redleopard

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Nov. 14th, 2007

03:23 pm - To make myself DO IT!

I have set my personal goal at 60 K this year.  If I don't make that, I will not allow myself to get the new WWW & M:I season 3 box sets that are coming out in late November at all this year.

Gods, I'm a cruel task-master!

Current Mood: determined

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Nov. 12th, 2007

10:49 am - NaNoWriMo 2007

Well, look at that! I'm back again. Mostly just to post what I've written so far so I'll have it saved in another place. I've long since given up on expecting myself to actually post to this thing with any regularity. I certainly hope anyone who wanders by and sees this journal doesn't expect anything.

Current Mood: complacent

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Nov. 28th, 2006

10:26 am - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – Field Work

“Thanks for letting me know so quick.” York hung up the telephone and looked across the desks at his partner. “Crime scene has found something interesting. Can’t be sure at this stage of the game that it actually has anything to do with the murder, but they’ve found some signs consistent with the approximate time period of the body dump on Town Lake.”

“What did they come up with? Logan looked up from studying an earlier report. “We couldn’t be lucky enough that they found something that we could tie to the perpetrator, surely?”

“It looks like just maybe. Somebody left a whole lot of trace evidence that they stumbled around in the area. Puked big time in the bushes, and stomped around at the water’s edge.”

Logan nodded, and the frown eased ono his face. “Of course,” he commented slowly, the frown returning, “that close to all the party areas, it would never stand up as proof in court.”

“No,” York admitted. “But who knows? Maybe it will lead us to a suspect, and we can go on from there.”

“You have a point,” Logan agreed. “Any sort of a start is better than what we have so far.” He held up the sheaf of report papers he had been reading. “That damn quicklime means we don’t even know for sure what exactly happened to these girls,” he shook his head and scowled. “Certainly not what the cause of death was.”

“Well, at least we do know a couple of ways they didn’t die, for all the help that is.” York shifted in his chair and watched another detective in the opposite corner pounding on his desk while speaking just below a shout into the telephone. “There is no evidence that they died of any sort of head trauma, although both of the victims did show signs of blows to the head. An we know they probably didn’t bleed to death.”

“Well, damn,” Logan glared at him. “You don’t suppose maybe the big old fucking holes where their guts used to be might have had anything to do with it, do you?”

York raised an eyebrown at him and responded with a calm expression and a smooth tone of voice. “There’s no evidence to show if that happened before or after death, you know.”

“That’s right!” Logan was not ready to be soothed. “Or for that matter, during! We can’t even tell if the son of a bitch raped them or not!”

York leaned forward with his forearms on his deskk. “Chill, Sean.” He spoke firmly. “You know you’re not doing yourself any good by getting all uptight about this case. It clouds the thinking.”

“Oh, now I’m not thinking straight, huh? Look, it fires me up, okay? I’m not getting emotionally connected or anything, I’m just trying to get a little righteous anger going.”

“That’s what you say now, but if I catch you studying pictures of the murdered girls, I am absolutely going to…” he paused, looking slightly perplexed.

“Going to what, partner? Send me to my room?” Logan’s face relaxed, despite himself. “Why does being older than me make you act like you’re my father, or something?” he wondered aloud. “I think you sometimes forget that I’m an experienced homicide detective. Hell, I used to work in Los Angeles, for crap’s sake”

“Yeah, and you left why?” York relaxded back into his chair again. “Wasn’t it something about not being able to deal with the constant stream of cruelty and …”

“I never said I couldn’t deal with it,” Logan protested. There was just a little bit of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I just said I got damn tired of having to deal with them.”

“Yeah, I know,” York agreed blithely. “But you aren’t driving your blood pressure up quite so high now, are you?”

Logan laughed. “Ray, one of thee days I’m going to have to clock you one.” He set the report he had been reading earlier into a file folder in front of him, and carefully set that on top of another in a wire basket on one corner of his desk. “But point taken, for now.” He grinned wickedly as he continued, “Okay, then, pops, let’s get out of this place and go check out our crime scenes, what do you say?” He came to his feet lithely and started for the exit.

“I say you better watch yourself, or you’re liable to find yourself having to put your body wheter you mouth is.” York sauntered after him. “Remember what happened last time we went for weapons free suppression technique training? I’m just as likely as not to give you another demonstration of how to pin down and immobilize a full grown man.”

Logan looked over his shoulder at his partner and raise one eyebrow. “You threatening to pin me down? Don’t you think someone at home might object?”

“You know what? You don’t know shit about romantic relationships. I bet you figure if you had a girlfriend, you’d be cheating on her if you watched a another woman walk by looking fine.” He shoved at Logan’s shoulder. “Being in a relationship means you’re committed, not dead.”

“What are you talking about, ‘if I had a girlfriend. You make me sound like I can’t get a date!”

York tossed a set of keys to Logan as they left the building and headed into the parking lot. “You drive, junior. And it takes more than one date with a woman to be able to claim she’s your girlfriend. Especially if you have another date the next night with a totally different woman.”

“Naw, man, it just means I’ve got more than one girlfriend, that’s all.” Logan slid in behind the wheel and waited for his partner to get settled. “You got any preference as to which site we hit first?”

“Might as well make it the closer one. Take the 35 access road down to the river, why don’t you? The highway’s probably starting to clog up already. No, what am I thinking? There’s too much construction going on east of Congress Avenue down that way. Better dead straight for Congress. We can park it at the hotel there.”

“Yeah, sounds good to me. Hey, you know what the offical city bird is?”

“What the hell are you talking about? What official city bird?”

“You know,” Logan slipped between cars and got into the far left lane. “Like the offical state bird is the mockingbird, right? So what’s the official city bird of Austin?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The giant crane, man.” Logan waved a hand at a construction sight down the street.

“Oh, god, I thought I had you weaned off of the bad jokes.”

“Not with the pun-off coming up.”

“You are not going to that again, or I swear I will cut your throat. Or cut off my own ears. Anything to not have to listen to you telling those moldy old groaners.” York looked past Logan at one of the more modern buildings that became more plentiful as they got closer to the river. “El keeps telling me we should go to the Elephant Room. You ever been there?”

“Nope.” Logan didn’t even look around. “I’m not into jazz. I thought you were more of head banger, anyway?”

“Sheesh, how long have we been partners? As long as its not mariachis or polka, I’ll probably listen to it.” York gestured ahead of them. Park by the restaurant over there, why don’t you? The crime scene boys said this goober was messing around just off of the hike and bike trail, almost under the bat bridge.”

“Is that anything like the bat cave?”

“That’s right, you joker.”

Their banter was interrupted by Logan having to suddenly manuever into his target parking space ahead of another car that tried to cut him off.”

“Man, did you see that? We definitely have a few creeps in this city.”

York was watching over his shoulder. “Creepier than you think,” he commented. “Looks like he thinks he has something to say to you.”

Logan chuckled and watched in his side mirror while the other driver double-parked, climbed out of his car and came storming toward them.

The red faced man put his hands on the edge of the driver’s window and bent down. “You better get this thing out of my way, buddy. I’ve got important things to do. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Logan turned his head slowly and smiled up at the intruder. “Who you are?” he asked calmly. “No, I don’t guess I do know who you are. But if you want to talk important things to do, I bet you I can top yours.”

“You want me to call a cop?” The man wasn’t ready to back down from his high-handed stand quite yet.

“I don’t know,” Logan drawled as he reached into his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that York was doing the same thing. In unison the pair presented their badges. “Depends on what you want to call me, I guess.”

The man’s mouth gaped open for a moment, then he blushed and stammered, “Oh, uh, sorry officer, uh, well, I guess I’d better go get my car parked. Thanks, officer.” He practically sprinted back to his own car.

As the two detectives got out of the car, Logan was still chuckling. “That sort of thing is what makes being a cop fun,” he admitted. “It kind of makes it all worthwhile …” he stopped and whinced. “Not all, I guess, not a case like this.”

“Gotta do something about that sensitivity,” York reminded him. “Come on, we have important things to do, remember?”

Logan followed his older partner, shaking his head at his own comment. He had to admit to himself that Ray York was right about him letting his emotions get the better of him too easily. But, as Popeye said, he thought, I am what I am.

A uniformed officer was standing guard at the top of the path down to the river, and a second one at the bottom of the slope. Each was guarding a crude arrangement of sticks and yellow police tape.

“Keeping the joggers off of the path?” York had stopped to speak to the first officer.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply. “Crime scene hasn’t released the scene yet, but we’re trying to not block off anything more than we have to. You know what the hike and bike crowd can be like.”

“If we didn’t, we’d sure hear about it the city council in a hurry,” York agreed. “You mind showing us the exact positions where the body was dumped and where they found the puke?”

“Yes, sir, no problem at all.” The officer lifted the tape for the two detectives to duck under, and called down to his companion below. “Hey, Mario, homicide’s here. I’m gonna show ‘em around.”

“Bueno,” Mario called back up. “Been wondering when you guys would get here.”

Logan paused on the path while York and the other officer stepped off of it into the sere scrub brush.

“Assignment got kicked around a little bit before it got to us,” he informed the man. “We’ve been trying to catch up.”

