” Lydia was vaguely aware that her sentence structure was atrocious, but she was too caught up in the tale now to worry. She sensed that this was the important part.

“Free.” Faulk said, spreading his hands, as if that one word explained everything. And perhaps it did. “I still have that history right here.” He walked to his chest of drawers and removed a sturdy looking wooden box from the top. Once he released the complicated brass locking mechanism and opened the top a softly glowing orb was revealed, roughly the size of a tennis ball and nearly translucent with what appeared to be smoke flitting around inside.

“What’s that?” She asked.

“Information.” He said with a quick grin. “You see, you place your hands like this and…” Sensing she was going to be here forever if she didn’t do something drastic, and with a head already crammed too full of information, she crossed the distance to Faulk and put her hand on his mouth.

“Stop. Just stop talking. You’ve given me too much information to process at once.” She snorted at the irony. “Floating cities, civilizations I believed were dead or never existed, ideas in orbs, the lost boys in the military…”

“Lost boys?” Stalk asked.

“Yeah, like in Peter Pan.”

“Peter Pan?” She was shocked by the fact that they didn’t know who Peter Pan was, until she remembered that she was basically in a whole new world. The realization shocked her harder than she might have imagined.

“That’s it, I’m going to bed.” She said in a defeated tone.

“But, what about breakfast?” Faulk whined.

“If you want me to cook now, it’ll make Stalk’s beans look like a culinary masterpiece.” Stalk blushed and Terryl laughed.

“I’m sure we can manage for one more day. Let the poor girl sleep. She’s earned it.” He said in his deep timber as he placed an arm around Faulk’s shoulder.

“Thank you Terryl,” she whispered softly before turning to leave the room. Then immediately turning back. “Ok, really quickly, how do you get information out of an orb?”

Faulk’s expression changed so quickly it was as if his disappointment had been a dream. “Like this.” He held the orb between his thumb and index finger, pressing what must have been indentations in the sides. The smoke swirled faster, and grew lighter, and then was reflected in his eyes. “It’s sort of like your downloading information from your internet to your pee cee.” He said the words as if they were a foreign language. “But it downloads directly into your mind.” Lydia’s eyes grew wide as she considered the possibilities.

“But in Stalk’s room there was a… a…” Well Lydia didn’t know what it was exactly, except that it had contained a picture of her and a keyboard.

“Yes, well, the human mind still does have its limitations. You can forget information you acquire this way the same as if you’d read a book. The device allows for these orbs to be downloaded and stored, along with allowing you to enter your own data, and then projects the information on the screen for easy recall.” Lydia began to wonder if there would come a time when the answers she received wouldn’t spark at least a half dozen more questions.

“So… how does everyone on the surface not know about this?”

“What do you mean?” Faulk said with a puzzled expression creasing his brow.

“Information in orbs, floating cities, airships, you know, basically everything I’ve learned since I finished my ice cream yesterday?”

“We have advanced technology.” Faulk said his tone once again imperious as if this should’ve been the most obvious thing in the world. It just figured. The man spends years telling her the history of Mu and can’t be bothered to explain how it was no one had seen an actual giant floating city. She was desperately trying not to become an uber bitch, but Faulk was seriously testing her calm. Sensing her impending eruption, Terryl cleared his throat.

“For the most part, the denizens of the sky feel themselves superior to the folks living on the ground. I’m not saying its right, but they do. At first they just had to hide themselves from telescopes, so they came up with the cloud generators. Some started sticking to areas less densely populated. Olmec is pretty much constantly over the Amazon, Aksumite is over a desert, Cucutenia hovers over Siberia. Others didn’t seem to care what the surface dwellers thought by a perpetually cloudy skyline. Cahokia has taken up permanent residence over America’s Pacific Northwest while Roanoke hovers over England.” This cinched it, nothing would make sense again.

“But… but… Satellites, radar, planes… space ships! Surely one of those noticed these cities.” Her voice sounded high and odd in her own ears and she winced. Stalk came over and placed a comforting arm around her.

