The Ship on the Horizon
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Ian bent over the edge of the crow's nest as he spied the ship on the horizon, "Captain! Ship off the starboard!" It was too far to tell anything more than that. He pulled himself back into the nest and sat with his back to the shallow wall.
Ian was lazy. Absolutely 100% lazy, he would have spot the ship 15 minutes earlier had he been keeping a constant look out but instead he was sitting up here nodding off and did his occasional search of the horizon.
He used to get all jittery and excited with the possibility of combat but now it bored him, The Immortal hadn't gone to battle in weeks, instead it had found merchant after merchant who might take off trying to outrun them before it eventually gave up and surrendered the plunder.
Captain Davis stood behind the steersman and looked to the horizon, the sun to his back he could see the miniature white sails filled with the wind as the ship sailed towards them. Looking upward Cicero looked past the crow's nest and examined his flag, the openly threatening red billowed in the wind.
Other pirates fly fake flags of peace of merchants, luring victim ships in and then feigning weakness or trouble to get them to pull along side, when it's too late the ships are drawn close and boarded. Captain Davis didn't need this trick. Let them spy his flag, the pure crimson red belying his true purpose – and let them run. Let them put their fate to the chase.
A small smile creased his face, a smile most of the crew knew. The smile of the hunt. Turning on his heel he spoke crisply to the steersman, "Bring her about, begin tacking towards that ship. I want her identified before she turns about." The steersman nodded and smoothly began bringing the ship about. Cicero turned and began bellowing orders, "Katja, I want you to identify that ship and if it is anything but a naval vessel with an armada behind it – I want it."
"Aye Captain," Katja nodded and turned to the crew. Her form was what many would consider beautiful, lithe and strong yet her demeanor squashed any hopes the men on the ship had. She was dominant; the only person who she respected was the Captain and the crew knew it. "Prepare for the battle you Sea dogs!" And with that it was official. The crew let loose a howl as one and the deck was enveloped in the commotion of the preparations for the coming battle.
Ian pulled himself back up out of the crow's nest and pulled out the spy glass, fumbling with it he found the ship, now substantially closer due to the fact they were rushing towards each other, the Immortal tacking it's way closer to the oncoming ship. And then he saw the flag.
"Aye! The ship is the British Royal Navy!" He squinted into the spy glass and tried to read the title off the bow. "Pray… Pray-tor-ian" He closed the spy glass and jumped out of the crows nest, grabbing the rope he slid down to the deck. His small form was mousy compared to the rest of the crew, his eyes were small and brown, his hair black. Running across the deck and ran up to the Captain's door and rapped on it several times, rubbing his knuckles afterwards having rapped a bit too hard.
Captain Davis sat in his Quarters writing in the log, his quill pen moving smoothly over the paper as the ship rocked and creaked with the sound of it passing through the waves. He always wrote an entry before battle. Who knew if this would be his last. He knew it wouldn't be. He couldn't die yet. Not yet. He continued to write after hearing the rap at his door. His crew knew better than to bother him at this stage of preparation. So he ignored the knock.
Katja spied that weasel of a man standing in front of the Captain's doors. "You!" She marched over to him and stood next to him, her tanned skin and well formed face glared at him, "Do you realize what you just did?!" She was irate, this ship ran perfectly because she had trained this crew within an inch of perfection. And here he was breaking one of the most well known traditions and rules of the ship. Don't interrupt the Captain before a battle. As she went through this mental rant she finally tuned back into what Ian was saying:
"…Royal Navy, The Praetorian!!! Don't you understand? It's Her Majesty's vessel!!!" He was shivering he was so excited – no he was probably nervous. Scared he might get a cannon ball through his crow's nest. So this presented an interesting question, up to this point the Captain had avoided enraging the British Royal Navy – having dodged a few of their ships and not engaged one yet. But he had been in the mood for a plunder today. Do we continue on course? Or perhaps the weasel was right – ask the Captain.
To be continued next Thursday, as always
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Prologue
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
This is the first installment of what I hope to be weekly or bi-weekly story postings. Today is the prologue sort of setting some of it up for you, future postings should be much longer and much more in depth.
[Edited for some spelling and some additions, should reread if you haven't already]
Captain Cicero Davis stood on the deck of his ship, The Immortal, staring over the bow watching the horizon. His hands clasped behind his back, his face was cleanly shaven and his hair was pulled back out of his face. Many would say his face was too young to be that of a captain of a ship, much less captain of one of the most revered pirate ships to sail the seas.
