Poor lonely blog

I'm the first to admit, I'm not good at regular updates. This month sort of got away from me--between NaNo, the sudden start of final tests and projects, and finally getting a job I didn't have much time or energy left for blogging.

The job is in a kitchen, chopping veggies from 6-11 in the morning. Not exciting, but also not strenuous in a way that makes me unable to brain, which is good since I have massive homework this month. Unfortunately I do have to go to bed at nine in order to function, since I really don't do well on little sleep. Also, I think chopping has aggravated some arm problems I started having last year--that, combined with the writing I do for school and the attempt at NaNo (I officially decided to quit today, after an entire afternoon of tingly shooting pain in my wrist and hand). So until that improves, computer stuff is going to be kind of limited to basics. Boo.

Stats

I'm endlessly fascinated by my blog stats. Not really surprising, since I'm kind of self involved and all, but I really can't get enough of looking at my stats page.

Over the life of this blog (which is what, six months? I think I started in May? June? I don't know. Not very long) I've gotten three hundred and something pageviews. Not very many--not really surprising, I am hardly an Internet Giant. But, the international composition of those pageviews is really interesting (to me. Sorry, everyone else)

See!
United States 290--no real surprise. Hey there Americans!
Brazil 12--Hi Brazil! I don't know any of you! Wow!
Canada 6--I may know some of you.
Denmark 6--Pretty sure I don't know anyone here. Hello!
United Kingdom 6
Russia 3--huh. Hi Russia!
China  2--I really don't know anyone from China
Germany 2--Guten Tag, Deutschland! Wie geht's?
India  2--This is new today. Hello, India!
Norway  2--I do know some Norwegians. I don't know if they read this blog.

For some reason, the last bit of that sentence didn't show up when I first posted this. So if you are reading this late, congratulations! You get the extra special full sentence edition!

The other stat that I like? The one that shows the Google searches that lead them to me. Mostly it's either my name or the blog title, but "see jane fly" and "Tyler Colvin video" also apparently lead to me.
My life is so interesting, yo.

Is it really only Tuesday?

Last night I went out with some friends, to catch the final dress of Hair at the University (free final dresses open to the public are one of my favorite things, since I am too poor to go to theater otherwise). It was an entertaining show, and a good time, right up until I got into my car to go home. At that point, my car decided it was time to stop being a car and start being a lifeless box on wheels.

No power. Ok, the battery was dead, I called AAA and asked for a jump and they sent a tow truck. After a lot of trouble, which the truck guy attributed to his cables being faulty, the car started and I went home.

I pulled into my parking spot, turned off the car, and it promptly went dead again. No dome light, nothing. Attempts to start it again were useless. I even had to lock it manually, since the automatic locks were out.

So this morning I called for another tow truck, and got towed to a shop, where I was told they wouldn't have time to look at it until tomorrow. So I hiked back home, wishing it had happened either earlier or later in the week--we were going to go shopping today, so are pretty low on food things. Also, Theo has a bad cold, so I am trying to get him healthy and not get sick.

So far, this is not my favorite week.

Focus

Why can't I focus? I have always been bad at it, but lately...it's just depressing. I have tons of homework to do, and I have to look for jobs, and write my stupid novel and try to make the previous stupid novel less stupid, AND the house is a mess even though I just cleaned it, WTF.

But no, I do homework for five minutes, then spend half an hour poking at the internet, and trying to find the kitten, who has come back twice since the first day I saw her, and eating some pie, and staring out the window, and OH HEY, THEO IS HOME...

I am not even able to focus on blogging about how I can't focus. Why? Why does this happen? Where is that kitten? What is wrong with me?

Also Theo just grabbed my fingers and made me type this: Jam is tasty.Yum jam!

This will not end well.

Kitten

When Theo opened the door to leave for school this morning, a kitten walked in to the apartment.

She ( I didn't check, but I am just going to go with it) wasn't a tiny baby, but she was still pretty far from grown. I don't know why she was on our porch (we live on the second floor), but she seemed quite pleased to come in. She checked out the apartment, sniffing around and crawling onto shelves and under furniture. She seemed particularly enamored of the office closet.

