Unheimliche

Having inspected closer, I don’t know that it was the house at all. It isn’t that there is some dearth of evidence, or even that there is particular support to the contrary, but in my opinion, it doesn’t add up. Perhaps the coincidence were too many, or the clues too few, but I must insist upon my conclusion.
Consider my arrival at the house, an occasion sufficiently without note. The small yellow building did not itself seem ominous. The neighborhood did not echo any sense of the macabre, and the bright sunlight illuminated everything quite clearly. Once inside, the building revealed itself to be as normal as any other, though I suppose the cobweb silhouette across the corners of the room held a certain sense of menace, but is it any different elsewhere? An empty house is natural to reminisce of past lives and events, so it’s hardly any wonder that the sense of the past should come through so strongly.
The realtor had complimented me on my choice with thinly veiled relief, glad to be rid of the bother. It wasn’t a particularly nice house, stuck as it was in the dense urban environment without any real aspects of personality. But it was a home, and soon it would resemble one, I had resolved. I set to moving my furniture into the house, and was soon set and ready. I felt the tiny building held up my assortments nicely, and almost instantly I began to feel more comfortable. The place itself was alien. I noted that the off-white interior was cracking in places, but was likely not cause enough for alarm. It had been made to withstand earthquakes, and it had seen more than its fair share. There was a basement and an attic, and all the luxuries of a modern home, in spite of its size.
Satisfied with my days work, I retired to bed.
My dreams terrified me. Waking, I did not know the source of my fear, but it kept me from my sleep. I turned the light on and resigned myself to consciousness, and opened a book to distract myself from the nameless fear of what I had seen but could now not recall. There was a door, I knew. Light poked through the seams of the frame, a shadow clear and telling of something waiting just beyond. There was a window, as well, but through it was only darkness. I closed the book, aware that my diversion had not worked as well as I had hoped.
I became aware of the noises then. I could not discern their origin, through the noise of the city and of the neighbors. It was a deep thumping of the chest, a whisper in the throat that whistled through the still night air. It grew out from the walls, from the floorboards and the cracked ceiling. My first assumption was of the neighbors, but I could tell they were asleep, or perhaps not home – at any rate, they were not the culprits. Rats, perhaps? No, the sound was too deep. An intruder? My doubts and fears had made their decision, but I remained skeptical, holding out hope that it was maybe the plumbing or some other aspect of city-dwelling to which I had not previously been introduced.
As the sounds persisted, I found myself unable to wait in my dimly lit living room, which I felt to be odd in itself, for the bulbs were new and during the day had seemed bright enough. I dismissed the thought, and proceeded gently down the hall, uncertain whether I hoped to find man or beast. Once in the kitchen, the light on at the touch of the finger-tip, blinding for a moment compared to the light of the living room, I felt whatever presence had been was now gone. The sound had faded too, it seemed, but before I could consider this further, there was a knock at the front door.
It was two men, both in hats, one with a cigarette. I had trouble making out their features beyond the bold silhouette they cast. I did not recognize them through the peep-hole in the door, but there was a certain air of familiarity about them. They called out and knocked once more.
“I’m here, I’m here,” I called, grabbing light-heartedly at the door handle. I felt I knew these men, perhaps from my childhood, or a past life or some such, and to be quite honest, I was glad for the company at such a late hour. A tug at the door revealed that I had not unlocked it, and feeling silly, I called again, “Hold on, I’ll be just a minute.” I fiddled with the locks, but it was difficult to see what I was doing in the dim light of the den. The knocking came again, and I called for their patience, explaining that the locks were new, and perhaps not working properly. The men mumbled to each other, but I could not make out the words. They knocked once more. I gave up, deciding instead to go around the back way to meet them. I would attend to the broken lock in the morning.