Cicero Davis was an anomaly of the sea in almost every form. Most sailors were English, Spanish, Portuguese or French. Cicero was the offspring of a Greek mother and Scottish father, wrong for a seafarer on both counts. His parents were a mystery even to his crew. But this isn't a surprise; the captain himself is a mystery. He's a quiet man, and an infuriatingly patient man.
One thing many people don't realize is that most pirate ships run on a form of democracy, the crew has to be part of the decisions else they mutiny and overthrow the Captain. It's the simple way a good pirate ship runs, and Cicero Davis' was no different in that aspect.
But it is different in so many other ways.
The Immortal is the best. That is enough to say right there because explanation only confuses the simple truth. The ship can easily draw up to its prey and invariably the Galleon's broad side with its 22 guns facing the prey would oft be imposing enough to deliver a bloodless surrender. This was encouraged by Captain Davis' distaste for bloodshed, though he is no stranger to the sword.
So is Captain Davis a pirate? I know you have to be thinking that. Nay he does little that would claim the title of pirate, except pillage and steal. No one truly knows what drives him to do what he does. He could have been a very successful merchant captain, or even a naval admiral, yet he took this job.
Why?
Who knows? Not even his first mate Katja can truly say. Oh sure, it's quite easy to make assumptions. Now you are wondering what the story between Captain Davis and Katja is. Well let me stop you right there. They aren't. Captain Davis is intensely private and his mind is his own, but his actions can be observed by all – he treats her as one of his men. No different. And truth be told, she does nothing deserving to be different. She'll help rig the sails or hoist the anchor just the same as the burly twins he brought on board in Tortuga.
The Immortal has perhaps the most eclectic crew to sail the seas. Captain Davis himself is almost his own culture, taking bits and pieces from the world which he's sailed for the majority of his life. Katja brings aboard a strong yet, in truth, beautiful Slavic first mate. The Chiurgeon of the ship, Roland, is a tall lanky black fellow, a freed slave who was taught medicine by his once owner, later adopted father. Quite the story he has, but that's for another day. But I mustn't forget the Swedish Chef, rarely seen on deck as it is rumored he has grown too large to leave the kitchen through the door. Also rarely seen on deck is the Chinese Master of Arms, Xu. He's a quiet man, his face belying his rumored age. He only comes on deck to smoke his pipe, not daring to smoke it below deck near the powder store. He rounds out the majority of the crew, other faces will pop up as the tales of The Immortal grow, such as Ian the Irish snitch – often found in the crow's nest or the nameless twins who are rarely found out of arms reach of the other. But those will come as the stories write themselves.
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Finals Week
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
*sniffs the air* Ah Finals week! Smells like... STRESS.
Yup, stress is upon us and it is time to tread softly on the GT campus for fear of setting someone off. I spent the majority of yesterday studying for my finals, fighter practice was cancelled due to cold weather so studying was my main recourse for the day.
Now, let's talk about last week.
Last week I lost myself. I lost control and became a machine to work on this project for school, I neglected my friend and I even neglected Amanda, causing a great deal of pain because of my tunnel vision. And for what? A stupid number in my grades?
I screwed up last week and let my workaholic personality take over. Something that is now on the top of my list to change. I could almost envision it as if it were a movie, a friend pulled me off to the side and said 'Let's talk a walk.' And on that walk we had a long discussion about it and about what I needed to do differently for myself, and for the sake of others. Indeed it is something that has left me little else to think about. *sigh* But that will pass, it always does.
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Lonely Heart
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
It's been a while since I wrote an intraverted thought, or at least it has felt like blessedly long, but tonight I feel pretty lonely. I'm tempted to close my door and bask in the quiet, and let myself fall into a novel, perhaps continue reading Frank Herbert's Dune or maybe crack Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card.
I know what it is, it comes every Spring, and thus far I've done well to avoid it.
Every Spring, a poem by Patrick Jarrett
Like clockwork I feel very
lonely.
I want to hold someone
close,
to feel a heartbeat kindred
to my own.
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It's 3am
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
do you know where your Shrek is?
I'm about to get in the shower and then head to Universal. I have a 4am call time for the grand opening of the new Shrek attraction. It's going to be fun.
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So Let's Play Catchup
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Alright, so because of the server switch I didn't post because it was already going to be a hassle switching over. And if I wrote I would have to continue exporting to be ready for the server switch. So now we're playing catchup.
Thursday night Brandi came over, we watched Man in the Iron Mask and as she was leaving, it was about 11:30 at night, she opened her car door and it wouldn't open all the way. That's when we noticed the damage to her car. She had gotten hit while parked in the street in front of my house. After doing some gum shoe work we discovered the culprit to be my neighbors across the street. They hadn't left a note or called us or even come and knock on the door. So we called the police to get a report, they tell us if we don't know who did it they won't do shit to help us.