We aren't allowed to have animals where we live, and I was kind of afraid she would pee on something, so after about ten minutes I took her outside, even though she was adorable and purry and had a fluffy tail. I set her on the porch and tried to do some schoolwork.

Two hours later, I went to water my outdoor plants, and the kitten came back into the house. I figured that if she had been hanging out this long I might as well let her stay a bit longer, and I gave her a bowl of water. She hung around a while longer, doing some more exploring and sitting on my shoulder. The visit was cut a little short when she started making little kitten-puking noises, and I once again evicted her to the porch.

I left a little while later to run some errands. The kitten was sitting on the porch, and she followed me down the stairs and out to the street. I don't know where she went after that--I hope she has a home. She seemed pretty well fed and friendly, but I am fairly tempted to get some cat food to have on hand in case she comes back.

Old Stories #2- Current story!

So. When last we met, I had just finished my four-day web institute for my grad program. Basically, I sat in a room for four days and had way, way too much information shoved into my brain. The last couple of weeks have mostly been settling in to doing classwork, and continuing to look for work. Boring boring.

So! Today I bring you the first page of a current short story WIP. I don't usually write short stories anymore, I don't usually write science fiction, and I almost never write about adults. This story is all three, and has been massively tricky to write!

Working title for this is "Ghost", but that is subject to change.

*
When Andy Rollins started spouting to anyone who would listen that he was seeing ghosts, it got him more than a few funny looks.Folks on  Rainmaker VII  don't much hold with superstition. It didn't help that Andy was the chief compactor on  hydrogen deck. The thought that he was crackin' up didn't go down too good.

I work in compression--two decks below hydro, where we do the actual assembly--fusing the H with oxygen to fill the vats with water. Vital work, but the noise and heat is enough to make anyone crazy. Been more than a few times I've heard things when I get off shift--getting out of comp leaves your ears ringing like nothin' else. Really, it's a wonder it was Andy and not me who went nuts.

He come down to compression deck two shifts after I'd first heard about him seeing things, to warn me that the latest H delivery had been short by nearly a million tons. Not news I wanted to hear--we were already behind on production, and it was planting season down on Homeworld. Had to rain in 8 days, and we were already behind, since the main compressor was down. Component issue was the last thing I needed.

"Goddamn, Andy," I said, screaming to be heard over the whomp-whomp of the compressors. "What am I supposed to do?"

He shrugged, looking unhappy. Andy always hated to disappoint anyone. His family had come from Base3, about two months out from Homeworld, and he had been supposed to get a good job and a spot for them on the surface. Closest he ever got was Rainmaker VII, hovering in the upper troposphere. Not that we could see the planet from here. Weather ships don't get windows. I don't think he ever got over the guilt from his mother dying on a Base.

"There's nothing I can do, Lisle." Andy said. "it was the ghosts."

*

Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuun. 

Web insitute.

Four days of learning. Learned. Library learning. Informations? Many words. Much learnings. Searching good. Many informations. COFFEE TIME!!! More coffee. Sugars. Eat the sugars for brain learnings.

Sleep now.

Running

I hate running. I hate it with the burning fire of a thousand suns. I once promised myself that, after surviving the hell that was high school gym class, I would never again run unless something large and clawed was chasing me.

Unfortunately, I hate being out of shape just a little bit more than I hate running.

I spent a lot of years being very, very out of shape. At the end of my sixth grade year I got really sick, and was homebound for six weeks. My asthma, formerly a fairly minor case that was only really triggered with smoke or heavy exercise, got really bad. I was on steroids for my lungs and I gained a significant amount of weight. Moving at all was very difficult. Being in middle school just made the problem worse--it's not a good time to be overweight, particularly if you also stand out for being tall and kind of nerdy.

It took a long time for me to get comfortable in my skin. I lost most of the weight, though it took years and I am by no means thin now. What I am, is capable. I am in good shape, I can climb a mountain or bike for miles or lift  heavy things that need to be lifted. I have come a long way from having to rest between flights of stairs.