“Yeah, when those came along we had to get more creative.” Terryl continued, running his hand over his close cropped red hair. “They came up with subtle ways to bend light to trick radar into thinking the objects aren’t there. Not so hard with a vessel this size, but tricky as all get out for a city. Especially the ones like Olmec and Mu.”

“But why keep it a secret at all?”

“Well that was the founding principle of the floating cities. To keep us safe from the uncivilized surface dwellers.” Faulk repeated the rhetoric without a thought, but no sooner were the words out of his mouth than he winced. Though that might have been due to Terryl hitting him off the backside of his head. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“So you mean to tell me you steal information and believe in the freedom of ideas, just so long as the people getting those ideas aren’t different than you?”

“So you mean to tell me that within 20 minutes of discovery some government wouldn’t decide to use nuclear weapons to destroy the floating cities because we’re different than you? ”

“Touché.” She hated to admit it, but he had a point. Stalk seemed to sense her defeated posture and tugged her closer.

“At this point,” Stalk whispered into her hair, “it’s more about self preservation. You can’t tell me you don’t have a violent society, and it’s not like it’s all sunshine and rainbows up here right now.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I still don’t have to like it though.”

“None of us like it.” Terryl agreed. “That’s why we’re trying to change it.”

“And now, so are you.” Stalk put in, bumping her slightly with his hip. The affectionate gesture made her smile, as did the thought. She wasn’t just a skypirate, she was a skypirate working to make the world a better place. Perhaps playing Wendy wouldn’t be so bad in that case.

“Listen, I hate to break up the gab fest, but if we all don’t want to die a tragic death I recommend we get someone else to take the wheel before David falls asleep up there.” Grundy’s voice startled Lydia causing her to jump. She was shocked she wasn’t hanging from the ceiling like a scared cat in an old cartoon.

Faulk heaved a dramatic sigh. “I believe we’re all a bit worn out. We should have put enough space between us and the dreadnaught to warrant a rest. Let’s weigh anchor and set a watch.”

“Weigh anchor?” Lydia said. “Like, for real? Like a ship’s anchor?”

Stalk grinned at her. “Well we are on a ship.”

“Yes, but it’s a ship in the air!” She exclaimed, which brought a puzzled look to all the male faces in the room.

“All the more reason for an anchor Miss Lydia.” Terryl put in, softly.

“But doesn’t anyone on the ground see it? I mean a giant ships anchor and a chain just magically appearing in an open field doesn’t tip anyone off?”

Terryl chuckled. “We tether ourselves to trees Miss Lydia, in areas that aren’t very populated and don’t have a high level of air traffic. Well, unless you count birds.”

A meek “oh” was all she could muster as she blushed. Even though the boys had been very kind to her, she couldn’t help but feel so very out of place in this brave new world. Out of place and slightly stupid.

Stalk seemed to sense her discomfort. “Why don’t I get Miss Lydia all tucked in and then meet you all on deck.” He said, giving the others a very pointed look.

“I think it would be best if I escorted Miss Lydia to her new quarters, after all, it is my ship.” Faulk put in, returning his look with a glare all his own. Great, Lydia thought while rolling her eyes, I get to play tug o war again.

“Crashing is less fun that it sounds Captain” Grundy added, his trademark goofy smile back on his face. “Perhaps you should relent and let Stalk escort Miss Lydia to her bed.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about” Faulk growled under his breath. His razorblade lemonade expression was back in full force when he continued in a clearer tone. “Fine, but you will escort her to her own room, the one you’re using as storage, and you will leave her at the door. If you’re not on deck in 5 minutes, I will come down and get you. Do not make me come and get you Mister Stalk.” He said before storming to the door. The others were trailing so close that when Faulk stopped abruptly, he caused a minor pile up. “And Mister Stalk, I trust you will be a gentleman. While Miss Lydia is aboard my ship her honor is my responsibility.” While Terryl and Grundy tried, in vain, to suppress a laugh, the Captain straightened his waist coat and left before Stalk could stop gapping like a fish to shout a retort.

