Clips and Tricks

Listening: Godot's Theme: Fragrance of Dark Coffee (Jazz Version) - Phoenix Wright

Well, thank God. I thought today was never going to get here.

Today was the last day of classes at MUN. Which means it was also the last day of me running around like my head was on fire, trying to finish all of my term reports. I will give the MUN library this: it may be stuffy and confining and militaristic, but I get shit done there.

Moving on.

I know I haven't been keeping up with the blogging--well, not really--but things have been nuts over on my end. In case you hadn't gathered it from my last post, I got my driver's license. *waits for applause* Oh yeah, and the whole deal with the car got worked out peacefully in the end. (Not fairly, though, in my opinion. I don't mean for me. I mean for the poor woman who had to shell out $2700 from her own pocket because her idiot daughter let her uninsured, unlicensed boyfriend drive her mother's car. But that's not for me to work out.)

The Tim Horton's Cole and I were at on the night of the accident is not our regular Tim's. Yes, we have a regular Tim's. So regular that they knew our orders upon sight. (Yes, this is very sad, I am aware.) Those halcyon days are gone, unfortunately, because they closed out Tim's down about a month ago, so we've had to look for a new one. It was very traumatic, I assure you.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Guys, Rykea's wicked. A few weeks ago she and I were discussing a song. Specifically, it was the Charlotte Martin cover of Constant Craving. Then we started bandying back and forth with sentences. The next thing we know, we have an ongoing short-story. We literally wrote the first sentences that came into our heads, so we started with no characters, no plot, no nothing. And somehow... we have a little sleeping beast that the two of us continue to poke at, and I have a feeling it's going to grow up to be splendiferous.

There is nothing new and exciting in my life save for that, so instead I'm going to do something slightly out of the ordinary. I'm picking up the first five pieces of paper I find and putting clips of what I've written on them on my blog. Sound like fun? No? Well, too bad.

"Your average daily dose of Grimmy will make your eyes bleed from cuteness."

"You may interrupt me for one or more of the following:
- earthquake
- house on fire
- dam bursting ("What dam?", you ask)
- copious blood loss
- dinner."

"Long-Legged Scissor Man."

"- headstrong
- frequently judgmental
- twin brother
- fond of cars
- champion lockpick"

"Bartolome
Abayal
Culaan
Astalor
Tartai
Sarthun"

And that's... it, really. Yay for the boring life of Julia.

Icarus is going to sleep again.

WHAT.

Listening: Rainy Day - Guster

Clouds are coming
Air gets heavy
Looks like trouble on a
Rainy day
Sun starts sinking
Can't see my shadow
Looks like trouble on a
Rainy day
Holes uncovered
Walls will crumble
All spells trouble on a
Rainy day.

~*~

So I was sitting in Tim Horton's tonight with Colette, like we do every other night. It's a nice way to break up the tedium of homework and life in general. We go there to complain (about everything) and to sketch, because it's a relatively comfortable atmosphere within close proximity to fresh tea. Ever since I got my license in October and I've been granted relatively free reign with the family car (whom I've fondly named 'Bixby'), we've been able to enjoy the tradition with increasing frequency. We thought tonight was just like any other night.

Boy, were we wrong.

It was going for eleven and I was doodling a picture for Colette while she scribbled across from me. We were sitting there. Minding our own business. And then the shit hit the fan.

"Excuse me?"

I looked up over my shoulder to find a Tim's employee looking at the two of us with wide eyes. Blinking, I asked, "What?"

"Do either of you own a red Toyota?"

Immediately my stomach turned to lead. Bixby. Oh shit, I thought. I knew I should have straightened out that park job. I said, hesitantly, "I do."

"Well," the girl said. "Somebody just backed into your car."

For a second I could only stare at her. Then I put my head down on the table and counted to five. Freaking out is not advisable in these kinds of situations. Over my head, I heard Colette (the more rational of the two of us, at the time) ask, "Is there any damage?"

"The whole right side of the front bumper is caved in," the girl said. "And something is dripping out of it."

"Where's the guy who did it?" I asked without lifting my head, my voice muffled by the table.

"Uh..." A momentary pause. "...He drove off."

"What."

