1/6/2015 9:03-10:10 PM

In the tradition of getting up a post super late on what is ostensibly a morning daily weblog... (we're not even a week into it; it's alright)... Maybe I'll be in at 9:30 tomorrow morning. Maybe. For now, well, be glad I'm doing it at all, and your full hour's worth to boot. Hey, writing:

[Suddenly, danger! some dude who wants Michael dead I guess!] Michael groaned. He does that, and it's surprising; you'd figure he'd have gotten over things going very very wrong a long time ago. But you never get used to the idea of people wanting you dead. If you do, you're either insane or idiotic [find cleverer way of phrasing that!]

The man [man?] charged at Michael, his gun drawn in his left hand. Michael went for a roundhouse with his right leg, which went wide [the man ducked and the leg swooshed over his head] and fell down right on the man's gun arm. Oh well. Michael went with it, wrapping his leg around the arm and kicking. The man continued firing the gun, which was by now pressed parallel against Michael's hip. Michael felt very hot powder burns [I'm assuming that's what would happen if you did that in real life, but I'm not about to test it.]

Michael continued trying to kick with his right foot, balancing on his left leg and sparring against the man's free right arm. The three legs of the men formed a very sturdy tripod against the ground, so balancing wasn't all that difficult. Blocking the incoming jabs, however, even with both arms free... [one arm free- other arm used to reach for man's gun hand.] Suddenly--

And... well, that's about it for that. Got no idea where it goes from there-- another scene that came from a dream; I think I'm absolutely afraid I'd screw it up if I attempted to have any ideas of my own. Need to find some way around that.

It is, it is kind of late, and though I'm mostly lucid I'm just loopy enough to attempt a freewrite for you today... Yeah, eat it, apprehensions! (My lucidity is dropping with each passing minute...)

Smith walked down the street. "Hello, Smith," said Mr Chipmunk from his crack in the sidewalk. "What you doing up there in broad daylight?" (Chipmunks are too stupid to go mad at the sight of an Elder God-- but they do magically gain the ability to speak. And um live in cracks in pavement, apparently.)

Smith turned to look at the small furry entirely naked creature who likes to poop in little pellets because it seems the most decent and sanitary. Why, said Smith, his [UNFATHOMABLY ELDRITCH BODY PART um ichor I guess] fluctuating in a way that broke several laws of geometry, I'm just inadvertently causing dozens of people from having ever been born!
"Okey dokey," said the chipmunk, who was still entirely naked. Prudent, is another good word to describe his poops.

Mr Baker was a baker who liked to bake things. On this fine sunny day he decided to take his dog for a walk- in between rounds of baking (his oven exploded, alright, that's why he wasn't baking at that moment.) His dog's name was Sally, and Sally couldn't usually talk. Except for right there a little bit, when Sally said something and he was like "what?" and then he got erased from existence when he looked up. Dogs are also stupid, except Sally wasn't entirely naked, and he (she?) liked to poop as messily as possible because it was the least prudent thing imaginable. Or at least she would have, if Sally weren't erased from existence as well because it was Mr Baker's fault Sally got born in the first place, because he liked breeding dogs when he wasn't baking bread. He was liked "pure breds," you see. Man's gotta have his hobbies. And that's the kind of hobby Mr Baker would be into. Except Mr Baker never existed in the first place, because if he did, he would have seen Smith's face. So.

Oops, said Smith, who liked to wear, like, cloth. Now I know why I don't usually walk around in broad daylight. (Mr Smith is the size and shape of a man, but he's got a lot more ichor.)

Alright, sweet. I've got an idea from that silly pointless thing, now: ichor! Ursula K LeGuin calls the term "the infallible touchstone of the seventh-rate," and we can blame her exactly none for this! The term "ichor" as it was used originally referred to the blood of the gods. Somewhere along the line, though, it came to mean the weird watery funky-smelling pus that explodes from bad sores and unhealed scabs. Lovecraft loved the word, and used it to describe ichorous things, of which there are a lot in his tales. The normal English language distribution of vocabulary, the most commonly used words in their rough order of usage, looks something like this:

1. and
2. be
3. it
4. of
5. the
6. will
7. I
8. have
9. you

while Lovecraft's list of most commonly used words charts a lot more like this:

1. ichor
2. and
3. ichorous
4. be
5. it
6. unfathomable
7. of
8. unspeakable
9. madness

So, yes, Lovecraft loved the word-- hack horror writers followed in his footsteps and put plenty of ichor into their books too, and, well, I suppose there are worse bodily fluids to have spurting around, but not many; it's pretty nasty. Whatever it is. Whatever the heck ichor is, though, I'd be willing to bet that Smith has it, in some quantity. And this may or may not turn out to be important to the plot or something; sweet! 

Also I had the idea for maybe a story where Michael time travels and causes all sorts of paradoxes all over the place and there's two (or more!) of him and everything's all crazy and effects are leading to causes and it's all confusing, and Michael uses his ability to get out of danger and everything at the end to look at Smith's face, erasing himself from existence and preventing those paradoxes from having went down- while surviving his own erasure as well, because, plot. It's going to be super mind-blowing, in the actual, thing. Alright.

Spook means spy; ghost means spy kinda; spectre means spy kinda kinda... All supernatural, all espionage-- and, all taken. I'm not even sure on the exact tone that we're going to have, yet, though; let's wait for the body until we come up with what's going to be first impressions.