Again down the hall, through the kitchen, but I had a better sense of the room now in the darkness, and did not see fit to bother with the light. Out the back door and around to the front step, but I found my visitors had left already. Somewhat disappointed, I looked up at the broken street lamp, which appeared to have been in a state of relative disrepair for sometime, now. I tried my door from the outside, but as expected, it would not budge.
Returning to the backdoor, I found the kitchen light on. I pressed myself up against the house in fright, suddenly understanding that I had in fact invited in the very prowler I had earlier suspected. I looked about myself for a weapon, something I could use to protect myself. I picked up a brick, the best candidate I could see, and approached the open, glimmering door cautiously. I moved slowly, keeping as silent and hidden as I could. Approaching the hallway, I hid behind the island counter in my kitchen, peering out, shaking. I had never had such an encounter before, but I doubt that prior experience would have sheltered me from the fright! For suddenly, I caught the shadow of the lurker flickering in the hall, and when I had caught glimpse of his body I lunged out with my weapon to lay out the intruder! I hit him squarely in the head, and his body collapsed, though I could not see him in the darkness of the hall. I frowned to discover that I had hit the walls in my fury, and had done them significant damage. Another detail I would attend to in the morning.
I turned back to the body to find the bloodstain on the floor, but no corpse to go with it. I felt a certain relief – I did not know what it was to kill a man, and I did not wish to learn – but my relief was quickly replace once again by the fear of an intruder in my house. I had not heard him get up, or in any way sensed his movement. I maneuvered through the house, turning on every light I found. I hesitated to check the basement, recalling the many films that had depicted all kinds of glorious misfortune to anyone who dared to check the basement, but I felt that I would never be able to rest safe if I did not do this. My basement was largely empty, but still had the dust and history of previous occupants, including various boxes and objects still dotting the floor. The water heater rumbled in the same low tone it had since I had arrived, and the washer and dryer systems sat, waiting patiently for use. The basement was safe.
I latched the door when I left it. Returning to the living room, I stood a moment to look at the damage I’d done to my hallway. That’s when I noticed it. I knew there had been something strange, but now I knew. As I observed the holes in my wall, I could very clearly make out the shape of a room beyond. I took my brick to the wall again, widening the hole until I could step through. It was a bedroom, and from what I could tell in the darkness, it had belonged to a child. The bed was made neatly, the dresser was kept in good clean order, but the stench of the room was overpowering. The musty, rank scent of air that had not been disturbed in god-only-knows how long instilled in me the feeling that it smelled of death. I explored the room to find a section of the wallpaper, which featured space-rockets and twinkling stars, had been torn off. It was the shape of a door, but there was no knob, no handle whatsoever, only a small hole which I assumed called for a key. It seemed the door was made to be opened from the other side. I made up my mind that I had to know more, and begin beating at the door, kicking and smashing with the brick. Eventually, I gave up, and returned to my living room.
The television did not work. All the stations ran static. The radio was the same way. I relented, as it was clear to me that the fates no longer wished me to be awake. Returning to my own bedroom, a glint on the night-table caught my eye. A key? I had not put it there, and its design was unlike any I had seen before. Curiosity possessed me, and I found myself before the door in the child’s room, the key tentatively in my hands. The door creaked as I opened it, and I stepped into the dusky hallway.