I don't put a question mark behind that word, because it wasn't an exclamation of confusion. It was disbelief. I got to my feet and went to the nearest window, peering outside. Sure enough, there was Bixby, sitting all alone in his parking spot. Facing the store. No one for miles.

Allow me to paint a picture for you, if I may.

THIS IS NOT AN EXAGGERATION.

HOW THE FUCKING HELL did someone manage to back into my GODDAMN CAR?

I was capable only of gawping like a goldfish dropped on a sidewalk. All around me, the Tim's employees (it was a slow night, and this shit was calamitous, at least in my eyes) were saying kind things to me, muttering "What an asshole" and "That's a sin, baby are you okay?". Memo to self: Thank you, Tim's employees. Thank you, for being so kind and understanding, and giving a damn. It meant a lot to me.

The manager came up while Colette and I were staring at the crater carved into my poor car's front bumper. "I called the RNC for you," he told me. "They'd like to talk to you."

All around me, shit was going on. Tim's employees were talking to each other and to Colette, and I was capable only of turning around and blindly following the manager into the office in the back. The door was held for me by not one, not two, but three employees, all of whom were regarding me sympathetically. I managed a smile at them which probably looked garish, said "Thanks," and went through. They were all wonderfully nice to me. I appreciated it so, so much.

Inside, the RNC officer on the phone took the information I had to give her, then started asking questions about the make of the car, none of which I could answer. I asked her to hold on and wandered dazedly back out front, where Colette was talking with the employees. When they spotted me, someone brandished a scrap of cardboard or something at me. "Here," she said. "This is what he wrote down."

"Who?" I asked, taking the slip.

"The guy who saw it happen."

I had a witness! My heart lunged into my throat. "Is he still here? Can I talk to him?"

They fetched him for me. He was an older gent, the father, I believe, of one of the Tim Horton's girls getting off her shift at eleven. He reaffirmed the description of the car that he'd written down--he didn't have the license plate number, but he did have the make and colour of the car, was able to tell me it had four doors and tinted windows, and told me the direction our friend drove off in. I thanked him profusely. Now I wish I'd gotten his name, so I could have bought him a coffee. Another person on Julia's Good Karma List. Please take note, higher power/fate/whatever.

So I went back to the phone with the information for the nice RNC lady. She took it all, passed the story on, and said, "Thanks, Julia. We'll send a squad car over and someone will take your statement."

What.

"Okay," I said weakly, and hung up the phone before wandering back out into the store with trembling knees. Somewhere around there it occurred to me to call my mother. Yeah. That was super. I couldn't get my tongue around the words. I've only been driving for two months, guys. I did not want this shit happening this early (preferably at all).

Mom sounded a little upset at first, but she seemed to calm down once I explained that I'd been parked and in a building when the hit happened. She told me she was sending Dad off to find me. "Okay," I said. Then I sat down and shook some more.

While we waited for the fuzz, Cole and I went outside to check out the situation. Allow me to draw your attention back to the diagram above. I think Colette about had an aneurysm when she saw things up close. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she demanded, gesturing wildly. There were a few moments of her stuttering, and then she exploded, "This isn't even pissing distance for Matt!!"

I think what she was trying to say is that there was no reason for Ricky Bobby to careen into my vehicle. Not in a parking lot that size, and especially not given the fact that the only three cars there were his, mine, and my witness's. That's like trying to hand someone a pencil and stabbing their eye out. What the fuck are the chances? How retarded do you have to be? Seriously.

We went back inside, out of the cold. One of the girls, who was leaving, came up to me. "You know," she said, "I know the first name of the guy who did it."

"What?" I said in bewilderment.

"Yeah. I grew up down the street from him."

"Who is he?"

[NOTE: The name of the driver in this otherwise factual story has been fabricated. I would rather not reveal the guy's name. He's got enough to worry about.]

"Graham," she said.

I mentally recorded that and said thank you to her. There was a handsome young man there, who was just as nice as the rest of them. "That your car?" he asked, and following my confirmation, "That sucks." The majority of my Tim's fan club was leaving for the night--all of them offered condolences and wished me good luck as they left. Cole and I stood in the porch, waiting for the cops.

