is a blog by Brendan
Dear gentle reader: this blog has been operating continuously since I was a teenager. The writing below is at least a decade old. In that time every molecule of my body has been replaced, along with many foolish ideas and flighty beliefs. I want to keep some of those things public out of an honesty and humility I owe the world. I trust you to carry that context with you.
Scott: “I assume the witch is going to try and hinder me as me, my madman and my dog try to leave the room?”
From a discussion of finding Dracula’s voice in the Anacrusis LJ-feed comments comes this quasifilk gem of Ben’s:
“You know perfectly well the nature of doctor-patient privilege, Vlad,” says Van Helsing. “But–“
“I have her power of attorney since she was declared missing,” says Mina. “Go ahead, doctor.”
Dracula looks at her sharply, then back to Van Helsing. “Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula Dracula, Dracula.”
Van Helsing sighs. “It’s Ms. Murray’s discretion. In here, please.”
He gestures them into a file room and rummages through drawers. “Polycythemia vera,” he says, “a chronic condition. Simply put, the young lady produces too many erythrocytes; circulation is slowed, bruises come easily. Treatment of choice is–“
“Dracula,” says Dracula.
My dignity, like a bottle of Gauthier ’88, shatters on the prow of Alison’s new blog.
I have whiplash now! Great! Dammit! This is from about eight seconds of headbanging during “Blister in the Sun” at Erin and Stephen’s wedding. I used to be able to dance like that for hours, and now my limit is less than eight seconds.
I guess having ruined my spinal column in college is worth some cred. Maybe.
Stephen and Erin got married! To each other! Stephen’s pastor talked about his webcomic in his toast! Stephen wins. (And now has to hope none of his grandparents remember to search for it.)
Erin Polgreen, we failed to intersect at brunch! Email me?
Miranda sits at the table and turns the ring over and over. “You should have called me,” she says.
“Of course I called you.” He blinks and frowns. “I called you until your mailbox filled up. I called out the window and I called 911. I called, I–I called you names–“
“Please don’t take that tone,” she says.
“Why not?” he asks coldly. “It’s not as if I can make you upset.”
But Miranda loves him, loves him like chocolate and heat and really good pop songs. She can’t speak. She slaps the table and all the windows blow out.
And it’s a bit of an in-joke, but William’s allegory for my occasional struggles with syndication is unfairly rich.
My family was pirates again! Brenna had to go to the hospital! But she’s okay! My embarrassingly bare portfolio site went live! Ben wrote another LJ-feed story!
Mario and Tessa sit at the machine.
“What do you think these knobs do?” Tessa asks. Mario responds in the most natural manner possible.
The machine will hum. Tessa will say “Wait, did you hear that?”
Mario will nod. “Yeah. It’s tensokinetic, all right.” He’ll twist another knob.
The machine will have hummed. Mario will have said “Now that’s just weird. Let me try and find another tense.”
Tessa will have said “Yeah, I don’t think we want to get much more esoteric than this.” Mario will have spun another knob…
But the past tense setting [error: tense not found] broken!
Spurred by my threat to kill off Marlo and saved from the LJ feed, Ben bends Anacrusis to his will:
Suddenly Millicent started moving again!
“Awwwww” said Cosette, lovingly. She squeezed her sweet adorable fuzzy wuzzy kitten with marble eyes tightly. Millicent purred.
Rob cheered up!
Holly cheered up too!
South settled down!
The Chosen Ones remained awesome!
The Justin finally defeated The Man!
Everyone danced for the next fifty words!
Last week, William challenged me over the Miranda story; took a while to figure this out, but I got it. Your serve, sir.
They don’t even check whether you’ve got an emergency shunt or cutout: either you do or you’re here because you don’t. Took Miranda months to find them. They don’t exactly advertise.
It smells like smoke and nerves. “Ready,” says the tech, then kicks the starter and scrambles back to his place in the circle. Miranda’s already got a sweaty hand in each of hers. The multiplier cycles up, rattling, as the tech leans forward for a bite of chocolate.
Overload. Miranda gasps in joy, in pain, in joy, in /
/ the bathroom, at home, Zeke shakily cuts her ring off his finger.