So after some faltering we go across the street, knock on the door and ring the doorbell. And I'll be damned if they didn't turn the ligths off on us. So we go back across the street and called the police again and this time we told them we were sure who did it but they hadn't confessed. After about 30 minutes the Florida Highway Patrol arrived and too make a long, rather boring story short, my neighbor was most upset by the fact we called the police. "Why didn't you call us?" So we explained we knocked on the door and rang the doorbell and no one answered. But he insisted why hadn't we called. Well why should we call if we knock on the door?
The cop was already perturbed at my neighbors. I mean it's really rude to hit a car and not leave a note or a call. And they gave the cop a run around, delaying coming outside. They even called my house while we were outside with the cop and talked to my dad saying "why did you call the cops!?"
So like I said, long story short, they got three citations. First was improper backing, that is - hitting the car. $80 and 4 points on the license. Next was the criminal citation for leaving the scene of an accident and not leaving a note or anything. Mandatory appearance before a judge. And finally a citation for not reporting the incident, in the state of Florida you have to report incidents to the authorities.
So justice was served, now she can get her car fixed and everything.
That was Thursday. Friday I went back to work, Saturday was my last day at Poseidon. I spent all day Friday outside to enjoy the day with guests. They were in a good mood, no big events or anything. Saturday, since it was my last day, I was granted my wish of staying inside in the final room all day. This afforded me the ability to see most people who came through and to relax most of it.
It was sad to leave work knowing I wouldn't be returning to work there again.
Also I am getting shafted with this transfer to being Shrek. I thought I began training today. But instead it turns out I'm training NEXT week, so I lose an entire week of work. So I'll need to find ways to make up for it.
And the site is completely transferred over. Any incoming links to entries will not work, I've redone the organization and everything. Sorry, you'll have to redo them.
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Dad was right
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
I'm going off the air, I'm keeping the domain and the hosting, but I just can't afford to write on the page and salvage this semester.
I screwed it bad. I really screwed it and now I've got to play the perfect game. And this site isn't in the game plan.
Hopefully I'll be back. But right now, I can't let it distract me.
See you later. Hopefully.
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Blogging Breeds Better Writers
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
The following is an essay I wrote for my English class, it is rather short because of the word limit she placed on us, which is thankful because I feel I could have gone on forever had I been given the free reign.
Education consistently teaches formal writing styles, often neglecting the informal. Blog is a term that reporter William Safire of The New York Times reports to have originated in 1999 from a web site called "Robot Wisdom Weblog." Blogs, such as my personal website, encourage both formal and informal styles as a method for recording personal events, communicating both thoughts and ideas while offering a non-traditional way to exercise writing. As I read over my writings from the beginning to the end, I could see my writing style change and grow as I learned and practiced writing.
To learn something, someone must not only practice when directed, they must practice constantly. For a long while, in my own life, I did not realize that I could practice writing overall, I thought it was either formal or informal style, and so when I occasionally wrote informally, I was in truth helping my formal writing as well. My blog has given me a reason to practice, a way to record my life as a journal; but often when keeping a private journal the urge to write would decline and it would eventually fall to the wayside. With a blog, I have readers who I don't know and have never met, but they are someone who comes to my web page wanting to read about my life. This fact causes me to feel an obligation, I write to an audience but I write for myself.
Society is becoming very outgoing and open, sharing things that would normally be confidential; things that would be written only in a private diary are frequently published on newspaper headlines and discussed in depth on television talk shows. Whatever the content, blogs offer a way to post thoughts and feelings in a journalistic manner. They are not limited to news events; they allow a way to share ideas or concepts. However no matter how wonderful the idea, it must be presented well to be accepted, J. Michael Straczynski put it best by saying that "the quality of our thoughts is bordered on all sides by our facility with language." To build that facility we must be able to write well.
Bloggers form a community on the Internet, a large and extensive society of writers from all over the world. This is a communication system of real people, voices of housewives, television actors, jobless computer programmers, teenagers, authors and thousands of others. These people are bloggers; they share opinions on the mundane, stories on their daily lives, and compare thoughts among one another. They are one giant community filled with thousands of "contact zones" as defined by Mary Louise Pratt, this digital crossroad allows people to come together with others who they may never have gotten to know. The blog community is filled with "social spaces where cultures meet, clash and grapple with each other" (Pratt 607). So many opinions in a community guarantees that opinions will differ and emotions will flash causing these clashes as writers compose volley after volley in their debates, these opinions offer new areas for a writer to explore, a new perspective for the writer to consider.