The tiled floor was broken in places, and the early morning light filtered through the dusty broken windows, beams of light showing through the dust kicked up in my wake. The hallway itself was lined with rusted doorways, and when I peered into each room, and each had its bed and nightstand. I felt a chill as it occurred to me where I was standing. I could almost sense the presence of the children who had stayed in the ill-fated place, but I ignored my initial reaction of fear and pressed further, into what appeared to be some kind of mess hall or cafeteria, and beyond that, the offices. I turned, having heard pattering of feet behind me. My mind was playing tricks on me, turning the decaying orphanage into hallucinations of what my wild imagination thought it knew of the past.
But the sounds persisted, and so I sought them out. I walked quietly, uncertain in the dim light, aware of the way my eyes turned even the slightest discoloration in shadow into monstrous creatures, lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And then the sound grew again, and a flicker as something or someone moved past, through the hallway just beyond. It seemed the shape of a child, and I suddenly felt myself compelled to reach the poor boy, for fear that he might need my help.
I called to him, to get his attention, and at first it came only as a whisper, but I persisted until at last I was confident he would hear me. And so he must have, for moments afterwards it was his head poking through the doorway, glistening eyes staring at me before he darted away again.
"Don't be frightened!" I had not expected it, though looking back I know I should have - after all, what should a poor young boy make of it when, out of all the lurking shadows and menacing figures, one of them is real enough to call out? I followed after the boy, intent to bring his fears to peace, but I couldn't help wondering how he had come to be here. It struck me that he had perhaps been left behind or forgotten when the building had been shut tight, and had lived off of the food left over in the pantry. Of course, it was more likely that he was a mischevious little scamp who had broken in for a laugh or on a dare, but it didn't erase the suspicion in me. But not all of the windows had been boarded up - certainly a boy resourceful enough to stay alive in all this time would know to break through a window and crawl out to safety and freedom once more. That is - unless there was some other reason he couldn't leave. There could be younger children here, possibly even sick or injured, such that he must stay to tend after them. How many might there be?
With every thought I found myself straining harder in my pursuit, pushing faster through the hallways that had become more numerous than I would have guessed, each lined, door after door, with rooms just like the one I had been in before, but there was no sign of the boy, until at last I came upon a door that was open. I burst through and found myself once again in my own hallway, in my own house. There was a knock at the front door.
I ran to it, and peered through the hole to see it was the two gentlemen, once again. I pulled at the latch, pulling at it and pulling at it until I began beating at the door in defeat. They knocked again, seemingly unaware of my struggles with the door, maddeningly deaf to my plight. And then the footsteps again! But now they were above me, in the attic, and I raced down the hall once again, to where the cord hung from the cieling, and I, determined to put the whole ordeal at last to rest, not noticing the dust on the walls and the aged, creaking floorboards, not aware of the broken furniture or the musk of dead air, only focused upon the intruder in my house.
I pulled the cord, but as the ladder extended, opening from the cieling, I felt the floor fall away, and I tumbled down and down until I landed with a sickening crack. Dazed, I clutched at my head, and paused to ponder the blood that now graced my fingertips. The room I was in felt small and constricting, as the faint light trickled through the small window in the door. I pulled myself upon the small and ancient bed in the small and forgotten bedroom. I looked up, and saw at last the child, grinning down at me from the hole in my attic. He spoke to me, and the sound of his voice filled my being with dread, and he told of the end I had been fleeing for all these years, but at last knew I could never escape. Even if my body somehow found a way beyond this place of the damned, my soul could never leave. I was trapped, and beyond all hope of rescue.
There was a knock at the door. A latch at the bottom slid open and a tray was pushed through. One of the men peered through the window, as the other shut the door.

