Sunday, April 29, 2012

Temporaly speaking


So, I again find myself in a quandary.

I'm writing a ghost story for a PostMortem anthology set during the industrial revolution. Here's the issue: I want the time period to be clear, but I am using third person limited (main character POV). There is no reason whatsoever for her to be thinking about what time period she lives in and I don't want to be so blatant that I am basically calling the reader stupid. I was thinking about just placing a date and place stamp at the beginning, but it seems a bit lame to me, especially since there will not be a bunch of temporal jumping.

Other complications:
-The anthology somewhat calls for steampunk ghost stories, which would make the time period a given, but it doesn't limit submissions solely to that. All it takes is one other writer dealing with a haunted spaceship to completely screw me there.

-One of the eighth grade students in my school's writing group picked up on the time period right away, even if she didn't know what to call the industrial revolution (history classes are just now getting up to the civil war at this point). This should mean that I have been clear enough.

-The above mentioned student is, in all likelihood, much smarter than most people out there. Certainly more than me.

Any suggestions?

Monday, April 2, 2012

In Memorium

On the morning of Sunday, April 1, 2012, Asterisk past from us into whatever hopeful dreams in which we wish to spend our eternities

He was our first fertie, the last of the OG crew that once ran rampant through our halls. He's the one who would terrify friends with his easy use of sharp teeth. The one who once, after I finished explaining that he always gently removed the treats from my hand, mistook a bit of finger for the food at close range. He tried to run under the couch with my fat digit firmly in his grip. When first introduced to Didymus, our fearless little snaggletooth runt, he tried to drag him behind the bookshelf with all of his other stolen possessions. He seemed to get a great amount of joy from making my wife squeal as he chased her around the room and I'm pretty sure that I caught him devising new ways to cause mischief several times. He helped Critter, bitter old man that he was, during his own sickness, with comfort and play as needed. In his last months, when he wanted to be held, he would tell me with a sharp nip on my feet.

He was my big man. A tough bastard that weathered his last days with a strength I can only hope to show when my own time comes. Unable to walk, he crawled. Cleaning himself when he could no longer eat because appearance was apparently quite important to him. He still dictated where he would rest and how, even though we had to carry him much of the time.

I felt his last breath, and with it all that he was, leave him. While our house is not void, it is a little more empty. A little less full of joy and gibbering goofiness. That little bit makes all the difference now, and I'll miss him dearly.

Goodbye, dear friend and carpet shark extraordinaire.


addendum: if you have a moment, please stop by Piper Morgan's blog for an explanation, in better words than I can possibly conceive, of why I love these little toothy fuckers so much.