When I moved at the start of this summer, the two things, other than my family, that I knew I would miss the most were having a regular, reliable mechanic who I knew, and having a gym membership. Because without a gym with assorted exciting fitness classes, staying in shape gets a lot harder, and without a job--I am still looking--I couldn't justify the price. I would have to do the unthinkable. Go running.

Run. Regularly. Even though it still makes me want to die or throw up. I am in good overall shape, but running, I think,  is sort of a specialized skill that my muscles still protest. I have actually improved a lot this summer. The percentage of my route that I walk has gone down, and I have gotten faster. But it still sucks, and I still hate it, and I am writing this blog post in part to delay having to put my shoes on and hit the street.

But I guess my time is up, and I have to go. Tomorrow is my first real day of school--I have four days of 8-5 in person classes before the online lessons start, and that doesn't leave me with lots of time to exercise. So I really have no excuse to not go today.

Damn it. I hate running.

Old Stories #1- Morgan and Fiona in the Deep Dark Woods

I'm lazy and bad at coming up with new content. So from time to time, I think I am going to post a random page or two of some of my old stories. I think the oldest ones I have are from high school, I have several from college creative writing classes, and I have some from the last year or so.  They won't be in order, and probably won't make much sense, but I can feel good about myself for updating, so I think that makes it a win.

This first excerpt is from the first story I did in my intro creative writing class in college. This scene is from the first third of the story.


Morgan and Fiona in the Deep Dark Woods. 

The morning promised another of the hot bright days that seemed to be the rule that June. There had been a thunderstorm the night before, and the air was oppressively humid.  Morgan was eating breakfast when Fiona, sweat dripping down her freckled nose, burst into the kitchen and struck a dramatic pose. “There has been a rain of frogs,” she proclaimed, “and I need you to help me get rid of them. Are those pancakes?”

Morgan got her a plate, knowing that she would not tell him anything until she got fed. He suspected that she spent most of her free time coming up with outlandish statements to spring on him at breakfast. Fiona’s family were cold cereal people.

When she had carefully licked the last drops of syrup from her plate she sat back and folded her hands in front of her, waiting for Morgan’s attention. “Last night,” she began, “during the storm, I heard a sort of plopping on the roof. Not rain, more like splatting. I got out of bed and looked outside, but it was dark—“

“As night often is”

She glared, “and all I could see was that there were larger things mixed in with the rain. So this morning I got up early and went outside and right off I noticed guts! Guts everywhere!”

“That’s disgusting, Fi.”

“Well, once I got past the guts I saw that there were absolutely thousands of frogs lying about. Most of them were dead—splattered on the ground, their guts everywhere—“

“Still gross.”

“--but there were still a bunch of them hopping around. And so you have to help me save them, because it’s going to be very hot today, and I think they’ll dry out and die. So we have to move them to the creek.”

Morgan looked at Fiona—she certainly seemed serious at least. But her imagination was a touch overactive, and if she wasn’t sufficiently entertained she would start to entertain herself.

“Morgan! We have to go now, before they all dry out!”

Morgan was fairly sure that he would have noticed a rain of frogs, but he supposed it could have been a very localized storm. “Fine,” he said, “let me get my shoes.”

Wedding

The biggest drama at my wedding was the issue of The Suit.
My husband and I both got our wedding clothes on Etsy, we posted alchemy requests and found people to custom make us outfits. Mine went perfectly, and I had a great dress a month before I needed it.

His process was more complicated. Suits are harder to make than dresses, and it took longer to find a tailor who was willing to custom make a three piece suit for an affordable amount. The one he eventually found lives in France. She had a great portfolio, and was willing to do the whole thing, shipping included, for $300.
We knew the timing would be pretty tight. The deal was finalized five weeks before the wedding, and the tailor promised to get the suit in the mail a week before, with the fastest transatlantic shipping available.