“Yeah, it just is that way sometimes, eh? Hey,” he paused and his forhead creased. “Aren’t you Sean Logan? I heard you and Detective York were working that murder where they found the body eviscerated and dumped out near Hippy Hollow?”

“Yeah, well, with such a huge homicide department, you’d think we wouldn’t have to double up.” Logan hurried down the slope to reach the officer’s side. He had a pretty good idea of where the man’s thought process might be going, and he wanted to shut him up before he started shouting it around.

“That one and this one are alike, aren’t they, sir?”

“There are distinct similarities, but that was two weeks ago, so maybe somebody read about it in the Statesman and decided to pull a copy cat.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “We certainly wouldn’t want to start any wild speculation, now would we?”

“Oh,” the officer blushed. “Sorry, sir, I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“You had better think, with the Statesman offices right across the river.” Logan didn’t want to be rough on the man, but at the same time he didn’t want to risk anything causing even the least hint of a panic. If he was proven right about the serial nature of the killings, then that would be early enough to let the cat out of the bag.

“Something wrong?” York and the other officer were coming down the slope.

“No, just chatting with officer Cabrerra,” Logan replied. “Find any clues to break this case wide open?”

“From the smell of things,” York grimaced and shook his head sharply, “The guy must have had a belly full of booze. Either he was using a whole lot of dutch courage, which would certainly be an interesting fact, or he wasn’t our killer, just some guy who partied too much that night and picked the wrong spot to puke in.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance we would get so lucky that the lab boys find his dna in the database.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” York looked down at the marked spot the officer had led them to. “I have a feeling there is no way this one’s going to get solved without a lot of blood, sweat and tears, and plenty of it will be ours.”

Tags: binder's art, chapter

Current Mood: accomplished

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10:17 am - The END is near!

Well, the end of NaNoWriMo for this year. Not the end of the novel, nor the end of my posting of it here. Anybody (along with dear flick, of course) who would like to continue to follow along is welcome. As, by the way, are any comments - good, bad, ugly, even helpful - about the story I'm trying to tell. Just no grammar/spelling complaints, please, since this has been, is and will continue to be written at NaNo speed. My goal is to complete telling the story. Editing is still to come.

You'll also be noticing some real continuity problems. The perfect example is that the first dead body in the novel is, in chapter 2, male. My killer nixed that idea. He wants to kill only girls. So later in the novel that one is referred to as a female. Lots of that sort of thing, as adjustments have to be made to the story from time to time to make it work for me, and I'm not going back right now to correct anything.

Anybody wondering about first publication rights problems that might arise for me in the future should I attempt to publish this train wreck? No problemo. I can guarantee that the eventual finished manuscript will be far, far different from this dashed off beginning rough draft. What I'm going to try to sell one day soon will not have been previously published, even in a Live Journal. And somebody stealing the idea? Ideas are a dime a dozen. Anybody can have ideas. There are no new ideas in story telling. Its the writing that counts, and only I can write this the way I am, and the way it will be in the final form.

So, let us continue the ride. I've got a lot more to come. I know at least one person besides my dear friend has taken a peek, because I got a very nice comment about my efforts.

Tags: general, nano

Current Mood: chipper

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Nov. 21st, 2006

03:57 pm - The Old Switcheroo

See, I'm back again. I may not be coming here often, but I think I am at least doing a little bit better than I have in the past.

I just updated Chapter 2, or rather replaced it, since as I'm going along the chapters are re-sorting themselves. So Chapter 2 is actually new. The old Chapter 2 is about to be posted as Chapter 3. I didn't just rename it because I want the darn chapters posted in order, at least for as long as it doesn't get complicated to do that.

You think this chapter is scary, wait until you read 'Mind of a Killer II'.

Tags: general, nano

Current Mood: thankful

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Nov. 14th, 2006

05:34 pm - Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Mind of a Killer I

The last girl had died too quickly. He hadn’t had time to deal with her properly before the whole experience had come to an end. It had left a great sense of discontent stuck in his gut.

The question was, did such a failure on her part constitute sufficient grounds for him to break the cycle he had worked out through much careful examination of his needs and the multitude of external factors he knew he would have to deal with? There was the fact that the cycle was already thrown off by the girl’s early death. He could have held on to the body until the proper time in the cycle to dump it, but that would have been artificial. Perhaps the best way to restore the balance was to start fresh.

Or perhaps he needed to re-examine his carefully created script. Had the failure been on the part of the girl, or was there a problem with his technique and application of pain? Perhaps he should have left the body intact when he put it out for the police to collect. Surely they had the minimal intelligence required to assertain the actual cause of death if given a complete corpse. Perhaps the fault had, in fact, been in some medical condition the girl had, that made her less able than she should have been to withstand the tortures he applied. That would explain how she could respond so differently from the established pattern.

The main question, in the end, was: What should he do now to re-establish this project and give it the order and panache of which he knew he was capable? The most aggrevating thing was that the girl had thrown his system off almost at the moment when he’d gotten it properly established.

Of course! There was the solution. These last two girls were obviously meant to be a part of the trials. He had thought himself ready to act in earnest, but the un-planned death proved that he wasn’t quite as far along as he had hoped. Very well, he would start anew. And to do that, he realized, he needed to clean the slate completely. He’d been asking for problems by leaving the first two girls ‘in play’ as it were. Until their bodies had been discovered and dealt with by the police, they really weren’t finished experiments. He needed to conclude all four of his experiments, and then he would be able to begin to work the project in earnest.

No one but he would ever have any say in how this project was to proceed. It was a thing that was his, and his alone. He would be utterly in command, he would make every choice that had to be made, and he would have complete and total power over the meaningless but lovely young women he would allow to be a part of his project.

But first it was time to clean up after his experiments. Those two bodies he had left off where they might well not be found for years. It was time to be sure that they were found, after all. He would even wait to learn what information the police managed to discover, what they could put together from having all of the data on the project. Then he would begin anew.

He’d hidden those first two bodies with the idea that if they were never found, then he hadn’t even really commmitted a crime. Over time the realization had slowly developed that not only did it not matter whether or not his actions were viewed as a crime – he already understood that there was nothing criminal about him – but he was also losing out on something by the uncertainty those two lives had ended under. If no one but he knew they were dead, then he had only destroyed a nuisance. On the other hand, if he made a statement with the competion of his work, then he would be moving that much closer to his goal, to that final achievement of which he was capable. It was upon making this realization that he had extended his work with the girls to include their evisceration, and the placement of the bodies where they were sure to be found by the some equally useless member of the common throng.

Certainly there was no guilt in the matter, one way or another. The only one he felt at all bad about was the first kill. Lady Leilah had been an accident. With so much changing in his life; with matters driving him in new directions will he or not, he had decided it was time to change his approach to women, as well. In fact, it had been made practically an imperative for him to do so. Leilah had not understood, and had made every attempt to block him. She had wanted to keep things exactly as they were before. She didn’t seem to understand that change was growth, it was development, and it was the only path to true achievement. He had to take control, and she had tried to deny him that.

He’d taken that control anyway, of course. And yet, even after he had whipped her raw, he had still had the unhappy certainty that she was in control of him. He was still hers to command.

The knife had settled that. With it he had ripped her body wide open, from throat to cunt. The shower of hot crimsmon blood soaked every inch of him, and the power of a god as he bathed himself in her ebbing life, as he danced to the tune of her dying moans, fading from the aria of her shrieks.

He’d spent hours that night in his hidden abode. As long as he had worked to establish a place where he might have his time with the beautiful Leilah without anyone ever knowing of it, he had never realized that he was actually establishing a special workshop, a studio of secrets, a laboratory of true and final power. Leilah’s Loft, he’d come to think of it as. The irony gave him an extra joy, and he’d soon made a habit of telling the temporary inhabitants he installed there the name.

Not that he had brought anyone else there for a very long time. Leilah’s death had released so much pent-up fury and helplessness within him; had raised him to such penacles of empowerment, that he had thought himself permanently transformed. Over time, long though it had lasted, it did fade, and he was dragged back down into the realm of mortality and falibility. Yet even as his power faded, he realized that he now knew how to renew it! His pathway throught the wasteland had been lain down for him, and it was up to him to perfect it.

And yet women such as Leilah were not so common, nor his interest in them so unknown, that he could take that same path again. Nor would he have wanted to, truth to tell. Only Leilah was Leilah. He must seek poorer substitutes for the glorious sacrifice that gave him his exaultation to the spheres of the gods.

Poorer, yes, but not without meaning. A goddess had died for him, and now she must be given servants in the after life. Her hand maidens must be chosen properly. He must make use of every bit of the knowledge and understanding of the world to find just the right maidens. Just the right sacrifices. Just the right sources of blood and power for him, and eternal obediance and homage for Lady Leilah.

