I've decided to split my Serialized Science Fiction over to Behind the Scenes - The Serialization of Science Fiction. Just something I wanted to do...

I read a couple of web-comics daily - to make the list, it has to be consistently good. Well, a new comic just joined the ranks. It is A Miracle of Science.

In the year 2148, the biggest threat to interplanetary civilization is a plague of mad scientists. The Vorstellen Police were formed to track down and neutralize these threats to society using whatever technology they can bring to bear.

Batter Up

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 20003,2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

We cruised through the first 3 games, the Tigers had really taken their toll, but they got off to a good start in the fourth game. Jackson was back in the line up behind me and they had to pitch more to me. So, it was the 11th inning, 2 outs, bases loaded, and they were leading by a run. I was up to bat and I crushed one just outside the foul pole. I also nearly took out the pitcher with the head of my bat when it cracked off.

When you are the two time league MVP, soon to be 3rd time, you are allowed to be a little superstitious. In my case, I don't like anyone, and I mean anyone, touching my bats. Most people think it is because they are corked, but whenever the league takes one of my bats, they never find any tampering. The real reason is that if I don't keep them under lock and key, they end up on eBay. Anyway, I only took two bats out to the field and my other had splintered in the 3rd inning.

The GM for the Yankees was trying to get the umpires to examine the remains of my bat while I was trying to explain to them why I didn't have a spare in the racks and why I wasn't going to borrow just any old bat from my teammates. He got tossed for bumping the home plate ump while shoving the bat head in his face. I said please and that did it, they called a TV timeout and I started down to the clubhouse - there was no way I was giving my locker combination out to anyone else in the stadium. I had to hustle, so I didn't even drop the remains of my bat.

A funny thing happened to me on the way. You have to remember that there were cameras on the dugout the whole time and a crew waiting in the locker room to interview us on our post- game reactions.

I never reached the locker room, they never found me, they now call that hallway the "Bermuda Corridor", and the Yankees went on to win that game and the next three. The Cubs beat them for the World Series in 4 straight.

Talk about notoriety, I've eclipsed Elvis in the tabloids. What did happen in that hallway? What happened to all of my millions? Where am I now? Why do Red Sox fans hate me more than Rodger Clemens?

Well, I can answer one of those with the casual observation that my contract was technically over with the end of the season and anyone who thinks they'll get their hands on my money should remember that stint I did with the CIA - besides killing, the favorite camp talk had been about squirreling away illegal gains. I.e., I transferred my assets out of the bank and took them elsewhere. The Red Sox management tried to sue for the money, but I was long gone.

As to what really happened in that hallway, well, lets just say I met a really rabid Yankees fan and he convinced me to leave the park.

I remember stomping down the hall, pissed that the ball had curved at the end. They couldn't walk me, they were playing for the win and Jackson had already smacked them around earlier. Then this guy just appears out of nowhere, clamps these iron fingers on my shoulder, I'm thinking major bruises, and sinks these major fangs into my neck. I can't do anything, his eyes have got me locked down and none of my muscles are responding.

I didn't have any faith to fall back on to fight this bloodsucker, Iraq took care of that. He took his fangs out, switched to the other side of my neck and slurped out some more blood. I just sat there and let him do his thing. He reared back and I knew he was out to convert me to his faith. I finally saw he was wearing a Yankee cap and I knew he hated me - killing me would have been too easy, just suck it all out. No, he wanted to rob me of playing in the daylight.

Out of nowhere, he chomped down on my left wrist, almost chewing my hand off in the process. Did I mention I was superstitious? The only jewelry I wore was a silver bracelet with a pair of stars - on my left wrist. I wore it tight and under a sweatband so the umps wouldn't throw me out. When he started to chew it, he roared, and grasped at his mouth - it was bleeding, turning green from where it had contacted my bracelet. His hold on me slipped, both physically and mentally. I thrust the remains of my bat through his heart and watched him burn.

Blood was streaming down the front of my jersey and my left hand was clutched up to my chest. It started to burn and when I looked down, it was green. I pulled the bracelet off, it didn't hurt my right hand. It must take an open wound for the silver to work its charm. I felt a slight breeze come from the wall and the ashes scattered out of sight.