Without thinking it through, Lydia opened her mouth to insert her foot. “I’m sorry; did he just imply that he is now responsible for my virginity?” When Terryl and Grundy took up the fish impression with Stalk, adding some wide eyed blinking for good measure Lydia realized the words that had just tumbled out of her head without her permission. Feeling as if her entire body were about to combust from embarrassment, she decided it was time to make a quick and hasty retreat. Perhaps to Antartica. “Right, well, bed time for me. Thank you all for a lovely evening.” She stiffly walked past the three men without looking in the general direction of their faces. Her feet and the floor, as it turned out, were incredibly interesting.

Then she was in the hall and faced with an entirely new problem. She wasn’t sure which room was hers. Trying the first door on her right she found that every available surface was covered in heaps of mechanical bits. Cogs, gears, tubes, and what appeared to be a car’s engine filled the tiny space and the air smelled of grease and oil. Closing the door with a defeated sigh she moved onto the next door leading to the room opposite of Stalk’s.

“Miss Lydia, wait!” Stalk shouted, unnecessarily since he was less than 10 feet away. He approached her slowly, as if she was a startled animal that might run at the slightest provocation. It wasn’t far from the truth, or would’ve been if she’d had anywhere to run while on a ship in the air. He gently took her arm and led her back to the door that led to the room between his quarters, and the captains. She tried not to groan. “This will be your room, right between the Captain and I.” Stalk said, and Lydia couldn’t help but feel it was oddly appropriate. “So if anything happens, we’ll be able to hear it.” He meant the words to be comforting, but all they did was ensure that the mental image of Stalk and Faulk with their ears pressed against the wall would keep her from ever getting any rest.

He still had her arm, and showed no signs of letting go in the near future. With his free hand, he cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb slowly

“STALK! TERRYL! GRUNDY!” Even though he was above deck, Faulk’s voice still managed to bellow. Terryl and Grundy tried to be discreet as they passed, allowing the couple their private moment, but the hallway was cramped and the passage was a bumping and jostling affair, killing the mood. Sighing he finally released her arm and ran both hands through his hair.

“Sleep well, Miss Lydia.” His sad tone matched the look in his eyes. Without another word he turned and meandered down the hall, looking back at her once before disappearing above deck.

As soon as he was out of sight Lydia slumped against the door. “Damn it! I’m never going to get a bite of tasty cupcake!” She proclaimed, kicking the door to accentuate her point. Throbbing toes reminded her that she was barefoot. Turning the knob, she prepared to storm into her new abode. When she took in the landscape though, she came up short, not managing to stifle her groan. “It looks like a Goodwill exploded in here!” Instead of mechanics, this room was full of clothing. Heaps and heaps of clothing. Normally she’d welcome the site, eagerly digging through everything to find a hidden gem, but she was tired and she wanted to wallow before passing out. Without bothering to find what pile covered the bed she made herself a nest of clothing and tried, in vain, to fall asleep.

Once the commotion above deck was settled, very tired footsteps lead downstairs to the crew’s quarters. They were followed by three sets of steps that led to the hallway. Terryl uttered a few soft words in his deep tenor before she heard a door open and shut, leaving what she assumed was Stalk and Faulk in the corridor. She covered hear head with some garment to disguise the fact that she wasn’t sleeping, but she needn’t have bothered. After a brief argument in which Stalk seemed to insist it was in Lydia’s best interest that he looked in on her and Faulk seemed to insist that if anyone should be peaking, it would be him, Terryl’s door reopened. At least she assumed it was Terryl’s door, since his tenor once again floated to her through the door.

“If you don’t both shut up and let everyone on board get some sleep I’ll tie you both to the damned masts.” They tried to object, but he cut them off. “And if either of you open Miss Lydia’s door, I’ll throw you overboard.” This time, their objections were cut short by a growl. The sound was odd coming from the normally teddy bear-esque giant. “Bed. Now.” With one more warning rumble, he slammed his door. The sound was followed by the much softer opening and closing of two other doors, as if the doors themselves were attempting to meekly obey the large man’s command.