They turned up before long, and cruised around perusing the damage. Finally they parked, and I went out and met the two of them in the parking lot. For the sake of keeping the four officers I encountered tonight straight for everyone, I will assign them fabricated names. The man I mentally named Mustachio proved to be kind of the lead on the matter; he said a polite hello to me, as well as his partner, Blondie, who was, well, a blonde policewoman.

So I went through the whole story with them again. Gave them the same information I had given to the officer on the phone. Mustachio went to check out the car again. As he did, Blondie looked at me.

"You have a description of the car," she said. "I don't suppose you happen to have one of the driver."

"No." I shook my head. "But one of the girls inside said she knew him, and that his name was Graham."

At that very moment, the walkie-talkie on her belt exuded a flare of static, and then a voice said over it (and I'm paraphrasing here, removing the unintelligible police jargon): "We have a man pulled over here who's got a busted taillight. His car matches the description that was just sent out."

Blondie asked into the walkie-talkie, "What's the driver's name?"

A pause. Then:

"Driver's name is Graham McDonald."

I swear to God my face did this:

Blondie and I exchanged a significant look. Then, with a smug smile, she told them to hold on to the fellow they'd pulled over and went to tell Mustachio. I frolicked to Colette, who was standing on the sidelines, and told her what the hell had just happened.

Eventually things moved inside. My hands were cold as ice and shaking, so Colette fastened them forcibly around her own tea cup and we sat there discussing what had happened while our friends Mustachio and Blondie started the report. My Dad turned up around then, and I gave him the update.

I won't go into detail about what happened after, because it was just the basic formal police-work. Mustachio took my statement, Blondie took my license and registration, and my Dad asked questions. We sat there not saying much until Cop Adonis showed up. I call him Cop Adonis because he was absolutely the most beautiful man alive. He was one of the fellows who'd stopped my dear hit-and-runner. He chatted with us a minute, then went off, leaving us pining after him.

The handsome boy from earlier returned again from the chilly outdoors, this time grinning at me. "Got him, did they?"

"Yeah," I said, smiling. And then it was like I couldn't stop smiling, the whole damn thing was so absurd.

Long story short; the fellow who hit me doesn't have a license. He wasn't the only one in the car when it happened, and they all freaked out and he bolted. The fuzz pulled him over for his broken taillight, and the fourth officer (Brace, I'll call him) noticed that the girl in the front seat appeared to be having a panic attack. They were still talking when the announcement of my hit-and-run--along with the description of the perpetrating vehicle--came over the police scanner.

I thought that shit only happened in movies. What the fuck, guys. What. The fuck.

Anyhow, once the jig was up, the driver knew it. He admitted to hitting my car and taking off. He also confessed that he didn't have a license, and was driving a car that didn't belong to him. Things worked out very peacefully after all. We clued up with the police, Dad got numbers and names to call about insurance, and I drove Colette home.

And that was my night. Bixby is sitting in front of the house being wounded as we speak. Poor little feller. At least things worked out as shockingly well as they did.

I feel like I should go buy a lottery ticket or something.

Icarus is going to bed for a whole frigging year after tonight.

See, This Is Why My Brain Weirds Me Out Sometimes

Listening: Apology - Charlotte Martin

I'm imperfect
And uncertain
I can't make this work if you
Don't take the call.
We get colder
Now that we're much older
But we're also bolder
And I'm sorry for it all.

~*~

Tuomas leaped on me and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. "Come on, Julia! You have to help us solve this murder! We won't be your friends anymore if you don't!"

"This is the best vacation of my entire life," I thought.

The next thing I knew, I was back in the van with the band. It is entirely possible that someone had painted "Mystery Machine" on its side (in red, gothic-style letters), but I might have been mistaken about that. Not sure.

"Look for clues," Tuomas said. Once again, I was riding shotgun.

"Where?" I asked in exasperation, pointing back the way we'd come. "The hotel's back there."

He looked at me as though I was being stupid on purpose. "You're the writer," he told me. "You figure something out."

"I don't write crime dramas."

"Just try it, would you?"

"God, fine. Dick."

He grinned at me when I said that. It was not a nice grin, in the best possible way. Kind of like how a wolf would grin if it chanced upon a sleeping lamb. My toes didn't uncurl for hours, even after I woke up.

"Um, okay," I said. "What about the library?"

"Perfect!" Anette said from the backseat.