Anyway, there I stood, basically dead. The game had drifted into the early night, I could go back out there. I couldn't however go into the locker room looking like this and I couldn't go out onto the field. Baseball is very understanding still about performance enhancers, but not in the form of superhuman strength imparted either by vampirism or lycanthropism. Never mind that I had been out under the sun earlier in that day or that I had been passing the lycanthropy piss test since I started playing high school ball, I couldn't go forth and ruin my accomplishments.

It was weird, I was torn by that Ranger mentality to go out and help my team, but in the long run, I knew it would do more harm to baseball than good. Pete Rose never understood that, yet I finally was starting to soak in the implications of how my needs would damage the game.

As I thought of this, with the roar of the crowd in the back ground, with the blood soaking my uniform, I realized I'd just killed the only source of information on how vampires do their supernatural tricks. Okay, I knew that silver and wood were effective against them, but other than that what was myth and what was fact? The Church wasn't going to help me and the only bloodsuckers I knew of were agents and lawyers.

Thinking about bloodsuckers, even as an euphemism, caused my fangs to extend. Okay, I probably fed on humanity now. I'd experiment with some human style food and if that didn't work, I'd have human food. What, you expect me to be squeamish or rant about my lost humanity? That cherry was popped in the Middle East.

I don't know how I did it, but I found myself in the locker room, standing by my locker. I got out my clothes, keys, and bats. I found myself sitting in my Range Rover. I drove home, arranged for my funds to be transferred to an offshore account that no one knew about and arranged for everything else to be liquidated.

After that, I rode off, but not into the sunset, which I was fated to never see again. Nope, I was freshly minted vampire who needed to find himself. The big question was I going to feast on my fans or on Yankee fans?

Blast from the Past

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 1999,2000,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

The dawn was breathtaking in its own right. On most days, the elves would be basking in its warmth and celebrating the cycle of the forest. On this day, the majority of the elves were crispy corpses, smoldering in the light breeze. The rest were standing around, gazing off into some inner landscapes. Here and there, a few of the braver souls were trying to help the physically wounded, but they did not spare a glance for their other comrades.

A soft sputtering drifted in on the morning air. Some heads shot up in alarm and then relaxed at the familiar sight of a Nomad III as it lazily circles in over the battlegrounds and suddenly a line is released and someone repels down the rope to the scared ground. As soon as they are clear of the line, a squad follows the pathfinder.

The newly arrived squad of Paladins just stands as their plane lazily circles about and resumes its normal morning excursion. They then wait, staring impassively at the carnage. Finally, one of the weary survivors dusts himself off, runs his fingers through his sweat matted hair, dons his helmet, and saunters over to the newcomers.

"What the hell happened out there?" Koritigan asked his son.

"Sister dear was back in town", replied Caraval, "and she brought some friends."

"Those CAS deserters she has been hanging out with?" asked his father?

"Yes, and one mean wiz. He erected that monstrosity over there." he pointed to the still flailing mass of thorns and roses, "Our best magic and napalm hasn't withered it. I'd call an air strike of Agent Orange, but I could just see the conservatives having a field day with that tidbit on the news."

"I want the council to see it anyway. It conjures up images best forgotten." said Koritigan as he tried to pull his eyes away from the rose bush. He could see imprisoned Paladins, their flesh impaled by thorns and he could still see new thorns popping out of their skin. "At least the poor bastards looked like they died quickly."

"Dead? Why do you think we've been trying so vehemently to fry that bush? They are still alive. The ones you see have passed out from the pain. When they wake, you can listen as they scream. Nothing shuts it out." Caraval impassionately told his father. He walked over to a circle drawn on the grassy floor of the forest and pulled his Manhunter out. He took careful aim and shot at one of his oldest friends. A thorny branch whipped over and the bullet ricocheted off of one of the thorns. Thorns then burst out of the closed eyes of his friend, who shrieked a mindless blast out of a throat raw from a night of such piercings. As the scream died out, a soft bleating could be heard from the captive. "See, the bush protects them."

A branch darted out towards Caraval and he ducked back a meter. "We don't know how, or on what, but it is getting bigger."

"The wiz also scragged Azureflame and then animated both it and one of the CAS warriors. I have seen and fought zombies, ghouls, and insect spirits, but none of them compared to the terror induced by these undead creatures. Finally, he bombarded us with waves of mana bolts. We thought he would eventually collapse from the strain, but he kept on throwing bolt after bolt." added Caraval.

