The Ballad of Roger Wilco

I have no idea who is still checking this website, but for those true believers, I offer this little tidbit. A student challenged me to write a ballad, so I chose the hero of the old Space Quest games as my subject. Let me know where the story should unfold from this point, and I’ll keep it going.

The Ballad of Roger Wilco

In a distant, unknown spaceport
Where seldom a freighter stops,
Our brave and fearless hero
Sweeps and scrubs and mops.

Roger Wilco is his name
And though his fame has faded,
His feats are told in the greatest game
Sierra™ ever created.

Back when Castle Wolfenstein
Was the best first-person shooter,
The epic quest with text commands
Still ruled the home computer.

So boot up DOS, insert Disk 2
For pixelated glory;
I’d gladly give up 3D worlds
For Roger Wilco’s story.

“But what,” you ask, “about his humble task?
Is cleaning his obsession?”
It’s sad but true, even a hero needs
A viable profession.

Though he stopped space pirates and foiled the plans
That Sludge Vohaul had made,
When his quest was done this simple man
Was a janitor by trade.

So once again, he was spending his day
Cleaning the space-pod docks,
When a fuel-line leak caused a plasma explosion
That knocked him out of his socks.

The blast had torn a hole in space
That grew faster by the minute.
Roger tried to flee, but fell on his face
And promptly slid right in it.

His senses blurred as colours whirled,
He thought he might be dead,
Till the kaleidoscopic tunnel stopped
And dropped him on his head.

The stars kept spinning round and round,
The blow had really dazed him.
The stars then stood, the stars were real,
But the strange scene barely fazed him.

…to be continued.

Merry Christmas, Everyone.

A few flakes of snow fall on the empty streets of Skrawl, abandoned due to certain doubts about its future. A certain lack of citizens, a dearth of dialogue, a tendency to be tedious, a soap box source of syllogisms, a prison of prisons, a skit on schisms and all manner of balderdash. Who can stand it?

And so, and so, and so on Christmas Day, I say…

Let’s give it a rest.

Reconsider.

And wait until the New Year in order to

Decide whether to 1) Abandon Ship or 2) Start Posting Regularly Again.

Wolf at the Door Entry #1

My first (hopefully of a few) entry into the colouring contest.

- DSL -

Wolf at the Door Colouring Contest.

Here’s a little drawing inspired by a Radiohead song, “Wolf at the Door.” I decided to restrain myself and stick to the line work because I want to see how this might be coloured, digitally or otherwise. For proper inspiration, listen to the song:

The Wind Blows

The day was gray and windy. Occasionally, a fat drop of rain, a harbinger of the coming storm, would strike the dusty earth. Simon noticed a man who was struggling to nail a piece of paper to a pole. Each gust made the paper flap and flutter wildly, threatening to escape the man’s grasp. With his left hand he tried to hold the sheet of paper in place while with his right he scrambled for a hammer and nail. The bag at his side contained a bundle of papers, but he was unable to get even the first one affixed to the pole. His thin brown hair was dishevelled, blown about with the breeze, and his threadbare coat flapped around his lanky frame.

The man was becoming frustrated with his task and impatient with the wind. He raised the hammer and struck wildly at the nail, only to hit his thumb instead. He howled in frustration, dropping the hammer, while the piece of paper escaped his grasp and was taken by the wind. The man flailed his arms and began to curse the growing tempest, but this only served to knock the bundle of papers out his bag. Having escaped his bag, the papers were scattered in a million different directions.

Simon couldn’t help but laugh at this man, vainly attempting to battle the wind. Despite all his curses and efforts, the ridiculous man had barely managed to nail one notice to the pole. He ran off, trying to go in every direction at once, in order to retrieve the pieces of paper. Simon watched the man dart around and run out of sight, as heattempting to recapture each scrap of paper.

Once the man was gone, Simon went to the pole to examine the sign. It read:
“MISSING: PUPPY. Answers to the name Kibou. If found, please call Leroy at XXX-XXX-XXXX. A reward is offered.”

A Cold Night

On a night when the stars in the sky looked like shining frost, and the frost on the ground looked like shining stars, Simon felt the cold as if he were all bare skin.

The stars and the frost melted and swam as if he were all eyes brimming with tears.

The sound of the wind and the sea and the traffic flowed as one, indistinguishable.

So began a dream or ended one.

Simon and the Crow

One day Simon was talking to a crow. The crow knew Simon was there because he could see the invisible boy’s soul. Some animals can see souls, especially the smarter ones (the smarter animals that is—the intelligence of the soul makes little difference). That is why sometimes a dog will bark for no reason, or bark at someone who appears to be normal. Even if someone appears to be kind and pleasant, the dog can see the nasty soul and will get all worked up about it. Or maybe the dog can smell the soul, I’m not sure. In any case, they know it’s there. Now, the crow is a particularly smart bird, so it can see souls as well.

“Hello Mr. Crow,” Simon said politely. Simon was always very polite. Invisible boys tend to be very meek and mild, since arrogance and pride need an audience to feed them regularly to keep them from withering away.

“What is it, soul? I am about to go to a murder,” replied the crow.

“A murder? How ghastly!”

“Not that kind of murder, you ignorant soul. A gathering of crows is called a murder.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Mr. Crow.”

“That’s okay. Now what was it that you wanted?”

“I was wondering where I could find a body.”

“A body? When I am looking for somebody, I just think of where they are, and then I go there. You know, as the crow flies.”

“As the crow flies?”

“That’s what I said.”

“How does a crow fly?”

“By flapping its wings.”

“But I don’t have any wings.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m not sure what to do.” Simon felt discouraged.

“Let me tell you a story,” said the crow.

“Please do.”

“Once, on a midsummer’s day, I was flying about. It was very hot and dry and I became parched with thirst. I wanted something to drink, but all the puddles had dried up and I could find no stream or creek where I could quench my terrible thirst. At last I spotted on someone’s porch a pitcher which held a bit of water. I swooped down and attempted to drink, but the level of the water was too low to reach with my beak. To make matters worse, the opening was too narrow for me to reach through and the pitcher itself was too heavy to be pushed over. There seemed to be no way to ease my thirst until I notices some pebbles in the yard. In a moment, it came to me. I began to pick up the pebbles, one by and one, and place them in the pitcher. Slowly but surely, the water level began to rise until I could reach it. I drank my fill and carried on.”

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of the crow’s story. The crow, on the other hand, seemed quite proud of it and began preening himself. The story, as you may have guessed, was not his at all, but a tale told many, many years ago by a man called Aesop. The crow did not feel in the least bit guilty about this misrepresentation, which is normal for a crow. A crow will gladly claim anything his fellow crow has discovered, like a dead beetle or a discarded piece of bread. It may seem cruel, but such is the way of the brotherhood of crows.

“Now I must go to the murder,” said the crow, and he flew off.

Simon wasn’t sure how to put the crow’s story to use. He kept thinking about it.