Tags: binder's art, chapter

Current Mood: grumpy

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Nov. 7th, 2006

04:15 pm - Output up to now

Binder’s Art
Chapter 1

Traci watched the room spin. The spinning wasn’t the actual cause of her fit of giggles, but it certainly added to her sense of giddiness.
Mostly she was giggling because of the way Mr. Binder … he wouldn’t let anyone call him by his first name of Gabriel, even though Traci thought it was a perfectly lovely name … was blushing. How the man could be such a total letch, how he could spend the whole evening ogling every woman at the party, and yet turn such a lovely shade of puce when directly propositioned, was beyond her.
It was especially odd since he’d been smoking so much weed most of the evening. She had seen him doing it off and on, she had even bummed a joint or two off of him. And that stuff was supposed to make you relaxed, not uptight.
A dancing human chain passed between the two of them, and the last person in line caught Traci into the group. It was several minutes before she made her way back to Binder. He was still holding up the same bit of wall and watching. Binder watched people a lot, but mostly didn’t talk with that many. He called out remarks, sure, but didn’t really do much in the way of holding conversations.
“Come on, Mr. Binder.” As she came up beside him again she gave him enough of a hip slam to make him stagger a little, not that that was difficult.
“Lay off the ‘mister’, will you, kid?” he snapped. It was obvious to Traci that Binder was grumbling to cover up his cute little shy reaction to her flirtations. “I’m an artist, not a teacher. Teacher is just what I do to pay the property tax on my studio.”
“Yeah,” she figuratively grabbed the opening he’d accidentally given her and at the same time made a grab for his codpieced package. He managed to shift aside awfully quickly for a man of his considerable height and bulk, so all she got was a handful of loose tunic.
“You’re an artist. Everybody knows about artists.” She dragged the last word out. “Wanna do a study of a classic nude?” she persisted.
“Woah!” Binder’s attention had shifted to something behind her. “Will you look at how much that chick is not wearing?”
Traci couldn’t help throwing a quick glance over her shoulder. The costumes one saw at Carnival had a tendency to get more than a little explicit. The woman Binder had referred to had plenty of frontage to expose, and she pretty much had the whole thing exposed.
“How the hell can she keep something that size from sagging down to her knees?” Traci stared almost as hard as her prey. “What did she do, get helium implants?”
“Hey, if that’s what it takes to make a display like that,” Binder’s voice had lost it’s nervous edge. “All I got to say is, come here, baby, and let me get all squeaky voiced.”
Traci started laughing. “Has anyone ever told you that you are disgusting?” She shook her head.
“Frequently, thank you. I work very hard at it.”
Traci leaned in and put her head against his arm below his shoulder. The man really was awfully tall. “So,” she spoke just loud enough for him to hear her over the noise of the crowd swirling around them. “How come you don’t want to go find a nice, private corner and do the horizontal momba vertically against the wall?”
Binder tried to hide it, but Traci saw him cringe just a little.
“Maybe because I don’t go for pushy kids,” he snapped, pushing her off. “Man, you are just determined to get me in deep shit, aren’t you?” Now at least he was looking her in the face, but it wasn’t the sort of look she had been playing for. “I can just picture it now, if the college finds out I even thought about screwing a student.”
Traci was starting to feel more than a little annoyed herself, by now. She put her fists on her hips and stared up at Binder. “Well,” she told him, a little more sharply than she had meant to. “Its not like you’re an actual professor, or even an assistant professor, or even anything much except a visiting guest lecturer. And you sure as hell aren’t [i]my[/i] teacher, so what’s the fuss about?” She cupped her hands under her breast. “You’ve been staring down my cleavage for the last forty five minutes, and hey, I’m interested in giving it a sampling.”
Binder’s eyes moved quickly, his glance darting first to one side nd then the other. “Yeah,” he mumbled as he raised his hands, palm out, in what he obviously intended to be a placating guesture.. “But, you know, the whole teacher and student rule has to do with, uh, what do they call it? Undue influence.” Now he spread his hands out to the side and shrugged.
Unfortunately, the move was so broad that he bumped people on both sides of him. After he had apologized to the startled young man whom he had managed to smack in the back of the head, he turned back to Traci.
“Look, I may not be anything official in your personal academic career, but everybody knows I’ve been sort of counseling you ever since I chased your step-father away from the dorms that time.”
Traci reached up to tap her mentor on the chest as she responded. “The fact that we both had to grow up dealing with lousy parents,” she informed him firmly, “should bring us closer together, not shove us apart.”
Binder just looked down at her hand, then back at her face blankly.
“Oh, forget it,” she exclaimed. “I’ve lost my buzz, now. You don’t want to be my friend with benefits, that’s just fine by me.” She turned away sharply and started to leave.
Traci’s attempt to depart in a dramatic huff was foiled by her tripping over the long trailing parts of her very revealing costume. She carefully righted herself, glared at anybody nearby who didn’t look away fast enough, and stalked carefully across the crowded convention hall.
“Anybody seen a joint around here?” she asked of no one in particular. “I am so not buzzed.” She knew Binder had a stash on him, since he had rolled her a smoke earlier in the evening, but she was enjoying a really good mad at the fat, old, ugly son of a bitch right now. No way she would take anything else from a bastard who had just refused an offer of a little nookie like she’d made some sort of social faux pas just by suggesting it.
Anyway, Carnival was about sexual freedom, not just about dressing up like a bunch of whores and man whores. The stupid fart sure wasn’t going to get another offer so good. Not anything like so good as what she had on display, and she’d been offering him the ebon glory that lay beneath her slit ankle to waist harem pants.
Come to think of it, that was probably the problem. Piss on him, if he thought white trash like him was too good for a gorgeous, intelligent, young, black goddess like her.
Her angry thoughts must have gone too far, with that, because suddenly she found herself blushing and feeling like a spiteful bitch of the worst kind. She’d seen Binder around enough people, especially students, to know that he was probably as color blind with skin tones as he was with the rainbow.
Not that any of her chagrin stopped her from laughing out loud when she saw a scuffle over against the wall where the man who had just snubbed her was still standing. It looked very much like Binder was making some more of his raunchy remarks to a tall blonde. The woman turned to face him, looked at him from head to toe and back up again, then stepped closer and belted him right across the face.
Served him right.
Traci took a couple of tokes off of a joint that was going past, but it just gave her a headache. She decided she had had enough of this party. Maybe tomorrow, the second night of Carnival, she’d feel more like partying.
Traci went looking for the friends she had come downtown with, to let them know she was leaving. ‘Always tell someone,’ that was their motto, the group of friends she usually hung out with. It just meant you didn’t go off somewhere without making sure someone knew where you were, where you were going, and when you expected to be home. Her stepfather would probably approve, until he realized that it wasn’t meant to, and didn’t, interfere with having a good time.
“What’s with the gloom on the phiz?” Traci’s roommate Jennifer asked when Traci had gotten her attention away from a pair of tall, identical older men. “You got shot down, didn’t you?”
“No, I’ve just got a headache. I’m going to take a cab back to the dorms.”
“I bet I know just what headache you have, too,” Jennifer was laughing at her, which really wasn’t calculated to improve Traci’s mood or her head.
Jennifer was scanning the crowd as she continued. “I really don’t get what it is that attracts you to that gross sculptor, anyway,” she added. And I could have told you that he’d turn you down.” With a shrug she gave up her search and focused on Traci. “Don’t you get it?” she asked. “He’s scared to death of women.”
Traci just looked at her roommate for several seconds before she could respond. “Jen, I don’t even know, much less care, what ‘sculptor’ you are talking about.” She smiled sweetly. “Its just that, unlike you, I don’t come to this thing just to find a bunch of one night stands.”
Jennifer brushed the rude comment away with a laugh and a flapping hand. “Uh, huh.” She nodded her head. “Tell me another one, sister.” She must have seen the anger rising in Traci’s expression, because her voice became less teasing. “Okay, okay, whatever, she finished. “You crawl off to your lonely little dorm bed, but don’t expect me in any time soon.”
Despite her anger and frustration, Traci stopped to make one more comment before leaving. “Be sure somebody knows where you’re going and who you’re going with if you leave.”
“Yeah.” Jennifer grinned at her in response. “I think I know the routine. I’m the one that got you to promise to always do that, remember?”
“Whatever,” Traci responded. “I’m gone.” She was looking around for the nearest telephone and wishing she hadn’t decided that her cell phone just didn’t go with the harem girl outfit. She had the yellow checkered hack striped pinhead cab company on speed dial. Now, however, she’d have to take a shot at remembering the number.