"Azureflame dead? Who is going to tell his father?" ponders the older elf, ignoring the remaining comments from his son.

"Dead twice, you can see the smoldering remains about 100 meters into the forest." replied his son. "Listen, did you bring the memory crystal like I asked?"

"Yes, but tell me more about this mage. No-one should be able to call forth such magics for decades." stated the father. He made no effort to bring forth the crystal his son had just requested.

"Give me the damn crystal and I will show him to you. Or do you want the image to blur?" in his anger, Caraval failed to mention that he would never forget the stranger who incinerated his command.

The father fished in a belt pouch and handed over the blue-green crystal. Caraval stared into the murky depths, calling forth the image of the man he planned to throw into the living roses. Slowly the silver-haired wizard started to appear. At first the image was blurry and then it was double. He twisted his fingers over imaginary knobs, fine tuning the clarity.

The older elf sighed at the dependence of the youth of today on technology. He believed that once the mana levels started to peak, technology would wilter away under the glare. He wanted his son free of the taint of the machine, but it was hard to undo lessons learned early. His sister was much worse - at times he despaired of her ever turning away from the modern world.

As the image snapped into focus, Caraval was astonished to hear his father let out a quick gasp. He did not know if it was for the stranger or the white disk. During the battle, he did not recall seeing the disk, but his subconscious must have attached some significance to it being there. "What is it father?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing. I will meet you back in the city." was the reply he got.

"What about Azureflame? Who is going to tell his father that his pride and joy is mostly ashes?" he pounded.

"I will, I will, don't worry. I'll handle Lowfyr. You just get your Paladins back to camp. Don't let word of this leak." Kortigan dismissed his son by turning away. He quickly spun back around and he chose to ignore, for now, the resentment, which flared from the younger elf's eyes. "By the way, how did the human kill Azureflame? By magic or by blade?" he asked.

"How did you know he had a sword?" rejoined his son.

As Kortigan turned away for the last time, he threw back over his shoulder, "Then perhaps he was not a wizard after all?"

Angel

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2004,2005,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

The original piece was written in 2004 and appears as Angel - How do you Spell Wussy?. When I decided to present the development of the 4 stories, yesterday I wrote an analysis of the story elements as Angel - Second Set of Notes. It is the second note packet because I discovered an earlier set from December of 2005 and collected it as Angel - First Set of Notes.

I find of interest that even though the fragment is very small, I had already started adding dialog. Another theme in the way I craft stories, the characters do not yet have names. I don't have a problem with that - I can invoke them in my mind and I can easily differentiate them from other characters from other stories.

Hmm, she is striking, long brown hair, wears leather. She puts off most guys with her self-confidence. If I were to go for a composite image, I'd say the brass of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct and the poise of Carrie-Anne Moss in The Matrix. Perhaps we should add some maturity ala Kim Cattrall in Sex And The City?

And he is also self-confident with a hint of weakness. He attracts most women and makes most guys feel inferior. He doesn't do it actively, it is just his mannerisms. For a composite image, I'd go for the elegance of Anonthy Hopkins as Hannibal (which also gives a hint as to his base urges), the old lion effect of Sean Connery in Outland, perhaps also the flawed hero in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and I keep on envisioning Ian McKellen as Magneto in the X-men series.

That exercise was kinda interesting - I've never done it consciously. At times, I'll write myself notes to make sure a plot line doesn't reverb too much with something else I've read.

Speaking of which, as I read over the plot and remembered I wanted savagery, I was struck by some of the reviews I read about Bret Easton Ellis when he wrote American Psycho. Which I never read, so no stealing of action. This was over 12-14 years ago that I read the review, it might have been based on early access as well. But the reviewer focused on how Bret bucked traditional story telling, detailing minutia (clothing and fashion accessories) and providing gore.

I don't want the focus to be as much on the violence, I want it there to shock, but the real focus has to be on the myth that monsters want to be human.