"Welcome home."

The sun shines today with irreverence. It’s bold. Nature, I mean. It asks no questions, provides no answers. It is strong. That’s why we fear. That’s why we hate. It is our weakness, as well as the source of our pain.
I can’t stand it.

It’s truth. There’s fear in that, too. Truth is not accuracy, though we often treat it as such. No, truth is courage, strength, reality. Life is never soft, and the meaning behind it is always hard. Always. Scholars, philosophers, teachers: thinks and soul-searchers alike, all asking the same questions, seeking the same answers. But the answer is simple. We are blind to it by choice. Because the truth of it is that the only beauty in life lies in death – but you knew this. You’ve witnessed it. You’ve seen it in all those news stories and films, all hinting at the truth we work so hard to avoid: that we are monsters.

It was in his eyes, this one simple truth. The cliché, of course, that the eyes are the window to the soul, and it’s not incorrect. Not completely. But the eyes tell so much more than that, and it’s infinitely more important: the eye is the lens of truth. And when I look in his eyes, I see my truth. It’s in his fear, and in the reflection of my face in his dark pupils. He knows all too well where I am, and while he sees my hands, it’s my eyes he watches.

Hate is too weak a word for the emotion in his face, in the tears that now well up. It’s love, it’s fear, it’s understanding. It’s a need to understand.

But the truth is simple. It’s clear as the welts in his skin. It’s hard and unyielding as the rocks in my hands. It’s shame, broken as we are, fighting beneath an apathetic sky. One day, we will once again be friends. But we will never be any better. We will never be good.
We live, forever bound by our truth.

INT Ballroom

Dimitri and Petra enter from right, silhouettes.

Petra wanders slightly into the open, looking around in the darkness.

The lights turn on.
Petra marvels at the place.
She says it’s beautiful, runs to his arms
He spins her around, sets her down, steps back.
“What’s wrong?”
Dimitri smiles as best he can, then takes her gently into his arms to dance.
With a slight nod, he begins.
She looks at him skeptically, but relents.

Photoshop and digital imaging tutorials:

http://tutorials.epilogue.net/tutorials/advanced-digital-painting-techniques
http://tutorials.epilogue.net/tutorials/digital-landscape-painting
http://tutorials.epilogue.net/tutorials/painting-rocks-and-grass-in-photoshop/1/
http://www.seb4d.com/tutorials/Mattepainting/mattepainting_english.htm
http://www.melissaclifton.com/tutorial-freehand.html
http://tutorials.epilogue.net/tutorials/perfect-clouds-in-5-easy-steps
http://tutorials.epilogue.net/tutorials/digital-portrait-painting-realistic-skin-tones-with-photoshop-and-painter
http://www.gfxartist.com/features/tutorials

7 archetypes

Victim – follows murder scenes, doesn’t talk, unstable
Serial Killer – stalks, kills, doesn’t talk, unstable, hangs around death
Detective – inquisitive and forceful, generally rude, follows murder scenes, hangs around death
Journalist – talkative, nosy,
Private Investigator – nosy, sneaky,
Copycat Killer – stalks, kills, follows murder scenes, unstable,
Vigilante – ignores law, stalks, kills,


Get a letter from a woman close to you.
The letter is frantic, asking for help? Or maybe the letter is a warning?
- if player goes straight to the woman, +victim
- if player kills a random individual, +serial killer, +copycat killer
- if player looks for other sources of information, +detective, +private investigator
- if player talks to no one, +serial killer, +copycat killer, +victim
- if player talks to everyone, +detective, +private investigator, +journalist
- if player follows up on information concerning unrelated events, +journalist
- if player steals items, +detective, +copycat killer, +vigilante
Encounter Transient
- if player ignores him, +vigilante, +victim
- if player questions him, +detective, +journalist, +private investigator
- if player sticks around and listens to him, +journalist, +vigilante, +copycat killer
- if player follows him, +vigilante, +copycat killer, +serial killer
- if player kills him, +copycat killer, +serial killer
- if player tells him to go away, +victim, +detective, +private investigator
Emergency vehicle goes past
- if player follows it, +copycat killer, +detective, +journalist, +vigilante
- if player goes the opposite direction, +serial killer, +victim, +private investigator
Incident
- if player asks people questions, +detective, +private investigator, +journalist
- if player hangs around and looks at stuff, +serial killer, +copycat killer, +vigilante
- if player leaves when asked, +victim, +serial killer
- if player does not leave when asked, +vigilante, +copycat killer






Murderer MO is to stalk two people at a time, then kill one and leave a recognizable memento to the other one. (e.g., if the couple is married, the wife might find the husbands ring finger in her mail box)

Serial Killer paraphernalia: rose, coin, playing card

Or MO is to leave a personal item in the hand of the victim

Story:
There is a woman who calls to you about a problem.
You take care of problem. You encounter an insane transient, rambling. You return to the woman, who thanks you. She mentions that it’s getting late, and asks you to walk her home. She says goodnight, and then an emergency vehicle drives past. She tells you to be careful out so late, and thank you again.
FOLLOW THE EMERGENCY VEHICLE: You encounter the incident, and police.