‘Damn the bitch, anyway,’ was the main thought that Binder could grasp on to. What business had she had coming on to him like she actually meant it when she asked him to go have a quick hump. And then going off on him like that just because he pointed out a couple of facts?
“I don’t know,” he muttered under his breath. “Maybe she really was in the mood for a cheap fuck, and figured why not make it freaky? Still doesn’t give her any reason to get that mad just ‘cause I don’t want to be used that way by a child.” He shoved away from the wall he’d been leaning against for long enough that his butt felt like it was not just gone to sleep but about ready to fall off. Squabling with the silly kid had put him in a rotten mood. Even getting a tall, lovely model type to slap him hadn’t lifted his spirits. He might as well call it a night. He staggered only slightly as he made his way toward the closest exit. All he had to do was find his car, and he could escape with whatever small dignity he actually had left. Not that anyone ever saw much in the way of dignity in a man six and a half feet tall and build like a bull, with a face ugly enough to put cracks in concrete, and thinning, always greasy, mouse brown hair worn in a long pony tail.
It would be nice if just once some woman looked at him and didn’t just see the hulking Neanderthal. Even those that knew him, knew him for a gentle man and an artist – a pretty damn gifted one, too! – still saw something less than a man. It seemed like the only way he was ever going to have people see anything beautiful in him was when they looked only at the artwork, not at the artist.
Binder focused back on his surroundings. He had somehow wandered out into the parking garage. His pickup, however, was nowhere in sight, and he couldn’t think where he might have parked it.
Then he remembered.
“Crap! I parked it on the street somewhere and thought about Stevie Ray Vaughan song lyrics so I would forget exactly which street. Sometimes I give myself a real pain.”
He was going to have to take a cab home and come look for his car tomorrow. Which had been the idea, of course, but at this end of it he wasn’t particularly happy with himself.
“The hell with it,” he decided. “I’m gonna grab a room for the night at that old motel on SoCo. No way I’m paying for a taxi all the way to the ranch studio.”
It took him five minutes to find the signs indicating the exit, and then they led him not back into the building, but out onto the streets. They were, after all, signs meant to be followed by drivers, not pedestrians. If there were any cabs around, he realized, they’d be over at the hotels. But why bother with them? He could walk the distance to the motel, and wouldn’t have to deal with a cabbie, or pay him. He needed the fresh air to clear his head, anyway. He really wasn’t feeling very well at all.
Austin wasn’t one of those major metropolises that were as alive or moreso every night than they were during the day, but it’s people definitely knew how to party. And during certain seasons, it could be pretty damn hard to tell the streets of this happening city from it’s bigger, more infamous cousins. Especially around toward Mardi Gras time. The Carnival celebration wasn’t the only outlet for the mid-winter partying spirit, by any stretch of the imagination.
So despite the lateness of the hour, Binder was far from alone in his walk. Late night revelry was getting to be quite spread out from it’s original confinement to 6th Street. 4th Street, the Warehouse District, further and further.
It seemed like there were just more and more bodies pressing in around him, making his head spin, making him feel ill. Girls wore so little, even as just plain street clothing. He hardly needed to go to celebration of sin to see women’s bare breasts. After all, bare breasts were perfectly legal here. Despite the police department’s agonizingly failed attempt to outlaw them for one night on one street. Judge straightened them out in a hurry about whether they made the law or not.
“You okay, buddy?” Just thinking about them had made one appear, just like speaking of the devil. And this was one of the ones on a horse. At least the horse liked him. It’s master looked a little surprised when the animal snuffled Binder’s shoulder.
“Yeah, officer, I’m okay. Just fuckin’ tired. Not much of a kid, anymore, you know.”
“Yeah, I expect you’re old enough to not go out wandering around on a chilly night dressed like that.”
Crap! He’d forgotten about his coat, and about the costume he’d worn for the party. Nothing like the revealing stuff the young guys could get away with, But his harem guard look was cool satin on the bottom and just a little vest on the top.
“Damn, I guess I was getting so hot indoors that I forgot.”
“Maybe a little more than just hot, don’t you think sir?” The officer’s tone of voice was polite, but there was enough of an edge to it to make his horse snort and stamp.
“Easy, there, fella.” Binder stroked it’s nose while he forced a grin for the officer. “Well, now, officer,” he started in a hearty voice, despite the weight in his stomach. He wasn’t the type that got let off for looking harmless. He looked like he could yank the cop off that horse and stomp him to bits, if he wanted to, and that never made confrontations look good for him. “I reckon I do have to admit that I have probably had more to drink than I really should.”
“Maybe something else, too, sir? Would that be possible?” The cop sniffed deliberately.
“I absolutely must admit that I have been around a considerable amount of pot smoking.” If the cop decided to run him in, he wasn’t sure if the quantity of weed he had left on him was enough to tip the scales into a charge of possession with intent to sell. He had taken enough with him to share; it was a good way to start conversations without creeping women out. “I’m afraid I have to refuse to say whether I gave in to temptation. May I point out, officer, sir, that I have left my car in place and am walking. And I am also not causing a disturbance, if you will kindly notice.” He bowed his head, knowing that his bald spot looked a whole lot more pitiful than his junk yard dog face. The horse lifted it’s head suddenly and lipped at his hair.
“Cut it out, Shotgun,” The cop backed the horse away. “You’re going to get us a charge of police brutality, there.” A bit of laughter was edging into his voice.
Binder looked up and grinned. “Don’t blame him, officer. Animals just are that way around me. Gotta make friends.”
“Well, I guess if Shotgun thinks you’re harmless, that’s good enough for me.” The cop sidled the horse closer again. “You don’t exactly look innocent, but I don’t guess you should be held to blame for that, huh? You be careful getting home, alright?”
“I guarantee you that, officer. You know, now that you’ve pointed out my missing coat, I’m starting to get a chill. I think I had better hot foot it on my way, with your permission?”
“Go on, I figure there are plenty of real trouble makers out tonight. I’d better get back to watching out for them to start something.”
“Thanks, officer.”
Binder sighed as the cop rode off. It was damn hard to know how one of those guys would react. They tended to go easy on minor violations like a little booze or smoke, as long as a guy stayed polite and respectful, and didn’t offer to make any trouble, but you could never be sure what would strike them as dangerous behavior.
He never could understand the idiots who thought aggression would get them anything but a night in the slammer. Cops had the power and, after all, faced some pretty damn dangerous people. Why make them think you might be one of those?
Stressing over if he was going to get busted or not hadn’t helped to settle his stomach. Binder looked around and realized that he was already pretty close to the river and the bat bridge. Less crowded down by the hike and bike paths, this time of night. The health nuts weren’t going to be out now, and the only partying that took place down there was people that would take one look at his bulk and move right along. At least as long as he managed to stay alert and look it.
He stumled at the edge of the slope, an slid down the path several feet before he could catch himself. That was enough for his protesting stomach, and he heaved what felt like everything he had in his gut into the bushes beside the path. It felt like his body was one big hollow by the time he finished.
He stumbled down to the water’s edge and waded in to wash his face. At least he’d only gotten a little of it on him. He took off his vest and used it wipe himself as dry as he could.
Maybe the water hadn’t been such a good idea, because now he was really starting to shiver in earnest. He looked around fiercely, just to be sure no one got the idea he might be a good mark. Nobody in sight, and he had really good night vision. The place was totally abandoned. He almost felt like crawling in some place and going to sleep, but he was way too damn cold for that.
“Get moving, asshole,” he muttered to himself. “You’ve made enough of a fool of yourself for one night.”