Angel
Second Set of Notes
Really, an Analysis

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

• The basic concept is there are matched pairs of beings, lovers if you will, who are near immortal.
• If one dies, the other dies.
• Very powerful beings.
• They age naturally, unless:
  • The feed off of humans.
  • Pain, suffering, etc.
• Male has decided he wants to grow old.
  • Romantic
  • Tired of death, i.e., killing.
  • Tired of life.
• Female wants to live.
  • Sick of indecsiveness of male.
  • Has gone through this midlife crisis before.
• Male has gotten old, has a tumor.
• Female is younger, more vibrant.
• Male has forgotten about his past life.
• Prepared to die.
• Female needs to get his blood lust up.
• The concept being explored is the Hollywood theme of monsters wanting to become human. Why is that such a good thing?
• The male really wants to fit in - he wants to return to that innocence he had back when he was mortal.
• What if he was never mortal? Is he yearning for that he can never have? A family??
• They can go years without feeding. It is the safest way to blend in - there are ways to kill them.
• The female gets mad because he puts her life at risk. She wishes he could be more like her.
• But, if she gets him mad enough, hungry enough, he can be more than she can handle.
• She is scared of him when he is awake - when he remembers everything.
• Another cliche would be to place them at the center of Nazi Germany.
• The goal of the story is to unwind the above.
• The reader starts out like the male - unaware of what is going on.
• The female has most of the answers. Another poke at current story themes where the hero knows nothing and has to discover their powers.
• The goal is to shock the reader as the male starts to understand, to recall who he is and what he needs.
• In any event, by the end, he wants to live, he wants to go hunt.
• Perhaps the struggle with the female gives him some energy? Perhaps he feeds a bit off of her? The tumor gets a little cured.
• He has to get excited, he has to dominate her.
• He has to get in a state where she thinks he might kill her.
• Not really a sexual dominance, more of a power struggle.
• She is lonely. Others of their kind have been killed or just died. Also, without him feeding with her, she doesn't get the full effect. The taste is off, the thrill is muted.
• The ending should invoke a vision of hunters preparing for a bloodbath:

  The full moon back lights them as they perch on a skyscraper. He stands tall, his hand on his sword hilt. Where did he get a sword? She is bent over, sniffing the winds. Wings unfurl, beastial screams errupt, and they launch themselves into the void.


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Angel
First Set of Notes

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2005,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

• He never speaks.
• Some conversation to work in:
  • "What about what I want?"
  • "I'm sick of dieting, I want a real meal." or "... some meat."
  • "Don't you love me anymore?"
  • "I'm hungry."
  • "Are we there yet?"
• Hearing her say "I love you." has to be the catalyst:

  "I ", she grunted and lashed out with her boot.

  "Crack!" replied the arch in my left foot.

  " love ", she snarled and swung her left hook, the sun glistening off of the brass knuckles.

  "Crack!" went at least 3 bones in my left hand.

  " you!" she cried, a tear actually streaking down her right cheek. I almost missed it, I was so intent on the elbow rushing at my face.

  "Crack!" went my nose. Strange, I could have sworn she broke it earlier. Oh well, it was a mushroom now.

Angel
How do you Spell Wussy?

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

It was a beautiful day, I was in the park, the mothers were out with their small children, the squirrels were mugging food off of little old men, and I was at peace with my fate. I had just seen the doctor and found out the tumor was cancer.

The weight hit me from behind, a boot to the back of the head. I fell as the pain blossomed out from my skull. I was too old, I couldn't get my arms in position to break the fall. I'm pretty sure my left wrist was broken. I couldn't feel the throbbing, but I did feel the fingers grabbing my hair. I could hear the mothers screaming in the background.

The fingers slammed my face on the gravel path, back and forth. The blood spewed from first my nose and then my lips. Teeth crunched, splintering on the solid grape nuts. "Why the hell do you have to make it hard on me?" It was a female voice and it sounded familiar.

She was straddling my back, pinning me to the ground. "You stupid man, why do you have to be such a wussy?"

Something bubbled up from deep inside my inner child and slapped her. I don't know how I managed to twist about, I saw a clump of my grey hair in her right fist, blood dripping from the piece of scalp still attached. But slap her I did - it rocked her back. She raised her other hand to her mouth, the lips were swollen, and some blood slithered a trail down to her chin. She wiped her fingers across, the blood didn't smear, it stuck to her hands. She grinned and started licking up the blood. She paused on the last drop, her tounge extended, as she scooped up the blood from her finger.