Victim:
The woman is family
The problem is
You meet the transient after the problem
Transient is rambling about seeing the Murderer
The woman thanks you with a hug
As you walk her home, there are many people
The incident is a murder
The police tell you to leave

Serial Killer:
The woman is a friend
The problem is
You meet the transient after fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about the cold and the screams
The woman thanks you with a hug
As you walk her home, there are no people
The incident is a murder
The police tell you to leave

Detective:
The woman is a victim
The problem is
You meet the transient while fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about the dead bodies
The woman thanks you with a smile
As you walk her home, there are few people
The incident is a murder
The police ignore you

Journalist:
The woman is an informant
The problem is
You meet the transient before fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about the Murderer
The woman thanks you with a smile
As you walk her home, there are few people
The police ignore you
Private Investigator:
The woman is a client
The problem is
You meet the transient while fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about dead bodies
The woman thanks you with a smile
As you walk her home, there are few people
The police ignore you

Copycat Killer:
The woman is
The problem is
You meet the transient after fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about the cold and the screams
The woman thanks you with a
As you walk her home, there are no people
The police tell you to leave

Vigilante:
The woman is a lover
The problem is
You meet the transient while fixing the problem
Transient is rambling about the cold and the screams
The woman thanks you with a kiss
As you walk her home, there are many people
The police tell you to leave

INT BALLROOM HALL

The hall is darkened as PETRA walks out into the clear of the room. DIMITRI turns on the lights, and Petra starts.

PETRA
Wow! Would you look at this!

DIMITRI
You like it?

Petra runs to Dimitri’s arms, he catches her and lets her spin once, before putting her down with some reservation.
PETRA
It’s beautiful!

DIMITRI
So you like it.

Petra takes his hands in hers.

PETRA
Of course I do. How could I not? I mean, just look at all this!

She turns and looks at everything again.

PETRA (CONT’D)
I love it.

Dimitri flourishes. He half runs/skips over to a wall and begins to pull a rope, raising the background curtain.

DIMITRI
It gets better.

On cue, the band starts to play. Petra, overwhelmed, staggers forward slightly, agape. Dimitri stands behind her proudly.

DIMITRI (CONT’D)
Well?

Petra spins around and embraces him. He takes her in, and then pulls away one hand. As she looks up at him in surprise, they begin to dance.

http://mathworld.wolfram.com/images/gifs/chess.jpg
http://www.chessvariants.com/d.photo/shogi.jpg
http://havard.no-ip.info/pics/insignia/hitman.png
http://www.mobygames.com/images/i/46/47/58797.jpeg
http://xbox360.qj.net/uploads/articles_module/56898/73800_assasins-2_qjgenth.jpg
http://www.ps3newsresource.com/games/assassins-creed/assassinscreed-6.jpg
http://www.tothegame.com/res/game/5374/logo.jpg
http://www.cnet.com.au/i/r/2006/Games/xbox/22057941/sc001.jpg
http://www.generation-nt.com/images/biblio/art_test-hitman-blood-money-xbox-360/000000030352.jpg
http://m3.idg.se/blog/public/images_upload/060406-hitman-dh.jpg
http://netgames.apollo.lv/upload/2006-06-27/4805/hitman-blood-money-20060319083551368.jpg
http://www.x-power.be/_gallery/Hitman:%20Blood%20Money/48941320060526_161507_4_big.jpg
http://jeuxstrategie.free.fr/jeu_stratego/exemple_de_partie.jpg