It's easy to make that sort of call five weeks out, but a week before the wedding we were starting to get nervous. The suit was finished and in the mail 8 days before the wedding. Unfortunately, it looked like it wouldn't be fast enough. We got married in my hometown, which is three hours away from where we live now. We had to be there two days before the Friday wedding, and it was pretty obvious on Monday when the suit was still stuck in French customs that we weren't going to get it before we had to go.

After a bit of quietly freaking out, we called his uncle, who lives in the same town we do and was coming to the wedding. We learned that the uncle was planning to drive down Friday morning. He agreed to check our mailbox for the next two days and see if the package was there.

All of this was complicated by the fact that our mail is delivered on a very erratic schedule. Sometimes it is there before noon, sometimes we don't get it until six or six-thirty. There's no way to tell when it might get there. The suit required a signature for pickup, so in order to get the package our mail would have to get there in time for the uncle to check it, get the pickup slip, and go to the post office.

Thursday afternoon we got a call--the slip had been delivered, but when the uncle had gone to the post office to pick up the package he was told that the carrier was still out. The post office branch closed at six, and with the erratic mail pattern, there was no guarantee that the carrier would be back in time. Since the wedding was at 11 AM, if the package wasn't delivered in time that night there would be no way to get it to us. We looked at local rental places, just in case.

The carrier got back to the post office at 5:55. The uncle got the suit. He would be getting to us at 10. The wedding, as I said, was at 11. It was tight.

The wedding was in my grandmother's back yard. I called her and asked if she could have an iron ready so the Boy could press the suit before he wore it.  We crossed both fingers and toes that his uncle wouldn't have car trouble.  There was also the question of whether the suit would fit. It was made to order, but he had never tried it on, and that close to the ceremony there wouldn't be time to get a rental.

I didn't actually see the suit arrive. When I got to the house just after ten though, the Boy was standing in the living room, ironing his pants. They even fit.

The Sandbox Saga, Part 4

So, returning to a story that I have been neglecting. When last we saw our heroes--the Princess of the Downstairs Bathroom (now deposed) and her Bodyguardin' Friend, immortal due to a freak military accident, and slaves of a tribe of feral children due to really terrible luck--they had just been introduced to another slave in the desert, the former queen of a nearby country who had been captured by the feral children several years previously.

The Feral Children were many things--excellent fighters, wielders of enormous power gathered through the ritual sacrifice of giant ants, and remarkably good architects. However, they were still children. Lizzie, the leader was somewhere between eight and ten. She was the oldest by a year or so. Most of the others were a bit younger, and the two plastic babies were...babies. Afternoon naps were common in the halls of Summercastle, and even those who felt they were too old for naps often dozed off over their books of ancient ant-lore.


The Queen--like all the non-feral players, she didn't get a name--did not look like much of a ruler. Like the girls, her head was shaved and she was dressed in sand-stained rags. She was also batshit insane, due to living in a hole for years while subject to the whims of feral children. Still, the Queen was cunning, and had managed to build up a bit of power through covert sacrifices--the ant-gods didn't care who did the sacrificing, after all. She thought that within another month or so she would be able to break the bindings that the children had placed around their part of the desert.

The great thing about being an eight year old in a sandbox is that the stories you make  up for yourself don't have to follow story rules. The story I am telling here is such a small part of all that went on, with none of the side plots or random adventures, or any of the hours and hours of tedious plant gathering and mashing that was for some reason fascinating to me at the time.

The Queen's plan didn't quite work out. The Princess and her Friend agreed to the escape attempt, but it was delayed by storms and the problem of supplies. Treetown was at least a month away from the desert, and the grassland that separated them was an empty waste, with no food and very little water. The Queen probably would never have offered to take the girls with her, except that the grassland was populated by strange and savage beasts, and three people would have a greater chance of survival than one. It would just take time to gather supplies.

The one thing that no one saw coming was the Princess deciding to stay behind.

In the months it took to gather power and stash supplies, the Princess was working in the halls of Summercastle. The Princess had been raised to care deeply about her people. She was always expected to go out and meet her subjects, work in their villages, monitor conditions in the country, and ensure that her people had the best lives possible. When the war started and the Princess lost her power she also lost much of her identity. Her Friend knew it and had done the best she could to help, but it hadn't done much good.