"You don't deserve me and I don't deserve to die. Take the damn treatment." She was the specialist I just been to see. But instead of the demure lab coat, glasses, and practical dress she had in the examinationb room, she wore leathers. It struck me, it was for defense, she was scared of me. That pleased me.

Batter Up

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 20003,2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

We got back to the base and the pilot squealed his guts out. I think things would have been okay, i.e., shooting your own was the norm in the Company, except their psychs finally realized they couldn't get rid of my humanity. I was in the stockade and the Ranger survivors were being debriefed. They were being obstinate, they wouldn't buy the blood crazed manic routine about me, they knew the real score. Hell, they remembered what had happened when I was their LT and saved their asses back then. The Company was going to sit this one out and put me in front of firing squad.

Unfortunately, they forgot about the LT in the hospital ward, well hell, who wouldn't, we all thought he was going to die pretty soon. He didn't, he woke up just as Geraldo Rivera was slumming through the wards, looking for a story. When the LT woke up screaming, live on national TV, well, Geraldo had to get the story of the Captain who had come back to get his men, the one who had walked into the storm of bullets to break the Mexican standoff, yada, yada, yada.

I think the LT was suffering from post traumatic stress syndrome, I didn't recall it that vividly. Well, a deal was struck and the second Silver Star was accompanied with my Honorable Discharge. By the way, I think it was the shock of me never going to make it to Major which finally killed the old man.

The Yankees wouldn't touch a 24 year old has been with a questionable shoulder. I did a couple of months with a startup in Boston and one night, in a bar, I bet this jerk I could hit a ball off of anyone. That jerk was the pitching coach for the Red Sox and the next day I swatted fastballs off of several of his starters. The last guy I crushed several off over the Monster.

He scowled after the first one, but he was grinning after the third - it was Owens, whose clock I had cleaned in game 2 of the CWS my senior year - he had finally recognized me.

Owens convinced the GM to sign me to a one year minor league contract and to invite me to Spring Training. I think they mainly did it for the publicity, bring on a wounded vet and all, show the nation that the Yankees were not as compasionate and understanding. The contract was barely more than I was making at the start up. I passed the physicals and quit CoolEdge the day I signed the contract. I hustled in the spring and was sent down to the Portland Sea Dogs, the AA farm club. Then the starting shortstop cracked his knee on a routine double play, which saw me sent up to the Pawtucket clubhouse. I was doing fine there, watching the pennant races, and improving my chances at actually making it past Spring Training for the next season. I mean, the guy the Sox were starting got in a serious slump and couldn't get out of it. While they were trying to arrange a trade for a real replacement, they brought me up as a promotional campaign against the Yankees.

I hit .647 against them, with 5 home runs. Okay, 17 at bats isn't indicative for a career, but it was against the hated Yanks. I went on to win rookie of the year, batting .429. We squeaked in as the wild card, but lost to the Yankees in the ALCS.

I signed a two year $25 million dollar contract with the Sox in the off-season - they were still concerned with my durability and thought the first season was somewhat of a fluke. I swept the Triple Crown and took the MVP in my second season, we took the AL East, but lost to the Yankees in the ALDS.

My third year, well I hit for 103 home runs in the regular season and we ended up tied for the AL East with the Yankees. We had split the regular season meetings and had to play a tie- breaker in order to determine who would take the division. Jackson, who hit in the 5 spot behind me, was on the DL, so they pitched around me during my first couple of bats, but with the bases loaded in the seventh, a signal got crossed and I air- mailed one the opposite way. I think the Boss blew a heart valve then and there. Anyway, we ended up winning the East and home field against the Yanks in the ALCS. We took the Mariners in 3 and the Tigers had taken the Bronx Bombers all the way.

Blast from the Past

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 1999,2000,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

I rushed over to him and grabbed him by his cloak. Dead or alive, I was not leaving him for my father to gloat over. Gorgie climbed aboard our lead copter and started laying down a suppressive line over little brother's position. I got the feeling the mana bolts had come from that quarter. I did not want to leave the wand behind, so I grabbed it out of C'gull's hand. I could feel the weight of time and power that the artifact held. I was tempted to drop him and make off with the wand. Somehow, I could feel that he still lived.