Economics, the study of money, its significance, and how it moves, is finding new application in and around video games. The industry itself has grown to rival movies and music, but more than that, the games themselves have become microcosms of economic movement. In addition, video games are opening up new avenues of research and experimentation. Add to this the fact that, historically, video games have led the forefront into technology that has since become standard proceedure in the business world and the result is a powerhouse force capable of literally changing the way today's history will be written.
The game industry, though a relatively new market, is doing extraordinarily well for itself. The combined revenue of console and computer based games has already surpassed that of the entire movie industry. This ever growing behemoth is experiencing the same economic growing pains that all the other ones did, but at an accelerated rate. While the rest of the computer industry experiences the ever baffling phenomena of forever falling prices and forever growing functionality, the game industry has met its match in economies of scale. With the coming of the new generation of console technology, the cost of development is expected to skyrocket by millions of dollars. The new systems allow for more to be shown on screen, for more calculations to be processed every second, and for more content to be stored in a single game, which means that all this new content needs to be created, and that every individual asset that goes into the production of the game takes longer to create. MMO (massively multiplayer online) games, among the most popular available, generally have a cost of production exceeding $20 million just to develop the game, which doesn't include the day-by-day maintenance that these games require.
Even so, MMO's have become successfull and even lucrative, with games like World of Warcraft, Lineage, Everquest, and Ultima Online bringing in the largest number of players globally. With all of these people interacting in their respective vitrual worlds, interesting societal phenomena have cropped up naturally in a controlled environment. This has tremendous implications for research, as everything in these worlds can be monitored and quantified, making even the psychology of economics a measurable attribute. Within these MMO's, players accrue currency that they then use to purchase in game objects. The fascinating thing about these in-game marketplaces is that while the world is virtual, the economy is very real, and responds to abuse exactly the way it does in the real world. In one particular instance involving Ultima Online, a popular game with thousands of players logging in each month, the developers actually designed their own economy, with all of its rules and factors. During the first year of its life, though, the economy in this game went through a tremendously tumultuous evolution, experiencing a wide variety of problems that the developers had not anticipated.
For one thing, there was over-production, spurred by the incentive that every time a player created an item, it improved their "skill" in creating that item, making future iterations better. Players expected to make a profit for their efforts as well, and complained when non-player shopkeepers would not purchase their wares, reporting it as a 'bug'. When the development team changed the system to account for this, the result was shopkeepers that would, in effect, manufacture currency to buy items which were not only not in demand, but were also over-saturating the market. While many items in the game could be found in the wild (collected from defeated monsters as loot) or created by players, the NPC shopkeepers did sell two things that were important in the Ultima Online economy. The first is raw materials, the price of which were kept artificially low so as to encourage new players to begin creating their own items and thus find more incentive to continue playing the game - the result of which was further irritation to the overproduction problem.The second thing these shopkeepers exclusively provided that players wanted was magical reagents. A group of players discovered that they could corner the market on these by buying them up from all the stores as soon as they were made available and then selling them off later at a higher price. The second major problem they encountered was hoarding. The players would each seek to accumulate wealth and items, and would generally simply keep all this wealth and items once acquired. The developers had built a closed economy that ultimately failed. Add to this the rampant counterfeiting that occured due to loopholes in the game, and the amount of hyperinflation that occured in the game was staggering, and the economy almost collapsed. The simulated market reacted exactly as it would have in the real world, so we can see that such games now can have more meaning than simply the fun the players have participating.
Other games have been more successful with the economy, but an interesting effect of these economies is the real world transactions they sometimes spur. In many games, the actual sale of characters and items is prohibited, although these transactions often occur anyway. Characters in games such as Everquest and World of Warcraft have been sold for thousands of dollars. A popular game called Second Life is actually built with the capatalist economy as the main selling point. Players join the world, create their own content, and then sell it for in-game money that can be exchanged for real money. In Second Life, the most important commodity is land, which translates in technical terms into server space. Players buy land (renting it for $9.95 a month), and then do with it as they please, storing their items, or setting up shops, or selling off their land piecemeal to other players hoping to open up a store or club. There are actually players who make their living creating content for this game, and one player in particular (known in the game world as the "Baroness") who became rich building a lucrative land sale empire.
In a certain way, the games themselves have become their own economy. Norrath, the virtual world of Everquest has become the 77th largest economy in the world! Internetnews.com ran an article that said that Norrath has a "gross national product per capita of $2,266, making its economy larger than either the Chinese or Indian economy and roughly comparable to Russia's economy". The current exchange rate of Lindens (L$, the currency in Second Life) is 252 Lindens to 1 US Dollar. According to an interview of the developers, the "GNP of Second Life in September 2005 was L$906,361,808 or US$5,596,674, based on the recent L/US exchange rate." These games are significant members of a world-wide economy, with players on all corners of the globe participating in the circulation of all this money.
Video games are becoming a significant presence in the real-world economy, and now that their virtual world equivalents are becoming so prevalent, these additional societies have begun to leave their mark as well. As always, it appears that games will lead the way into the future of business technology, just as it has in the past. Examples of this include the color moniter, higher resolution hardware accelerated graphics cards, sound cards, improvements in networking technology, and increased processing power of computers. Now, once again, games pave the way, now introducing the idea of what is being called The Grid, a system which will allow all the computers connected to share their processing power, effectively creating a world-wide supercomputer built of nodes of individual computers - all for a game. Games are no longer flights of fancy. They have grown into their own as both economic model and pioneer. One day soon, perhaps, games will allow use to finally understand that bigger game - the game of life and society.