Chapter 2
“Did you hear, York? They found another body like the case we picked up last week.” Sean Logan sagged into his chair and reached across their desks to hand his partner a file folder. He planted his elbows on the desk and leaned his face into his hands. “Some way to start the day.”
“Like hell you say!” Ray York sat with the folder in his still extended hand and stared at Logan. “Where did they find it?” he finally found his voice and began firing questions. “When did they find it? How is it like our body? Another young woman eviscerated with quicklime?”
Logan shook his head. “Young man this time.” He looked across at York with his jaw tight and his forehead furrowed. “But the gut full of quicklime is a pretty original Modus Operandi.”
“Was this one a dump, too? How long has he been dead, do they know? Does it look like he was with the girl?” York opened the file and began scanning it’s contents.
“Out at down at Town Lake, this time. Nowhere near Hippie Hollow where they found the girl. Its got to be a fresh dump, cause he wasn’t far off of the hike and bike paths. No way for him to have been there long at all.” Logan sighed. “We are expected in autopsy right now, to find out if they can tell any more about when exactly he died then they could with the girl.”
“I do so hate it when its kids,” York commented as he rose smoothly from his desk and started toward the door. When he reached it, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Come on, Logan, none of its going to get any better for waiting on it.”
“Give me another minute to get over freaking about a second body,” Logan responded. “I know they say two isn’t enough to make a serial, but if this poor guy wasn’t killed at the same time as the girl, I don’t see how this could be anything else.”
“Don’t ever say the ‘S’ word until you absolutely have to.” York came back to stand over his partner. “We’ve never had a major killer of that sort in this city, and don’t you dare tempt fate to give us one by talking about it.”
“Yeah, that’ll take care of it, hide our heads in the sand.” Logan got up and pushed past his partner. “You are way too superstitious for a college graduate, you know.”
“You keep forgetting, one of my minors was anthropology and folk belief systems.” York followed in quick strides. “And there really isn’t such a thing as a simple, totally baseless…”
“A simple, totally baseless superstition. I’ve heard it before. No way will you ever convince me that talking about something can make it happen.”
York had come even with his partner as they strode down the hall. “But it does have a psychological effect on how we react to the situation, and increases the likelihood of our making a snap judgement when we shouldn’t. Don’t talk about serial killers until there’s actual evidence. There’s a reason why they say it takes at least three to make a seriel. Maybe our perp just had two different people he wanted to get rid of in the worst way.”
Logan shuddered. “Yeah, well, I’d say that he found it.”
“Huh?” Yorkk looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Found what?” he demanded.
“The worst way to kill someone.”
“Hey, have you heard something I haven’t, or are you just making a wild guess that they were alive when he applied the quicklime?”
Logan shook his head and grimaced. “No,” he admitted. “I haven’t heard anything, but I just can’t stop thinking that he obviously didn’t use the stuff to prevent identification. Faces and hands didn’t take all that much damage. So what was the purpose?”
“I don’t know, maybe he wanted to prove that they were gutless? Maybe the killings were some sort of personal revenge sort of thing.” York punched the elevator button as the pair reached the doors. He shook his head slowly, looking at Logan with a pitying expression. “Wild speculation is a waste of time and mental energy. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Logan leaned against the wall and forced a small smile. “Oh, about as many as I’m going to keep telling you that speculation is a tool for sorting through evidence and beginning to look for patterns. Trying to imagine what the next piece might look like, how it might be shaped, always makes a jigsaw puzzle easier to work.”
“You know, all the great detectives look down their noses when their sidekick starts speculating with insufficient evidence.” The worry lines on York’s face were smoothing out a little bit.
“Good thing I’m not your sidekick, then, isn’t it?”
“Well, now, I am the senior partner here, you know. Aren’t you supposed to be learning from me?”
“After three years I think I’ve learned all your old tricks, dog.” The forced smile eased comfortably into a grin.
The elevator doors opened, and a uniformed officer hustled a woman in heels and short shorts down the hall.
York watched the pair’s retreat. “Wouldn’t be a police station without the requisite hooker, now would it?” he commented.
Logan laughed and led the way into the elevator car. “You start talking like you’re doing a cheap voice-over and I’m gonna slug you a good one.”
“The detective talked a mean show, but I knew something most people didn’t. He really wasn’t one to raise a hand in anger to friend.” Logan clipped his words and put a low snarl in his voice.
“Lucky for junior, his partner was a very, very tolerant man.” York mimicked him. “So it looked like the kid was going to live to screw up another day.”
They broke up in laughter as the elevator lunged to a stop and the door wheezed their way open. The local humor columnist was standing there, and immediately began to stroke his white beard, looking at them thoughtfully. Instead of questioning them on their outburst, however, he shook his head, looked at the ticket in his hand, and bowed the two of them out of the elevator. “Either you won’t tell me,” he commented as he entered it, “or my readers would never believe me, anyway. Cops don’t laugh, they don’t even look happy unless they’re at a donut shop.” His tone of voice was merry, and Logan decided to take a return shot at the journalist. “Just go home, John, why don’t you? Then, when they issue a warrant on you for that,” he guestured at the ticket, “you’ll be the sheriff’s problem.”
The doors closed on the columnist’s guffaws.

The two of them managed to keep their minds off of their mission with further banter until they entered the austopsy room. The chill of the room always shivered the laughter out of anything.
Logan let York take the lead, then, and he let him approach the assistant medical examiner seated at the desk. Before long, the two of them were standing as far away from a stainless steel table as they reasonably could without looking like they actually were trying to stay away from it.
“Okay, doc, tell us about this guy, will you?” York spoke in a low voice.
“Asian male,” the woman began in a neutral tone. “Approximately twenty years of age, previously in good health with a little extra weight on him, by the looks of it.” She indicated the upper arms and legs, which did have a somewhat flabby appearance. “Hard to tell how much for sure with his entire stomach gone, but we already know that he’s a college kid, so he probably had the freshman fifteen plus on him.” She looked over at both detectives. “You know, since he doesn’t appear to have been an athlete.” York nodded and waved his hand at the body, apparently encouraging her to go on.
“Cause of death is indeterminate, but there is no sign of sufficient physical trauma to have been the cause.” She lifted the nearest arm and held it so that they had a good view of the bruising on the wrist. “You can see that he was restrained, and there is sufficient bruising on the face, back and extremities to suggest he was beaten. There’s always tox screens, but with the internal organs gone we only had the blood in the extremities to test. Well, that and the brain, of course.” She tapped the shaved skullcap that had been replaced after the brain was removed. “However he was killed, its a good bet all of the evidence was destroyed when this bastard filled him up with quicklime. Nasty stuff, you know. He could have used not too much more and destroyed the body entirely. This guy wanted the body to be found.”
York turned away from the table to look toward the desk across the room. “So are you saying this one is consistent with the girl that was found last week?”
Fortunately the doctor took the hint and led them away from the table so she could pick up another folder identical to the one she had been reading from. She flipped it open and scanned the first couple of pages before she spoke again. “No ascertainable cause of death, and the tox screen on this one has been completed. It was negative for everything we tested for. She was beaten and restrained, but this was not fatal. And just like our boy over there,” she nodded toward the victim on the table, “entire contents of the torso were destroyed by the application of quantities of quicklime, but the cavity was washed out before the body was abandoned.”
“Looks like we’re going to have to go elsewhere to find out what happened to these kids,” Logan’s stomach had settled enough for him to feel up to taking an active part in the conversation again.
“Yeah,” York agreed. “Sure does look like it, doesn’t it?” He nodded at the assistant medical examiner and headed for the exit.
“So how come the cops in the movies and on television don’t get all queasy and uncomfortable in those places?” Logan wondered out loud. “Its not like I haven’t seen a few dead people, you know, but…”
“Oh, you see dead people?” York looked at him with a completely serious expression.
“Yeah, you, me and Halley Joel whatsis.”
“You know, I guess script writers just never had to look at and smell a dead body, or they wouldn’t make it look like its something you can ever get used to.”
“At least not unless you work on them day in and day out.” Logan shuddered. “I wouldn’t want that job for all the gold in the world.”
“Well, let’s get back to the sweet smell of the squad room and the pretty stories of these two kids too short lives.”

Chapter 3
Binder woke up some time after noon with the taste of last year’s roadkill on his tongue along with an pile carpet that would satisfy an interior decorator given free rein on one of the big houses overlooking the one of the hill country lakes.
“I’m getting way too old to party that way,” he told himself. “What’s the good of having a good time if you can’t hardly remember any of it?” He struggled into something resembling an upright position. His feet found the less than best pile carpet on the third try. He stretched long and hard with his arms extended above his head. When he finished that, he paused and sniffed his arm pits.
“You, good buddy, reek,” he told himself. “Shower, before anything else.”
The process of getting from the bed to the motel room’s bathroom took him a while, but eventually he managed to get himself under a reviving spray. It took most of the tiny complimentary bar of soap and bottle of shampoo to cover all of him, but by the time he finished he suspected he might be able to put on a reasonable resemblance to a thinking, breathing, normal human being.
At least what passed for normal in Austin. He paused to look at his own unshaven reflection in the mirror as he was rinsing his mouth out with the even tinier complimentary bottle of mouthwash. He raised the empty bottle in a toast to his own reflection.
“Keep Austin Weird!” he muttered.
After he had argued over check out time with the desk clerk and settled his bill, Binder walked out onto the street. The late lunch crowd had traffic pretty thick at the moment, and flagging a cab on this side of the river was pretty unlikely. Flagging a cab at all wasn’t particularly common, for that matter. You had to call for them almost any time you wanted one.
The river wasn’t all that far away, though, so he decided to walk back to the area of the convention center to start the search for his truck. Even dodging all the joggers and bicycles on the Congress Street bridge didn’t seem much of an annoyance. It wasn’t until he spotted his wide bed pickup backed into the delivery area of an out of business restaurant that Binder realized he was actually in a good mood. The hangover from his excesses of the night before didn’t seem to matter.
He had an idea.
It was one of those rare ideas that he knew, before it had even fully formed in his mind, would lead to a the creation of a Major Piece. He didn’t usually get an idea for a major piece so quickly after finishing another one, but this was going to be a good one. Better even, mayb, then the bronze he had just finished. And this wasn’t just a remnant to play off of his previous creation. This one was going to have to be done in concrete, mostly. It wouldn’t have the sinuous, dark beauty of the bronze, either. But it surely would be funny as hell, and bold comedy was selling well, these days, too.
He was so engrossed with watching the idea take shape in his mind’s eye that he barely spotted the limping dog in time to not hit it. By this time he was well south of town and into the lowest reaches of the hill country to the west. He pulled off the road, set his emergency flashers, and got out. The dog was still hobbling slowly along the road, but at least it wasn’t over almost into the traffic lanes any more. It had noticed its near miss enough to move over onto the grassy verge.
It didn’t seem to notice binder standing directly in its path until it bumped into his leg. Without stopping, it moved a little further into the withered brown stalks of late winter.
“Hey, girl,” Binder spoke softly as he stepped in front of the animal again. “Hey, what happened to you, sugar?”
She stopped and lifted her head to meet his eyes. Hers were the color of fine grained, polished mahogany. After exchanging gazed with him for a few moments, she lifted the forleg she was already holding up off of the ground and made a motion as if to paw at his leg with it. He wasn’t surprised, however, that she didn’t actually make contact. Not with the paw so bloody and swollen.
“Hey,” he squatted down, but didn’t attempt to touch her. Not yet. “That sure looks like it hurts, girl. You think maybe I could give you a little help?” He held the back of his hand a few inches in front of her nose, at the same time softly blowing his breath into her face. “Think I smell like you can trust me? And not bite me if I pick you up and put you in the truck, there? Seems to me you could sure use a visit to the vet.”
The dog advanced her nose slowly toward the offered hand, and took slow, deep breaths, then exhaling gustily against his skin. Finally, she sat down and thumped her tail on the hard, dry ground.
“You’re not little, are you?” Binder switched his attention to studying her overall condition. “But you’re skinny as hell. I bet the dirt you’re wearing is a good percentage of your weight.”
When she thumped her tail again, and then reached forward to sniff his hand again, he slowly turned it and stroked the side of her nose lightly with his finger tips. She allowed this, so he slid his hand along her jaw and rubbed her throat for a moment, then reached on around and scratched at the base of her ears. Her jaws open, but only to produce a black-spotted pale pink tongue as she panted in friendly acceptance.
Binder was still cautious as he ran both hands back along her too prominent rib cage. He lightly touched her stomach, back and legs, watching for the least flinch or sign of fear. All the while he continued to speak to her in the softest tones.
“You’re a long thing, aren’t you, girl? If you weren’t so big I’d think you had weiner dog in you. At least your not shy about being handled. And nothing seems to be tender to the touch.” He moved around to her side, and while she turned her head to continue gazing at him, she didn’t try to turn and keep him in front of her.
“Think maybe I could pick you up, girl? You okay with that?” He reached around her body and tightened his grip. When she didn’t growl or attempt to escape, he lifted her off of the ground.
She really was a long bodied animal, and even with his broad shoulders, holding her like this was difficult, Binder juggled the animal in his arms for amoment, trying to get his arm that was around her chest underneath it instead, behind her front legs. The dog seemed to try to help, but she bumped her painful paw against him and yelped. Her startled struggles brought the other paw up, and she raked his face with her untrimmed claws.
After a moment, though, they found a balance, and she grew still again without ever having offered to bite.
“That’s a good girl!” he told her. “You know I’m trying to help, don’t you? And I know you didn’t mean to scratch me, did you, sweet heart?”
Binder paused when he reached the truck. “Look,” he told the dog. “Usually I’d put you in the front to be sure you don’t jump out of the back, but I’ve got to think about the dog I’ve got at home. He rides with me a lot. I just can’t risk exposing him to anything you maybe have. But I’ll give you something to lie down on, and I’ll drive carefully so you don’t get slung around too much.” He set her into the bed of the truck, and then dug into the area behind the bench seat up front. He pulled out a quilted, heavy duty pad he usually used to wrap and protect sculptures he was transporting. Folded, this made a padded bed for the dog.
“You just lay there, baby girl,” he told her as she settled down. “And we’ll be at the vet’s office in no time.”