Only after it was out of my mouth did I realize how retarded that suggestion was. The library? Right. We will follow the murderer's paper trail, and then we will crush him to death with our enormous brains of knowledge. Nice job, Julia. You are a spectacular investigator.

Tuomas drove us to the damn library. It looked more like it should have been some sort of government building--big and austere and made entirely out of dark gray stone. Twin lions, bigger than I was tall, sat on either side of the entrance. It was spooky and simultaneously really, really cool.

The inside of the library was just as intimidating as the outside. Books lined not only the shelves, but every wall, every column. The ceilings were high and vaulted, stretching at least a dozen feet over my head. The center of the building was open to the roof, which sported a glass dome, letting in the pale winter light. Tuomas rounded on the lot of us. "Okay," he said. "Marco, you come with me, we're going to go look for clues in the periodicals. Emppu, Jukka, you guys take non-fiction. Julia, you go to fiction with Anette."

"Oh great," I said. "We're not going to find anything through the Stephen King novels."

We went. Things were weirdly quiet. I didn't see many other people around, aside from the doddering little librarian who'd been sitting behind the desk when we came in. Pages blew down the aisles, spurred on by wayward breezes. I was standing up on one of those sliding shelf-ladders, browsing the spines for hints. Anette was crouched on the floor, flipping through covers.

"This is the stupidest thing I've ever done," I mumbled.

"Not really," Anette said, pulling out a novel and flipping the pages absently. "What about that time you jumped over a shark on water skis?"

"I never jumped over a shark on water skis."

"Oh." A pause. "Never mind, then. Forget it."

Before I could ask what the hell she was talking about, the lights in the library guttered sharply, flicked once or twice, and dimmed to near-darkness. They brightened slowly, but by that time the two of us were already on edge. We frowned up the aisle, watching the errant pages blow to and fro.

At that moment, something white and glowing came shrieking down from the ceiling, prompting me to snap my head up. The instant I did, that screeching thing connected solidly with my body, and I was flung off the ladder and hit the floor on my back with enough force to pop something. I skidded along the hard floor on my back, trying in vain to fight off the thing that was on top of me.

A sound suddenly penetrated the veil of the creature's snarls. It was Anette, but she wasn't shouting. Whatever it was, the thing on top of me recoiled with a howl of pain and vaulted away, back up onto the bookshelves. I could hear it skittering away, croaking to itself.

"What the hell?" I exploded from the floor.

Anette muttered only a grim "I thought so" before crouching down to help me to my feet. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. What the hell was that?"

"A ghost."

"I'm sorry?"

At that moment, we heard footsteps, and we turned to find Tuomas and the rest of the collection rounding the corner. Tuomas asked, "What happened?"

"Ghost," said Anette, as though this explained everything.

It appeared to explain everything for Tuomas, at least. He nodded as though something very significant had just happened. "How big?"

"'Bout yay-high," said Anette, holding her hand to about my shoulder to communicate size.

"Ah," said Tuomas. "So we'll need the keyboard, then."

"Yeah, probably."

I was too confused to do anything but stare at them very hard. Tuomas seemed to understand, because he looked at me. "Something the matter?"

"What the hell is going on?"

"That ghost was summoned by our murderer."

What? The murderer from the hotel? "You have to be joking."

"Look into your heart, Julia," Tuomas told me. "You know it to be true."

What.

Before I could unhinge my jaw any farther, Tuomas looked back at his companions and said, "Okay, let's go get the stuff. You stay here," he told me. "We'll be right back."

"What?" I could still hear the ghost skittering around on top of the bookshelves, yawling. "You are not leaving me here alone."

"Don't be such a pansy, Julia."

"I'll be a pansy if I want to be, Holopainen. You are not leaving me alone in a haunted library, you shut the hell up."

Tuomas heaved a theatrical sigh. "Very well." He looked at Anette and the others. "Go get the stuff. I'll stay here with her." I blinked, but Anette only saluted and lead the troops away. A few long minutes of silence passed. I stood there, looking very hard at the bookshelves, twiddling my thumbs.

Abruptly, Tuomas slung one arm around me and leaned his chin on my shoulder. "What's up, pup?"

"I feel bad about that police officer," I blurted abruptly.