Internetnews.com: http://www.internetnews.com/infra/article.php/10693_1107121
Harrow, Jeff: http://www.theharrowgroup.com/articles/20020527/20020527.htm
Vaknin, Sam: http://samvak.tripod.com/pp153.html
Criterion Economics: http://www.criterioneconomics.com/news/060713.php
Simpson, Doug: http://www.dougsimpson.com/blog/archives/000504.html
Rosedale, Phillip: http://www.technologyreview.com/read_article.aspx?id=16023&ch=biztech
Simpson, Zachary Booth: http://www.mine-control.com/zack/uoecon/uoecon.html
Koster, Raph: http://www.raphkoster.com/gaming/uoeconevolution.shtml

Goodbye, waterfall


I had to get out, had to go somewhere. I couldn’t bear these walls, still echoing her voice. I went outside, on the dark and empty street where I could be a stranger, a silhouette; featureless. I walked, aimless, down the street I knew best in daylight and now could hardly see. Eventually, the cool air of the evening began to calm me down, soothing my agitated mind with quiet patience.
I turned a corner and found my self at the old park, where I’d spent much of my time as a cub, scurrying about, exploring the world and sports and people. Like everything else, it was quiet, black, cold. As I wandered through, I couldn’t help but remembering the times I’d hit the baseball so hard it actually injured the kid who caught it, or I’d played with a little kid to cheer him up, or had driven myself to keep running until I finished training.
I walked through the baseball field, past the basketball courts and the tennis courts and the swings in the sandbox. Past the pool that had replaced the building that remembered how I’d trained for boxing, or practiced acting, or sculpted pots that didn’t work. I came to the edge, just beyond the little Japanese garden where I’d climbed on rocks, jumping from one to the other, trying not to fall to my doom just a foot below, behind the auditorium where I’d played basketball and delivered my lines on cue. The sprinklers had come on, and all the plants glistened in what little light there was. One of the sprinkler heads was broken, and sent a gushing stream of water fifteen feet up before it rained back down.
It was beautiful. I sat down on a nearby bench. Watching this self-proclaiming fountain gave me peace. The water shined as it flew majestically into the air before disappearing against the trees and shining once again on its way back down, changed, better – this water had done something, had been a part of something, this beautiful and glorious arch that defied nature and man. I listened to the soft pattering it made on the cobblestone path.
I left earlier than I wanted, preferring to remember it bold as it was in its prime, rather than to watch it die as I knew it inevitably would.