With the threat of nighttime visitors gone from her immediate future she pulled the material from her head, noticing with some embarrassment that it was a pair of thin legged black pants covered in chains and zippers. Including a zipper on the garment’s crotch. Flipping them around and around she continued to inspect them as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Some treacherous part of her brain which desired her to never sleep ever again offered up an image of Stalk in them. “Holy hormones, these would be skin tight on him.” And with them on, perhaps paired with a fishnet top and black makeup, it would be so easy to just unzip that most important zipper and…

It was an hour before the blush faded from her cheeks, and even longer before she fell into a fitful sleep.

“My baby boy…” she whispers before dying.

Only later will the grieving Abe learn that his mother’s fatal affliction was actually the work of a vampire.

When the truth becomes known to young Lincoln, he writes in his journal, “henceforth my life shall be one of rigorous study and devotion. I shall become a master of mind and body. And this mastery shall have but one purpose…” Gifted with his legendary height, strength, and skill with an ax, Abe sets out on a path of vengeance that will lead him all the way to the White House.

While Abraham Lincoln is widely lauded for saving a Union and freeing millions of slaves, his valiant fight against the forces of the undead has remained in the shadows for hundreds of years. That is, until Seth Grahame-Smith stumbled upon The Secret Journal of Abraham Lincoln, and became the first living person to lay eyes on it in more than 140 years.

Using the journal as his guide and writing in the grand biographical style of Doris Kearns Goodwin and David McCullough, Seth has reconstructed the true life story of our greatest president for the first time-all while revealing the hidden history behind the Civil War and uncovering the role vampires played in the birth, growth, and near-death of our nation.

The review:

Imagine, if you will, Abraham Lincoln as he was when he was a young man in his prime. Now picture him holding an ax. Just a simple ax mind you, one meant for chopping wood. You probably have one in your house. With me so far? What do you mean you don’t have an ax in your house? Seriously? Hey! I am not some sort of murderous hillbilly survivalist freak! You know what, it doesn’t matter, this isn’t the point… You’re supposed to be picturing Honest Abe with an ax. Got that image? Ok, now picture him hurling that ax through the chest of a vampire.

Oh yeah, that’s right. He kills vampires with an ax. Top that Blade.

This book is written in a documentary style. You have snippets from Abe’s journal, letters, newspaper clippings, etc, and tying it all together is a narrative. Because of this, and the fact that you’d miss out on the awesome pictures, I beg you not to listen to the audio book. It’s hard to follow at times and they add sound effects (yeuck) at others. Plus you miss the pictures. Did I mention there were pictures? If you get the eVersion be careful you don’t miss the footnotes. Some of them were important. Then again, some of them are explaining resin…

Lincoln has always been an interesting historical figure, but you add in vampire hunting and he takes this to amazeball levels. The best part was that the addition of vampires was pretty much done seamlessly. At one point when Phin and I were talking we actually agreed that if vampires were real, this would’ve been a totally plausible book. Like this could have actually happened. The insights that the author gives on Lincoln, his formative years, and how vampires shaped the man he became was fascinating.

The first monster I fell in love with was a vampire. Because of this, they’ve always held a special place in my heart. Henry Sturges is a prime example of why the bloodsucking denizens of the night still hold me in their thrall. He’s lived a long, long life, having lost more than one person ever should, and he’s now at the point where vampires begin to suffer from apathy. His way of combating it? To take up arms against the more monstrous of his kind. People often complain that vampires wouldn’t care for their prey, but how would they know? They’re not vampires.

There are far too many other characters that were truly epic to begin to detail in a review. My hat goes off to Mr. Grahame-Smith for his ability to give so many different characters a strong and unique voice, especially when he had to stay true to what is historically known about those characters.

Ginny’s rating: 4 stars
The only reason I didn’t give this novel 5 stars (aside from the slight issues with the whole audio book deal) well actually I can’t remember now… Probably because I had an issue getting into the style of the novel, which made me feel stupid, which made me hate the author a little bit. Once you get the voices sorted in your head, it works really well, but I acknowledge this book isn’t for everyone.