With a rush of adrenaline, I hefted him across my shoulder in a fireman's carry. The load almost staggered me, I could now feel the armor I had earlier guessed at, but I headed off to the second copter. The first had taken off and Gorgie was still providing firepower from it.

Bit Brain was waving me on. I could feel the mana bolts behind me as they left the hands of their casters. I was so encumbered, that I would be able to do nothing other than die. Bit Brain would tell me later about how they arced up into the night sky towards the dragon. The first missed narrowly to the right and splattered across the last gunship, and the resulting fireball threw me to my knees. It also buffeted the dragon right back into the path of the last mana bolt.

I don't know if it was the lack of either the white light or the direction from the unconscious C'gull, but the explosion from the zombie dragon knocked me the rest of the way to the ground. Both the wreckage of the copter and the remains of the dragon impacted right were we had last seen little brother. I hoped he was directly under at least one of them.

I staggered back to my feet and stumbled the last few feet into the copter. I dumped C'gull into the cargo bay and climbed in right behind him. Bit Brain and the Kid secured both of us to seats. I could see their lips moving, but I could not hear a thing. I could feel us lift off towards our date with a certain Mr. Johnson.

A Wolf and his Boy

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2000,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

The original piece is presented here as A Sketch. In thinking of where it goes from here, I brainstormed the following First set of notes..
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A Wolf and his Boy
A Sketch

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 2000,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

My mother was not dead, I knew that much. One day, when I was 5, my mother and aunt just disappeared. My neighbors think they are dead, but I know my dad is still looking for them in the back of the house. Our house is bigger than what the neighbors think. Sometimes at night, when I am supposed to be asleep, I can hear him prowling around some deserted corridor, searching for a clue as to which room they are being kept captive.

I can vividly remember the night they were taken, I was playing puppy when the strange men burst into the room we were exploring. Mom quickly tied her key around my collar and then threw a tennis ball, which I didn't know she had, across a small stream. My instincts took over, I guess if I had been older I would have been aggressive and defended them, but being a puppy, I was quite playful. I jumped the water and got the ball. I turned around and saw they were dragging both my aunt and mother away, out the door.

She screamed, "They can't cross the water, go to your dad." I would wake up some nights, wondering why they never jumped over the stream and saved themselves. I would ask my dad, but he never answered.

Anyway, I was scared to find him, he had never seen me as a puppy and I didn't know who was going to turn me back to a boy. I knew either my mom or aunt could do it, but I never thought he knew how. I ran through the halls, ignoring the scent of the strangers. When I found him, I sensed he knew they were gone. I tried to lead him back to the room, so that I could track them down for him, but he just shook his head, pulled off my collar, and held me as I shook and cried all night. That was the last time I ever cried. I thought he would take her key away from me, but he never asked for it.

I know he doesn't have to work and that we don't have to stay in this town, but he keeps up the pretense that we are like the others. He works his forty hour week and spends the rest of his time roaming the back halls. I think he just works enough to feed us, pay taxes, and to afford a housekeeper. Mrs. Murtle is nice, she minds after me as well as her own kids, but she knows better than to try and go past the second set of halls. She also never wonders, at least out loud, exactly where that set of halls is in relationship to the back yard. The first housekeeper couldn't mind her own business. Now everyone in town thinks she ran away to Mexico with the mailman, but I know better - they are in the third set of halls. I visit her every now and then, but she never notices. I don't visit the mailman, he was never nice to me.

Every start of summer, he gives Mrs. Murtle 2 weeks off and makes a big production of the two of us piling the car with gear to go camping. In the morning, the car is gone and the neighbors always think we got an early start. I never can figure out exactly what he has done with the car, but I know better than to think I will see him in the next two weeks. I never go into the front of the house, I don't want a neighbor seeing me, but I have food enough stored in the second set of halls. I can always feel someone, or something, watching over me. But I know it is not Mrs. Murtle and it is definitely not him. I can hear him, in the back halls, battling the rooms and their inhabitants, desparately searching for some clue. I know in normal times, he would give those unexplored rooms a wide berth. Sometimes, when you get past the 4th set of halls, a room will change on you. Once, an entire hall mutated into one I had never seen before or after.