Chapter 4
When Binder got home after leaving the stray dog to be checked out at the vet’s office, he went straight to his studio. The original driveway stopped beside the house, but over time he had beaten down a double rutted dirt drive back to the old former barn and stable. This was where he had his studio set up.
Bertram, his old dog, trotted slowly back that way from the porch of the house to join him.
“Got a new idea, Bertie old boy, Binder told the mutt in a matter of fact, conversational tone. He had once read somewhere that talking to pets tended to make them more intelligent, or at least more responsive to human interaction. He didn’t know if Bertram’s almost human behavior meant it was true, or that the old dog was just good with people.
“Gonna make a couple of sketches before the idea fades.” Binder walked into the enclosed room that had once been a tack and feed room. He kept his more perishable art supplies here; his plaster, smaller bits of metal that corroded too easily in the out of doors, and paper, canvases, paints and drawing implements. Two dimensional art was hardly his forte’, but he did often find that he developed his ideas for sculptures more easily when he not only sketched them out, but even made paintings.
It didn’t really make much sense to Binder, this odd fact that he used paints, color, in his work. For he was completely color-blind. And yet, the subtle tonal variations in gray caused by the way different colors reflected light to his eye gave him a better sense of the three dimensional goal toward which his work was directed. He chose the colors by reading the names on the paint tubes.
He even occasionally, just for his own amusement, created paintings for their own sake. They were pleasing to his eye, in the tractability of multiple shades of gray. The one time he had allowed someone else to see his work in this medium, however, he had been told that it carried a subtly creapy effect. The colors weren’t really wrong, the agent he was considering signing on with had told him. They were just enough off from right to tease constantly at the viewer’s mind.
At the moment, however, he had no interest in experimenting with what was, to him, the almost unseen, the world of color. It was a large sketch pad and charcoal pencils that he drew from the locked cabinet.
This might actually be something that called for color, he thought as he worked in sweeping lines to form the image in his mind. He was putting multiple angle views on the one sheet, and only tore it away when it became full and he had to go to another.
Yes, this piece should be comic and just a touch bizarre. An uncertain form that hovered between hilarity and threat. And that was very close to the agent’s opinion of Binder’s attempts to work in color.
The form, he sensed, must be heavy and graceful at the same time. There must be palpable weight to the way it soared. ‘Damsel Lust’ he thought, would be a proper title for it. It would be based on the female form, soaring above a crowd of other forms, all focused on the one. Male and female, both, those should be.
Binder sketched in a few men and women sprawled and crouching at the feet of the central woman. One must be rising up, though, reaching for the woman. And her force must be weighing him down, driving him back without the two making actual physical contact. The lightness of her beauty and the weight of the rampant eroticism surrounding her. But there must also be a humor to it. For she called and spurned so many that she was being slowly encroached on, from behind, by a ridiculous figure. Binder wasn’t certain yet what this figure should look like. In his mind’s eye he saw a man with the head of a donkey, but he knew the image came from Shakespeare’s ‘A Mid-Summer Night’s Dream’, the character of Bottle transformed by her king to teach the despising queen of the fairies a lesson in humiliation. He needed to find his own interpretation of the same type of character.
For now he left that figure a shadow in the sketches.
“There.” He stood back and gazed at the series of drawings in shades of gray. Yes, the movement and grace he needed to state were there, and yet there was considerable weight to the entirety at the same time. He had been right, earlier, in his thought that this piece would require being worked in concrete. Except perhaps that final figure that he couldn’t yet visualize. He sensed that it would require something different in the way of materials, but what was still as much a mystery to him as the form itself.
Once he had the basic idea sketched out, Binder felt ready to turn his attention to the day. He moved out into the main barn. There were several stalls off to the left, each one now in use as a separate mini-studio for a different work in progress. These were his bread earning efforts, commissions from clients, in various stages of completion. It was what was in the center of it all, the major work that would be cast in bronze, that was his joy. This was something he was making from his own desires. Something for the true artist within him. Now wasn’t the time to work on it, though, so he resisted the temptation to draw off the sheets covering the clay form. He just checked that his mister system was still working correctly and that the clay form wasn’t drying out. Then he had to head up to the house and check on everything there. That was when he discovered the note pinned to his screen door. Business had to be attended to. He walked into his living room and checked his calendar, to see when this piece was actually due to be delivered to the client.
That was when he realized that he had a class this afternoon.