Phin’s rating: 4.5 stars
Phin had no issues getting into this novel and it’s writing style. In fact, he loved the style, it was something he kept raving about while I was still feeling stupid. Being a huge history buff, horror fan, and vampire lover this book was a hit with him. He was so impressed that he’s considering picking up the author’s other titles, such as “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies”, and “Pride and Prejudice” isn’t really his thing. When I asked him for comments he said “Its Abraham Lincoln killing vampires with an ax, what else do you need me to say.”

Seriously folks… that’s all you need to say about this book.

Good luck!

edit: Please either leave an e-mail/twitter/FB/website/someway to get in touch with you if you win!

Paranoia: So what are you going to blog about this week?
Me: Huh… I don’t know, I’ll figure something out. I’ve got like an eternity before I have to worry about it.
Paranoia: It’s Tuesday.
Me: Yeah, I know… only Tuesday.
Paranoia: You post on Wednesdays.
Me: I think I remember my own posting schedule.
Paranoia: That is tomorrow.
Me: Wow you know the days of the week.
Paranoia: Its tomorrow and you don’t have a post.
Me: *meep*
Paranoia: Yeah…
Me: Shit, what am I going to do?
Paranoia: Fail, as always.
Me: Oh that’s a big fucking help, thank you so very fucking much…
Paranoia: I think you misunderstand the meaning of my existence…

Monday seemed to take FOREVER. By the time I was actually able to sit at home and relaxed it felt like it should’ve been at least Tuesday. On the flip side of that coin, I’d managed to forget that I had no post planned for Wednesday. It seemed like I had nothing but time until that post was due. It all just served to prove my point: (this is originally where my post started, but I felt like adding some levity. Think of everything before this as the baking soda of the post. Or baking powder… Or whatever it is that makes cookies not flat…)

Time is a funny thing.

End of last week I learned some interesting information that I wanted to pass on to a friend, so I logged into my non-pseudonym Facebook account and sent him a message. We used to be roommates, used to see each other every day, so it was an odd sensation to realize I hadn’t seen him since New Years, and hadn’t really spoken to him since I stopped logging into SWTOR. While we were extending the usual pleasantries (which felt wrong in so many ways) I realized exactly how much has happened in the month or so since we spoke.

I’ve started reviewing for Pure Textuality, publishing ELEVEN reviews. (Yes, I did have to go back and count) I know, I was as shocked as you are. Normally I don’t stick with things, but this time I did. Go me.

Phin and I have reviewed a book for my own blog. Well two, but one’s not being posted until Friday.

I started writing a new story about a young girl abducted willingly by airship pirates, actually posting a new part once a week on Mondays. Three parts have already been posted, another two have been written, and while I’m a bit stuck on the fifth I know where the story is heading.

I’ve been posting regularly for about half a month.

I’ve been writing on a regular basis, and actually have the desire to edit my “finished” novel and finish my other in progress stories.

I’m starting to figure out twitter.

I made new friends.

Genny is now repeating words (totally at random) and actually started howling yesterday. Which is adorable. I have to get a video. She also says “hungry” when she wants to sit in a chair. See she sits in a chair after every time daddy asks if she’s hungry. I spent 30 minutes after dinner one night giving her snacks because she kept saying “hungry” before I realized she just wanted to sit in my chair…

At the same time, it feels like it was just yesterday that Genny was babbling more than saying real words.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was in a depressed funk. Well ok, it was just yesterday, but that one was fleeting… a mini funk. I was acting like a total shut in and letting social anxiety and fear of failure cripple me. Again, not that they still don’t get in my way, but I’m working on it.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was letting life pass me by.

One of my all time favorite movies is “Hello Dolly!” and it would appear that my motto for the year is “Before the Parade Passes By” and I am living that motto to the fullest.

mini prepost- postscript: As soon as I finished writing this I had the sneaking suspicion that everyone hated me. Well everyone except Marc and Kelly, because if I haven’t pissed them off yet, they’re here for good… That’s what I get for saying I was working on my anxiety…