After the two weeks of vacation is up, we spend an hour unloading the car, once it reappears, and then I wonder where the camping gear goes. It is a more mundane question, because there is plenty of storage space in the house. Mrs. Murtle doesn't know it, but the hall closet is bigger than her house. If you don't know what to expect in our house, you'd never know to look behind the coats to see what is there. I remember the first day I had preschool, I got stuck in the broom closet. I had thought there would be a shortcut in there to the other side of the school. It took some time to get used to the fact that other people's rooms fit in their houses.

Of course, that is how first kids, then their parents, then the teachers, and then the whole town starts to think you are strange. Throw in two sets of missing people with an alcholic father and you get pitying looks wherever you go. I've heard it in town and school enough times, everyone thinks my dad is an alcoholic. They never wonder where he gets it, that he has never stepped foot in a liquor store since after my mom went away. Even before then it was only to get the odd bottle of wine. My folks were hardly the partying type, not with all of the halls of the house to explore. You'd think people could put two and two together and get a rational thought, but no, not in this town. They used to say things about me, but that stopped once I reached junior high and went out for the track team. I know I have an unfair advantage, being a natural runner, but dad suggested I take up some afterschool activity. It gave him more of an excuse to search the lower levels.

Once I started winning my heats and beating the high school track stars in our joint practices, people started being nicer to me. I was only a 7th grader, but they could see 5 more years of glory being brought to the school and town. Sometimes I could hear them whispering that I should go out for the football team, but contrary to expectations, I am not one for a pack. I like it being me, something I can control, against the others. I don't like failing because others fail. They always wondered how and when I trained - in the third hall, I can run though never-ending fields, either as a teen or as a half-grown dog. I figured out a long time ago how to get the collar on and off without my dad's help - and needless to say, I know better than to ask Mrs. Murtle, regardless of how nice she is and how little she gossips when she is in town.

The endurance I get in either shape transfers across the collar. The muscles and posture are different, but the will and freedom are the same.

Things I pulled from the sketch

• Father is a werewolf.
• Son has no idea.
• He knows he himself can change into a 'dog'.
• He needs a collar to change.
• His father does not need a collar.
• He has spent years at school with the collar on.
• Dealing with social workers.
• Classmates.
• High schoolers
• Punks/Gothers
• Jocks
• Mother and Aunt were kidnapped.
• Why didn't they cross the water?
• The house is a tessaract... (time and space folded)

What is there to be discovered?

• What happened to his mother?
• His father is also a werewolf.
• That he doesn't need the collar?
• What does that do to his self image?
• Hates the collar, but it is uniquely him.
• Who built the house?
• How else is he different?
• What do werewolves do for fun?
• Terror.
• Books for kids.
• Does the moon effect him?
• Was his mother a werewolf?

What are the other plot elements?

• School
• Introducing a girl friend to his house...
• Perhaps she was his best friend from K?
• A friend from inside the house?

Brainstorming

• Burglar gets lost
• Sees him change
• Follows/taunts him
• Dad needs his help in a room.

I've got 4 story arcs in various stages and I've decided to document story development on each of them. I honestly don't how far I'll take this, good intentions and all.

• Angel - Strong plotline
• Wolf and his Boy - Nice characters, searching for a plot
• Gateling - Got a concept, but no clue where it is going
• Grubbers - Good research, plenty of potential

As I enter in the progress of the stories, I'll fill in the above links.

Batter Up

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 20003,2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

Obviously this was written before the Red Sox won the world series. The story felt complete to me originally, but in looking back at it, I think it just sets up the character for later use. I don't really get the impression that Vaughn's character is set and that we know him. On the other hand, I do feel that Logan Fox in The Nanovampire is set. I understand where he is going and perhaps even where he has been. In many ways, Logan is James Bondish. He is set in his ways, comfortable with himself, and on top of the world. With Vaughn, the story is still to unfold.

One of the reasons I don't feel this story is complete is I just re-read A Wolf and his Boy. That reminded me of how I develop stories - I feel weak with dialog so I tend to develop either characters or the plot. I then go and backfill in the dialog. In cutting and pasting in the first installment, there is no dialog.

That could be because I was trying to keep the story compact and under a certain word count. I certainly had scenes in mind which could have been added or adapted for this story.

• ESPN Highlights
• Spring Training
• Which is Bigger - the Player or the Game?