Chapter 5
“By building up the form, you are more aware of the entirety and at the same time of the details. If you want to cut back to make your form, you might as well word in stone.”
“But if you’re doing details, don’t you pretty much have to cut away to find them?”
Binder turned to the young woman who asked the question. “That’s easy to think, but clay doesn’t work best that way. Think of it as growing the form in a very organic sense. Only bring enough clay to the part you are molding to form what you intend. In fact, it is best if you bring it to your piece already resembling the final form you want it to take. For instance, say you were doing a bust, as we were talking about a few minutes ago. You want to put a mouth onto your bust. You prepare to do that by forming something roughly resembling a mouth and bring this to your bust and mold it on. Build up, always. Especially when you…”
“Mr. Binder? I’m sorry to interrupt…”
“Then don’t.” Just what he needed, Tracy Haladay, the girl – no, the student, he had very nearly gotten into a dangerously intimate situation with last night. “I’m teaching here.”
“I realize that, sir, but Dr. Shaw needs…” Binder waved her to silence.
“You’ll have to excuse me for a moment, class. Teaching assistants seem to have the idea that only their personal mentors have anything important going on. Have you ever noticed that? Probably because that’s the way professors, tenured or not, feel about themselves. And of course a simple visiting instructor has nothing nearly so important going on, ever.” He turned and headed for the door where Traci stood, already looking a bit steamed.
“So what was so vitally important that you had to break not only my train of thought, but the fragile moment of understanding I was actually getting from those loafers?”
“You have a hangover, fine, but don’t take it out on me. We’re not that good of friends.” Traci always was a good one for giving tit for tat.
Tit. Bad thing to think of, considering how good a view he had been getting of hers last night, even when he wasn’t trying. And Traci knew damn well he had been trying.
“You’re going to have to stop thinking that you’re special just because you get so much of your expenses covered by the work study teaching assistant program. You think I ever would have gotten into that when I was in college? Big old oafish white guy like me?”
“Don’t you dare start throwing affirmative ation in my face!” Traci’s face flamed with embarrassment, and her voice was rising.
It occurred to Binder that she was probably feeling at least as much embarrassment as he was. After all, she had blatently propositioned him, more than once. And he had turned her down. Come to think of it, that could really be misinterpreted. It hadn’t occurred to him before. If she was thinking that he’d refused her because she happened to be black… What the hell gave her the right to make that sort of assumption?
“I don’t really want to throw anything in your face, little girl, because I’d just as soon not be seeing your face at all right now.” Okay, his voice was getting pretty loud, too. But he wasn’t saying anything the least bit … well, offensive in way the could merit discipline. Still, it was better to be at lest a little bit more circumspect. He shook his head and moved down the hall toward an exit.
Once Traci had followed him outside, Binder took a deep breath and held up his hands, palm outward, toward the fuming young woman.
“Okay, my bad,” he told her. “I guess I started that, but have pity, its really hard to get students to pay attention to a dull explanation of the ways things are supposed to be done. I actually had them paying attention, and you broke it off for me.”
“Hey, its not my fault, you know. Can I help it if Dr. Shaw suddenly wants to talk to you as soon as possible about some damn dragon or something?”
“Dragon?” That stopped him cold. “Why would Dr. Shaw even know, much less care about the dragon?”
“You have got to be kidding me. You really do have a dragon?” The astonishment obviously cut short her fury.
“Its one of those business things I do. You know ‘get your logo in three dimensions’. You know The Dragon Lady?”
“That ritzy place, what is it? A reastaurant and bar, out somewhere near the Auboretum?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. I got a commission from Mrs. Pendragon. But what the hell connection would Dr. Shaw have with her?” He tried to think of all the ties Lady Pendragon, as he thought of her, would have with the school. “Pendragon. Of course.”
“Isn’t he on the board of directors here?” Traci chewed on her lip for a moment. “Blonde guy, isn’t he? Looks like a neo-nazi’s wet dream? Corporate law, that’s it.” Traci suddenly looked stricken. “How could I forget? He does a guest lecture for Dr. Shaw’s advanced post-grad Corporate Law class every year. I haven’t taken that class yet, but I should have remembered.”
“Take it easy, Traci, you didn’t cause whatever trouble this is about. What is it about, anyway? I mean, aside from the dragonlady piece.”
“Oh! I forgot.” Traci pulled a folded envelop from her hip pocket. “Dr. Shaw didn’t exactly tell me. He sent you a note.”
Binder took the envelope and tore it open. “He has to be kidding. For this he has you interrupt my class? I had a note on my door this morning from Lady Pendragon complaining about how slow I’m working. I checked our contract, the piece isn’t due until next week.”
“On your door? Why not on your answering machine?”
“Can’t stand the things. Or cell phones, either. What do I need them for anyway? My business isn’t exactly super time sensitive, like almost everything else in the modern world.”
“But that’s pratically medieval,” Traci insisted.
“What’s important is why the heck am I getting pointed reminders from the hopeful future dean of the business college about a contracted work for a board member’s mother, that isn’t even behind schedule yet.”
“That’s why right there,” Traci told him, her indignation aroused again, but this time in his favor. “Politics. If Mrs. Pendragon has decided to raise a fuss, and Dr. Shaw got even an inkling of it from Mr. Pendragon, of course he’d make a big deal about how he, I don’t know, how he keeps his finger on the pulse of all business even remotely connected to the college, right? He’s just trying to keep Mr. Shaw aware of how efficient he is.”
“Politics!” Binder felt like spiting. “Doesn’t really matter what you do in this life to avoid it, they’re always going to try to tangle you up somehow.”
He looked over and realized that Traci was fuming. “Look, don’t sweat it. I can deal with this sort of thing. I was planning to go see Lady Pendragon in the morning anyway.”
“Don’t you think you should make it this evening? I mean, Shaw’s in a different department and all, but he could still cause trouble for you, couldn’t he?”
“I’ll be that’s what he was trying to tell me, by having you interrupt my class. Making sure I know how much power he has and how little I have. Man should remember that my livelihood isn’t dependent on this place.”
“But Binder!” Traci touched his arm. “What if the Pendragons start making trouble for you? They have enough pull to put a big dent in your business.”
Binder started to wave this off, too. But he had to admit to himself that Traci was right about the possibility, as well as about how much trouble he could gace with losing the income from those small commissions.
“Okay, don’t get upset about it, kid. You don’t have to look out for me.”
“But you can’t…”
“I won’t antagonize them, don’t worry. Heck, I’ll call Mrs. Pendragon this evening and let her know I’m ready to deliver the piece tomorrow. I’ll have to work all night to finish up the final detail work, but I was planning to do it tomorrow, anyway. Just a few hours sleep lost, and that way I don’t upset anybody’s politics. Let Dr. fucking Shaw make like its his doing for all I care.”
Traci still looked worried, but she finally nodded and left. Binder was simmering inside as he returned to his class.
“Everything okay, Mr. Binder?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sometimes you just have to deal with the kind of people you’d rather not be around, you know? That’s a good lesson for this bunch to learn early on. Probably one of the best ones I can teach you.”
He moved to the front of the classroom workshop, a thing he rarely did. This at least got their attention for a few moments.
“Talent doesn’t mean much if you don’t have the proper techniques, I’ve been trying to pound that into your heads all semester. But there’s something else you have to remember, if you want to make any sort of career in the arts. Talent and ability both aren’t worth shit if you can’t handle people well enough to do business with them. Never think the prima dona artist thing really works. You have to have something else going for you to achieve that sort of status, and that something is pull, and you can’t can’t make enemies of the wrong sort of people and ever have any pull.”
“Wow. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Got to be. Its a fact of life that’s just as serious as a heart attack.”
Binder checked his watch. “Okay, we don’t have enough time left to get anything worthwhile done now. You might as well head for your next class, those of you who have them. Those of you working on projects in the main studio, remember that campus security is closing down all of the buildings on this side of campus at nine tonight, so they can go on minimal personnel over here and maximum for the rally.”
“I think most of us will be at the rally ourselves, anyway. Are you going to be there?”
Another female student. And this one he’d never even encouraged. Why did they all seem to be wanting to tease the least attractive man around lately? It could really get a guy irritated after a while.
“No, I’m not,” he glared at her. “I prefer to stay out of campus politics, thank you very much. I’ve got plenty to do running my own business without trying to tell a bunch of collegiate yahoos how to run theirs.”
Once in a while it was s good thing to remind everyone that he was actually outside the peculiar little incestuous world of the college. That he was on the other side of the classic ‘town and gown’ division.




Chapter 6
“There once was a lady, a voyeur
Sought for something obscene to employee her
But she found even she
Had some standards, you see
She felt ill when she voyeured a lawyer.”