Tuomas frowned. "The one who almost gave us a ticket?" I nodded. "Why?"

"He must waste a lot of gas."

Tuomas started laughing at me. He wrapped his arm around neck and shoulders and hugged me fiercely, jostling me. "You're a good kid," he chuckled, ruffling my hair. It was very friendly, and I relaxed. Then he pinched me, and it was more than just "friendly". I glanced at him in mingled outrage and surprise (and a little bit of interest), and he grinned back at me.

At that moment, Anette and the rest of the band returned, bringing with them a pile of instruments. Tuomas detached himself, and went to help with things. I followed him, confused. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." He lifted an electric keyboard in one arm and waved one arm at me. "Go stand over there and make a sound like bait."

Sulking, I obeyed. In retrospect, that was kind of stupid of me. I stood near one of the bookcases and, after looking around for a minute, I started chanting, "Bait. Bait."

"Perfect," said Anette, straightening the stand for a microphone.

Marco gave me the thumbs up. "Keep it up."

"Bait. Bait. Bait."

At that moment, that screeching form descended upon me again, and I instinctively recoiled. However, a sound exploded from behind me, and the ghost fell to the hard floor, writhing and twisting, screaming in agony. The sound I heard was that of symphonic, epic metal. I looked back over my shoulder. The band was playing.

And I do mean playing.

I stood there, entranced by the sound. It took a minute for me to realize that the ghost was still screeching and twisting on the floor. It seemed to be steaming, wispy vapor rising from its translucent body. As I watched, it began to grow progressively smaller, its shrieks becoming thinner and softer. Finally it brittled away into nothing, and its screaming evaporated entirely. The band ended their song from behind me with sounds of satisfaction.

I stared at the spot where the ghost had been before I turned to look at them. "What the Osama just happened?"

"We exorcised the ghost," said Anette, again as though this explained everything. And perhaps it did.

They rocked a ghost to [second] death.

I love Nightwish.

"So," Tuomas said as I stuttered unintelligibly in the corner. "Did anyone find anything?"

"We found a secret passage," said Jukka.

Tuomas looked psyched about this. "A real one? Or one of those faux move-a-tapestry ones?"

"No, a real one."

"Kickass." The songwriter beamed at me. "I knew you'd help us find the murderer, Julia."

"What makes you think the murderer is even in that secret passage?" I exploded, my mind numbed by the awesomeness I had narrowly avoided.

Tuomas gave me that look of his. You know, the 'I know because I'm in Nightwish' look. I decided to take him for his word.

"So do you have any advice about dealing with crazy criminals?" Anette asked me.

"No. Hang on. Let me go make a phone call."

So I went to a payphone and made a collect call to Mississauga. The voice that finally picked up said, "Hello, and this had better be good."

"Hi, Steph," I said with gleeful obliviousness.

"Kit?"

"Hi."

"What the hell do you want, it's like three in the morning here."

"Oh right. Um, I'm in Finland with Nightwish. They just exorcised a ghost with the power of rock and roll, and now we're standing around the library about to go into a secret passage after a mass-murderer."

Tuomas leaned over my shoulder and said, "Who's that?"

"It's my friend Steph. She's a forensic anthropologist."

"Can I talk to her?"

"No."

"Who was that?" Steph asked.

"That was Tuomas. Shut up, he's not important. Do you have any advice?"

"Can I talk to him?"

"Fuck you, tell me what to do about the mass murderer who escaped the haunted library through the secret passageway, goddammit Steph!"

"Alright alright. God. Do you have any fireworks?"

What.

"What?"

"You're going to need fireworks. Also power cables and flamethrowers, but mostly fireworks."

"Steph."

"What?"

"Fireworks will make everything 'plode."

"Oh I know. There will be 'plosions. Oh, the 'plosions."

"Let me talk to your friend, goddammit," said Tuomas from the sidelines.

Then I woke up.

*~*

Did I ever mention that my dreams never recur, but occasionally have sequels? Yeah, it's pretty messed up. And at the same time, I would never trade it.

At least this one didn't roll credits at the end. Or have large text preceding it, which read "Starring the Unconscious as Herself". Both of those have happened before. You can't make this shit up, people.

Icarus really wants Nightwish to release a song or album called "Exorcism" now.