The Feral Children changed all that. The Princess found peace in caring for them, and Lizzy realize early on that she had the capacity for real loyalty. It didn't take long before the Princess was moved out of the slave barracks and into her own room in the castle, where she worked as Lizzie's personal adviser, as a sort of big sister. By the time her Friend and the Queen were ready to run, the Princess informed them that she would be staying behind.

The problem with making bagels is that then I have LOTS OF BAGELS in the house and all I want to eat is bagels (and ice cream, because it's hot out), and I COULD DO THAT but I know it is a bad idea, and then I have to deal with this massive internal struggle. My life is hard, yo.

Why are you interested in this position

Why are you interested in this position? Why do you think? Because I am fascinated by the fast paced world of shirt folding? Because filing fulfills some gaping emptiness in my soul? Maybe because I just really love dealing with irrationally angry people.

I don't actually like lying to people. Most of the time, anyway. I mean sure, it can be fun to see how ridiculous your story can get before someone calls you on it, but these  little institutional application lies aren't nearly as interesting.

I am interested in this position because I like to eat. I like to live in a house and have internet and TV, even if the TV (now with an antenna!) only has five versions of PBS and the religion channel. I like to buy books, and occasionally wear clothes that aren't left over from when I was in high school, and having this position would allow me to continue to do these things.

I am additionally interested in this position because it offers health insurance, and I am getting married soon and won't be covered by my oh-so-patient parents any more. This position would get me out of the house and make me actually be productive with my free time, because I can't deal with a lack of structure and I am bad at imposing it on myself. This position would let me spend the summer somewhere with air conditioning, and maybe someday allow me to have air conditioning of my very own.

Just kidding. I am interested in this position because the fast paced world of sales has always appealed to me. I'm a real people person.

Up, Over and Around

This week has been all about the travel. I got an email on Monday  from the woman who is officiating at my wedding in August, saying that she could meet with us on Wednesday in Great Falls to talk about the ceremony. As neither I nor my husband-elect is currently employed, it wasn't a huge deal to schedule a last minute trip to Great Falls, and we had to do other wedding/reception planning stuff there anyway. So we loaded up on Tuesday and headed out.

Wednesday was an exciting day of wading around town--it was pouring--confirming our spot at the KOA for the reception, choosing a spot in my grandma's back yard for the actual wedding, finding absolutely the shortest marriage service possible, and scoping out potential places to register. We also managed to hit a class at the gym.

Even before the trip to Great Falls we had planned to travel this week. My (non-yard having) grandmother died in March, and today there was a memorial in Bozeman. So Thursday morning we got back in the car and drove through more rain. My mother and I took the opportunity to go dress shopping--I'm not doing a traditional wedding dress, but I do want to get something nice. Unfortunately, I have been able to find dresses that fit, are the right color, the right shape, or the right fabric, but never all at the right time. Bozeman, like Great Falls and Missoula, didn't have anything quite right. I am starting to get concerned.

Today was the memorial, which involved a larger gathering of my dad's side of the family than there has been in quite some time. It even stopped raining, though it never quite got warm.

Then there was more driving. And now I am home, and I think I am going to eat a bowl of cereal and go to bed, and not drive my car again for a while. We are going to have to go back to Great Falls sometime soon because we still need a marriage license, but right now? I am glad to be home.

SO SAD

We have a TV, but it is not hooked up to anything but a DVD player. I reallyreally want to watch the World Cup. These things do not go well together.  My life is SO HARD.

Settling in

I've been in Missoula for four days. Mostly it's been rainy. Yesterday I climbed the M (there's a mountain with a giant M on it. There is a trail up to the M. It is a thing). Also climbing were about 200 schoolchildren. This is the last week of school here, and apparently that is what is done.

I fell down a mountain when I was pretty young, and ever since I have been a fairly cautious hiker. The M trail is not exactly backcountry, but there are some fairly steep places and, like I said, I am cautious. Do you know who is not cautious, nor willing to put up with people who are? 200 schoolchildren. It was terrifying.