I had done something wrong again. It was a recurring theme, by this point, so in a way it wasn’t so bad – after all, it was nothing that hadn’t happened before. History supported me, showed me that there could still be a happy ending. But in a different way, it was almost infinitely worse: was I doomed to live a life forever riddled by mistakes and foolishness? I’d been here before; had I not learned? As always, she stayed supportive. As always, I found a way to make things worse.
It was my turn to say something, but I didn’t. Unsure of how I’d managed to dig such a hole, I was terrified of making things worse. I kept quiet. She asked me what I expected from our relationship. Can’t answer. Can’t think, can’t speak. I can’t even move. I want to tell her I love her. I want to tell her I’m sorry. I mouth the words, but I can’t make the sound come out.
She deserved better than this. She and I both knew it. I tried my hardest to be a good boyfriend, to be a good person, but every step forward is a new mistake, a new word I didn’t mean, hadn’t meant to say. We had spent such great times together. I know I’d made her happy, once. I had. Even then, back in days that felt like lifetimes ago, it was hard to speak of the future. She’d join the army, I’d go to college. I never asked her not to. It was what she wanted, so it was what I wanted for her. I knew it wouldn’t be easy – no one had said it would be easy – so I prepared myself for the worst. I prepared myself for the months of silence that would come while she situated herself in her new world.
Hers was a world of success. It was a world of accomplishment. It was a world where duty and honor were manifest each day in each persons very way of life. It was a world I could never know or understand.
She asks me what’s wrong. There are no words, and won’t be for a very long time, so I smile as best I can and tell her that all is well. I feel guilty. Guilty for wasting her time. Guilty for gambling on our happiness.
I had to leave, had to go somewhere. I had to say goodbye.

Goodbye, waterfall.

Goodbye, waterfall

I had to get out, had to go somewhere. I couldn’t bear these walls, still echoing her voice. I went outside, on the dark and empty street where I could be a stranger, a silhouette; featureless. I walked, aimless, down the street I knew best in daylight and now could hardly see. Eventually, the cool air of the evening began to calm me down, soothing my agitated mind with quiet patience.
I turned a corner and found my self at the old park, where I’d spent much of my time as a cub, scurrying about, exploring the world and sports and people. Like everything else, it was quiet, black, cold. As I wandered through, I couldn’t help but remembering the times I’d hit the baseball so hard it actually injured the kid who caught it, or I’d played with a little kid to cheer him up, or had driven myself to keep running until I finished training.
I walked through the baseball field, past the basketball courts and the tennis courts and the swings in the sandbox. Past the pool that had replaced the building that remembered how I’d trained for boxing, or practiced acting, or sculpted pots that didn’t work. I came to the edge, just beyond the little Japanese garden where I’d climbed on rocks, jumping from one to the other, trying not to fall to my doom just a foot below, behind the auditorium where I’d played basketball and delivered my lines on cue. The sprinklers had come on, and all the plants glistened in what little light there was. One of them was broken, and sent a gushing stream of water fifteen feet up before it rained back down.
I sat down on a nearby bench. Watching this self-proclaiming fountain gave me peace. The water shined as it flew majestically into the air before disappearing against the trees and shining once again on its way back down, changed, better – this water had done something, had been a part of something, this beautiful and glorious arch that defied nature and man. I listened to the soft pattering it made on the cobblestone path. It was beautiful.
I left earlier than I wanted, preferring to remember it bold as it was in its prime, rather than to watch it die as I knew it inevitably would.

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Domino: 1 9/16 x 3/4 x 1/4 in

customize/unit setup
Click: US Standard
System Unit Setup: 1 = Inch

CHECK 1- value scale
2- monochromatic scale - green gray red (9 each)
3- color wheel (tint and shade and complimentary)
4- 7 harmonies (analogous 3, complementary 2, double complementary 4, monochromatic 3, split complemtary 3, triadic 3, subdued contrast 4)
5- high and low chroma (hugh chroma light value - yellow, orange, red-orange; high chroma dark value - blue, green, purple, red purple, blue green; low chroma light value - tint HUGE; low chroma dark value - shade)
6- munsell color wheel.

Gon Lucos
Blair Graphics
Sammy's Camera
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