Shirley laughed helplessly for a moment, before she grinned at Hannah and shook her head. “That is truly awful, you do know that, don’t you? Besides, she couldn’t be much of a lady if she was a voyeur.” She reached across and took half of the stack of flyers her friend had in front of her. She began folding them.
“It is totally traditional in limericks for females to be most often referred to as either a lady or a young girl,” Hannah insisted. She picked up a stack of already folded flyers off of the table beside her and forced them into a nearly full box on the floor. “It would really be bad if I’d made her a young girl. Besides, that would throw off the meter.” She shifted the remainder of the unfolded pile over and folded it with neat, precise movements.
“Its a limerick,” Shirley protested. “It doesn’t have meter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. There are actually almost as strict rules of rhyme and meter for limericks as for … for … haiku.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“Don’t tempt me to give you a lesson in the art form.” She continued to fold without looking up.
“Why not?” Shirley leaned forward. “Its not like either of us is big on gossip, and we’ve already talked about the program to the point where I’m ready to set fire to this entire stack if you don’t distract me somehow.”
“Well I have a feeling you’ll be ready to pound me pretty quick if I start telling you how a limerick is properly composed. How about you tell me about your class, instead?”
“Which class? The kids or the brownbelts?”
“Which one is it where you work with that single man you were telling me about. The one that’s so cute in the pictures.”
“Your taste in men is beyond me. I mean, older guys, guys that are anything but good looking, and yet there’s that gorgeous hunk you date all the time.”
“Lance is, well, Lance. Not my usual type, considering how I’ve always had a thing for men who aren’t classically good looking. Interesting faces, as long as they are attached to personalities I like.”
“I still don’t get it, then. I mean, Lance isn’t just good looking. He’s a lawyer, and from what I hear he can be a real son of a bitch.” Shirley laughed suddenly. “Hell, from what I hear, he literally is a son of a bitch.”
“I’m not going to defend Lillith, I’m just glad she has decided that I am an appropriate companion for her son. Can you imagine dating a man with that sort of mother, and she didn’t like you?”
“I can’t imagine dating that sort of man, in the first place.”
“He’s not like his reputation. I know I make plenty of lawyer jokes, but Lance isn’t…” She hesitated.
“Isn’t what? Isn’t as cold blooded as they say he is?” Shirley continued to fold in as she spoke. “Tell that to some of the people who have gone up against him.”
“He’s a good lawyer, Shirley.” Hannah had paused in her own folding, but she started doing it again. “He does his job well, so that makes him a lot of enemies. I know him on a more personal level, and he isn’t ruthless or cruel any of those things people say about him. He’s a kind and gentle man. He’s very loving.”
“Well, I guess that’s not a side of him everyone gets to see.” She gathered the rest of her pile of flyers and made room for them in her box.
“I don’t know,” Hannah tossed a few of her small remaining pile across the table. “He does a lot for the community, you know. Its not like he makes any money or anything like that off of being on the community arts centers’ board. He puts a lot of time and hard work into these places, just like we do. And he’s on the board at the college, too.” She looked around and could find no more unfolded flyers. “That seems to be the last of these. What else needs to get done on this project?”
Shirley looked around also, as she stood up. “I think that’s everything until it gets closer to the opening. Have you seen any of the work they’re putting in this showing?” She paused to stretch, a muscle popping stretch. “This gets me more tired than sparring all afternoon, can you believe it?”
“Sure,” Hannah hefted one of the boxes of folded flyers. “Karate stretches and uses your muscles. Sitting here for so long just cramps them up and tires you out.” She hesitated a moment, then added, “If you’ll bring the other box down to the administrative office, I’ll tell you all about the masterpieces.”
Shirley lifted the second box with an easy, graceful movement. “They made the final decision, right?” she asked. “On which kids’ work would go into the show?”
“Well, they’re not going to leave anybody out, but the ‘real’ show will be the stuff that goes into the main gallery,” Hannah explained. “You’re wondering about those two kids that are in your beginners class, too, aren’t you?”
“Not worried, you know. Just curious. Its not like it would destroy them not to even make it into the show.” Shirley popped her hip against the bar handle of the door leading out of the performing arts section of the building. She backed against the door to hold it open and allow Hannah to pass through.
“Well, sorry to say, the younger one, the little boy, didn’t get anything accepted into the main show. But the girl did. I’m told she’s showing some real promise, especially considering she’s in that tough stage of the early teens, when everything is angst. Not that they accepted any of her ‘goth’ stuff. A think they found it a little too creepy for a children and young adult show.”
“What do Mr. Gorgeous have to say about those, do you know?”
“I don’t exactly what Lance said in the meeting, but I know what he’s said to me. He thinks that sort of work is probably excellent therapy for dealing with teenage anger and rebellion. But its not, as he says ‘appropriate for public display in any forum.’ I’m pretty sure there’s a good dose of propriety in there. I think they’re a good examination of negative emotions and turmoil, and as such shoud be given the same …” Hannah paused suddenly. “Sorry,” she shook her head. “There I go off into a lecture that you don’t need to hear. What’s your opinion?”
Shirley followed her into a small office, where they stacked their boxed in a corner behind the thickly piled desk. “My opinion?” she grinned. “I think he’s a pompous jackass, that’s my opinion. He must be pretty damn good in bed for you to stay with him.”
“Shirley!” Hannah didn’t quite stifle a grin. “Lance is a thorough gentleman, highly skilled in social situations, and…”
“There, see, I knew it. ‘Highly skilled, huh? Not that I’ve ever thought of it as a social situation, but I guess you could call it that.”
Hannah blushed. “I’m not talking about that! I am not going to talk about that. Not here, at least, where little kids might happen to overhear us.”
“Well, then, let’s get out of here and get to a nice, noisy bar where you can dish for me.”
“You are impossible.” Hannah followed her friend out of the building even so. “Have you ever known me to talk about that?” She raised her hands and tilted her head to one side. “Not that I’m categorically against a little dishing, you know,” she added. But this is different. It would be just too, I don’t know, too much of a betrayal, I suppose.” The two of them had reached Shirley’s red Mustang convertible, and leaned against the hood. “If Lance doesn’t want to let the rest of the world see the tender person I get to know,” Hannah explained, “I’m not going to do it, either.”
“Well, that finishes that topic of conversation.” Shirley laughed and moved around to the driver’s side door of her car.
“Sorry about that.” Hannah smiled unappoligetically.
“No problem, I understand. You want to go over to the bar on the south side? They’re having kind of an open mike night, tonight. That should be pretty entertaining.” Shirley had the door unlocked, and was standing in it, leaning on the car’s roof.
Hannah leaned against the roof from the other side and grinned. “That depends,” she answered cautiously. “What exactly do you mean by ‘sort of’ open mike?”
“People had to sign up ahead of time, and they’ve been given time slots to perform. But its not really formal, they don’t pay any fees, or earn any either. Sort of an organized open mike.”
Hannah straightened and dusted her hands off. “You need to wash that thing,” she informed Shirley. “Okay, I’ll meet you there. Are they running a cover charge tonight?”
“Nope. I doubt they could get much of an audience for the amateurs if they did.”

Tags: general, output

Current Mood: distressed

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Nov. 3rd, 2006

Oct. 19th, 2006

02:05 pm - Projects

I often wonder, am I different in my general style of dealing with writing? I don't mean my 'writing style' per se. Its just that I seem to always have so many different writing projects in some state of development and/or actual writing. This is both original fiction and fanfiction (The Invisible Man, Wild Wild West, The Lost World).

My first Nanovel, from 2003, 'The Socratic Dilemma' hasn't progressed a lot from the state I left it in at the end of that November, but I still consider it a viable, active project. 'Murder Limited' from 2004 is filed, but may yet see the light of day. Last year I only puttered with writing some for my long-in-development fantasy novel about my own world, called Tissinambra. In the last few months I've been working on several short story ideas I hope to use as my serious effort to begin a professional writing career.

I have a variety of fanfiction projects in various stages of completion. I seem to rather jump from one to another depending on my mood and interest on that particular day. And, quite a bit, on what fandom is giving me the most encouragement at the time.

Wild Wild West is definitely the fandom of the moment. I'm plotting in my head ideas for a planned story which is actually a crossover with two other series. But especially I am working on creating for myself a bound paperback version of my previous WWW novelette. I'm spending a lot of my leisure time just now working on illustrations. Once I finish with those and scan them into the computer, resize them, and insert them into the text file, I'll be ready to input the whole (already properly formatted) file into lulu.com and get a couple of copies printed up. Pure, absolute and total vanity, but so what? It gives me pleasure and I am not a person who believes that pleasure is 'sin'. Anyone reading this probably knows me well enough to know that I am a proud, avowed pagan. I am no sheep.

Um, back on topic.

I'm also at this time messing around with character and plot notes and outlining for my Nanovel of this year. Good old 'Binder's Art' is never far from my mind.

More anon

Current Mood: thoughtful

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Oct. 18th, 2006

12:47 pm - NaNoWriMo 2006

Yes, once again I am going to attempt to post my daily output during NaNoWriMo to this journal. Maybe this time (I've lost count) will be the charm.

Adopting newbies this year. ceniele, from the Mysteries forum, seems like someone I can get along with. Then there's Emergency Exit, an Austin hatchling. I'm just waiting for my cyberfriend to sign up and give me her screen name.

Binder's Art this year. This is the Thriller I was in the process of planning back in 2003 when I first joined the madness, so I set it aside. But now I feel ready to tackle it. I hope.

I have a stack of characters for this one - Gabriel Binder is the protagonist. He's a big, not particularly attractive man (tall and solid-built, not much fat) with long hair and a beard. He's a sculptor who likes to produce large pieces, but also makes money by creating "logo statues" - statues of what a business owner pictures their company logo as looking like. For putting in lobbies and such. One such is at the center of the secondary plot. A woman owns a restaurant called the 'Dragon Lady'. The statue will be of a dragon with the chest of a well-endowed woman. I can picture that as the cover.

That woman, Lilith Pendragon, is an important secondary character. No surprise, she's a mean one. Her attorney son, Lance Pendragon is also a major player - he is, among other things, on the boards of both the community college where Binder works part time, and the community arts center where he volunteers. The same goes for Lance's girlfriend Hannah Dunn, who also becomes the love interest for Binder. Traci Halladay is one of Binder's students, and her father, Thomas Halladay, becomes closely involved in the storyline. Ray York and Sean Logan are the cops of the story, and another sculptor, Elliot Nesmith is connected to them.

More anon

Current Mood: hungry

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Jan. 10th, 2006

09:16 am - Love ya, flick!

Oh, that one was fun. Naturally, it sez I'm nutso.

Your Social Dysfunction: Schizotypal You display social deficits and oddities of thinking. Your perception and communication are similar to those of a schizophrenic.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com Please note that we aren't, nor do we claim to be, psychologists. This quiz is for fun and entertainment only. Try not to freak out about your results.

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Jan. 6th, 2006

07:33 am - Do they think they're telling me something I don't already know?

Are You Normal?

Your Normalcy Quotient is: 58 out of 100.

Your quiz results make you a Wonderful Eccentric

You've earned the title of wonderful eccentric, and while you're not a wild, gun slinging maverick, you certainly like to follow your own way. Of course, you probably don't think of yourself as eccentric. As Einstein might say, "It's all relative."

Take this free personality test by Clicking Here>> or going to www.chatterbean.com/runormal/

Tags: junk

Current Mood: crazy

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