Aside from death defying mountaineering, things are fairly low key. I am jobhunting like a mad thing--not only does not having an income give me hives, I don't know what to do with this much free time. I am trying to write my latest masterpiece (at some point I will do a post on Novels I Have Written, so that my genius can be better understood), but I am bad at imposing structure on myself--give me an action packed schedule and I will knock out 2000 words a day, but free time? Useless.

On the plus side, I have been able to experiment with new cookie recipes, so if nothing else I see a promising future in the weight-gaining industry.

The Sandbox Saga, Part 3

The slavers took The Princess and her Friend, now semi-immortal and a hundred years away from home, to Treetown, after cruelly shaving their heads* and tattooing them**.  Treetown, you may remember, was a decorative crabapple in the middle of my back yard, about midway between the back door and the sandbox, making it the perfect trading outpost. The tree had a lot of chest-height limbs that were big enough to make into roads, and I was able to construct a number of nests and platforms that served as homes and public businesses. The general concept was straight-up lifted from Zilpha Keatly Snyder's Green Sky trilogy, but it worked.

The girls were sold to the feral children (yes, that is how I referred to them. The Feral Children would be an excellent band name, just so you know), the cabbage patch minis descended from Lizzie and her gang of orphan runaways. The tribe was in Treetown stocking up on the fruit--which were as big as the dolls' heads--which was crucial to their survival over the winter. They took the Princess and Her Friend back to the desert--a long and perilous journey--and eventually the group arrived at Summercastle.

Summercastle was extremely cool. Originally it was named because it was a castle that was rebuilt every summer, since it is tricky for a sandcastle to stand up to several feet of snow for more than a month. Eventually though, I discovered the proper balance of clay, sand, and straw to build a sandcastle that would last for years. It was pretty simple--a big pile of mud with a  big cave dug out of the front and two smaller ones up on the sides. Once the basic structure was dry, I was able to add walls and a few embellishments, but for the most part it was a solid sun-brick fortress that took up an entire corner of the sandbox.

It was the feral children's stronghold. The dolls with speaking parts lived there. To one side there was a temple, a similar, if smaller, building with a flat rock alter in the front so that sacrifices could be made. Across from the temple were the slave barracks--a literal hole in the ground which was occupied when the girls arrived by a full sized Barbie who had been captured by the feral children a few years before.

In a wacky coincidence of the sort eight-year-olds are full of, this doll was also deposed royalty. She was the former queen of a small country to the west of the desert, who had escaped after a coup lead by her son. She planned to go to Treetown to look for help, but the feral children found her first.

The next few days were fairly uneventful, until the Queen told the Princess and her Friend about her plans for escape.



*There was nothing more satisfying than shaving a barbie's head. Nothing. I think I had one who managed to avoid this fate, but she was a prostitute. All the others were soldiers, or assassins, or captured royalty--occupations that clearly called for a shaved head.
**Tattooing was also very exciting. It involved using a needle to punch holes in barbie faces and legs and then pushing chalk or charcoal in with a toothpick. I was also very into branding them--pull the copper strip out of a ruler and bend it into a pattern, then heat it up in a candle and apply to a Barbie leg. It smelled awful, but made my dolls look hardcore.***
***Don't try this at home.

Future Time

In three days I will be unemployed. No more grant money, no more job. I knew it was coming, but it still makes me very, very nervous.
In five days I will be moving to an old new town. I went to college there, but now I'll just be living. Scary, but I have a wonderful fiance on my team, so it should be OK.
In just over two months I will be married. I am excited, and terrified, and dismayed at how huge the plans have gotten.
In not quite four months I will start grad school, start work on a degree that will hopefully let me settle into a career I actually enjoy. Novel idea.
I hope the time until I find a new job can be measured in days or weeks, not months.
I hope the weather is nice in August.
I hope these last three days go well.

The Sandbox Saga, part 2

Miniature cabbage patch dolls were kind of a thing. I had six. Three girls, a boy, and two indeterminate crawling babies, which I more or less randomly decided were also boys. They lived in a shoebox orphanage full of thin Kleenex bedding and general squalor. 

It wasn't long after Lizzie joined the crew that they broke out. A tissue-filled shoebox was no home for dolls like these. Lizzie's mind may have broken somewhere during the elaborate funerals of her family, but she was still a charismatic leader, able to convince the others that a desert castle was waiting. They broke from the box, out the door, across the yard and into the sandy waste, where they lived in a straw and earwig filled hole, surviving on fruit stolen from Treetown, a decorative crab apple that was the nearest outpost of civilization .

While generations (all represented by the same dolls, and mostly with the same names) of feral children scraped out their lives in the desert, a different struggle was underway in the land of the downstairs bathroom.

The bathroom held a great civilization, most of which was not represented in any physical sense, as it was not entirely my room. There was a shelf that held old magazines, which could be pushed to the side to make a living area for a couple of miniature barbies that were known as The Princess and Her Friend. I'm not sure why these two never got real names--this story went on for over two years, and their names just never came up. The Princess was, well, a princess, of the bathroom kingdom. Her Friend was a combination bodyguard and buddy, who got to carry all the weapons--a bow made of  a bamboo skewer and dental floss, tinfoil swords, a staff made from half a chopstick--and the food, and bedding, and anything else I could cobble together.

The thing you have to understand is that playing dolls wasn't about moving dolls around and making them talk in funny voices. It was about building props and making little homes for dolls, arranging them, and then sitting and staring at them as the story played out in my head, until eventually more props or a different location were needed.

The Princess and Her Friend were sent by the king to measure the flooding in the lowlands. The floods were very bad that year, and people were starving and dying of various flood related illnesses. I am really not sure where my childhood obsession with horrible diseases and tragedy came from, but most of my long running games were equal parts bits I stole from books, things I made up, and villages dying from plague.

The floods weakened the country, and opportunistic neighbors moved in with swords and chemical weapons. The Princess and Her Friend were caught in a raid, the cave they were hiding in was filled with an experimental foam that knocked them out. When they woke up it was a hundred years later and they were more or less immortal.

They were captured by a roving band of slavers about two hours after emerging from the cave, before even managing to find a decent meal. Tragedy!

The Sandbox Saga part 1

I did my share of playing with dolls as a kid. I had the rag doll with the fancy pioneer dresses. She got a wasting disease, cleverly illustrated by my cutting open her limbs and removing her stuffing a little at a time. Eventually she had to use a cane to walk, and she took up begging in my closet. Somehow I managed to acquire a to-scale baby doll, and single motherhood compounded the tragedy of disease. I think she probably died, though I don't remember any specific end to her story.

There was a family of assorted action figures, happy meal prizes, and homemade clothespin dolls who lived in one room of my magnificent doll mansion. They had to keep to one room due to a rotating series of disasters: floods, zombies, poverty that forced them to rent out the majority of the house and live as virtual slaves, and any other bit of trauma that I could steal from whatever I was reading at the time. Eventually the family escaped to the wilds, where they all died in the desert and were given elaborate funerals.

I should probably talk about the desert before I go on.  My sandbox was a 4x6 board rectangle that was set in the ground and filled with dirt. There was no limit to how deep I could dig, and once I got down through the superficial layers of soil there was solid clay that, when mixed with water and grass, was perfect for building nearly indestructible sand castles.  Castles, and huts, and tombs, and barracks, and elaborate temples with flat stone alters perfect for sacrificing ants.

That was really the only down side. The sandbox was absolutely infested with the sort of giant red ants that require serious stomping to kill. The desert people developed an entire religious system based on sacrificing ants.

More on that later.

The dollhouse people died in the desert, and were buried with elaborate ceremonies, and many sacrifices. The only survivor was a happy meal prize, a miniature cabbage patch doll with yellow pigtails and a pink plastic nightgown. I called her Lizzie. She made it back to civilization, but her mind had been damaged in the tragedy. It was only a matter of time before she returned to the desert.