All writers, when asked, speak of how it is necessary to practice – just as it is in any other hobby where style and ability is measured. Many great authors have kept journals as a form of tracking thoughts and practicing the written word. Since the advent of the Internet our society has sped up, language abilities in many have deteriorated into verbal shortcuts and ways to cut a few precious keystrokes in search of speed in communication. But with blogs comes an online medium for communication where we are judged by our words, talking to people who don't know us, only our words. Writing on my blog provides a way to practice my English skills, a place to write about what I want to write about without stress over grading, without an editor – only me. It is that place where my writing flourishes and grows.
Works cited:
Pratt, Mary Louise. "Arts of the Contact Zone." Ways of Writing. David Bartholomae, Anthony Petrosky. Boston: Bedford, 2002. 607.Safire, William. "Blog." The New York Times. 28 July 2002. 15 Sept. 2002.
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Ms. Parrish
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Ms. Parrish was my junior English teacher, also the teacher who let me use her room for my personal study my Senior year. But we're focusing on the teaching she gave me during English class. She taught us to write, I don't mean just stylistically but I mean truly prepared us for college writing. I always liked to write but I truly got skill during her class, and now in college I know just how well I was prepared.
My classmates in English continue to complain about how hard it is to do this short assignment and I've written it three times until this final draft is something I am happy with, something I feel fulfills the prompt.
Thank you Ms. Parrish, for all the teaching you did.
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Bring it on
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
New computer, new risks. I am about to build my new computer for school so I may be offline for a few days depending on the troubles I run into. This is just some fore warning. While the computer will be getting some major boosts, a P4 1.6 gHz, 64 meg GeForce 2 video card, 16x DVD Rom and a 40x12x20 (I think) Burner. So I am headed out to finish getting ready for work. One more day of work...
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Sad Memories
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Even now my eyes carry soft tears, unshed for their purpose. I saw Lilo and Stitch with Brandi tonight after a wonderful day at the beach, but in the movie it touched something which hadn't really come to the surface for many years.
I know I've talked about him to friends but I haven't mentioned him on here as far as I can remember.
George was my best friend all through elementary school, when I first moved to Orlando he came knocking at my door the day we moved in - and from then on we were inseparable. Getting into trouble and exploring, wrestling and playing, we lived side by side. We loved sports, YMCA, backyard, just running. He loved them more than me, but it was a common thread which we shared.
When we were on the same YMCA Soccer team, we held practices in the evening and I was goalie, while George was one of the offensive positions. Well I was rather bored as the ball had not come near my net for the practice scrimmage, as it began heading my way George stole it and began up field, only to trip and fall. Someone else on our team got the ball and kept going, and the action moved away - away from me, away from George, away.
Then he didn't move. He didn't roll over. He didn't stir. Coach Rick thought he was just being lazy, but when he didn't respond to his name being called Coach ran out onto the field and rolled him over. By this time his lips had began turning blue and I began sprinting for the YMCA offices. Another kid ran with me, I don't know who - but we both got there and immediatley called "Dial 911!" and when she did I ran back out to the soccer field. I stood and watched while coach Rick did CPR on George, and I will never forget the sound which came from George as the air escaped his lungs.
It was one of those moments when I knew the truth but, being 10, hoped for it to be wrong. I hoped it was not true. I hoped I hadn't lost him.
It took me a while to get past it, he was my best friend, the one who knew all my secrets - the one who knew all my thoughts. And when I lost him, I lost trust. I had used him as support when I needed it, and when I lost him, I lost my faith in others.
George holds a special place in my heart, and when Lilo and Stitch talked about the broken home, the loss of loved ones, I just felt the tears flow. Soft, unseen except for when I whiped them away. And more remain, for another day.
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9/11 cleanup and social awakening
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Well the clean up of Ground Zero has nearly completed, the final beam will be removed in an hour at a special service. What a tragedy to have lived through, an event which forever changed the face of the earth. But while it remains one of the greatest tragedies and vicious attacks that have taken place on American soil it is also one of the greatest wake up calls ever. America had again dropped into arguing over trivialities, people were segregated emotionally - until this occurred. The loss of life is in no way repaid by the change I have seen in my home, my city, state or even my country, but it is a wonderful way in which a tragedy was turned even slightly into a victory.
I salute every soldier who went overseas to wage the war against terrorism. I salute every policeman and fireman who rushed into the towers. I salute my President. And I salute everyone who came together in this tragedy, everyone who realized what hate was and curbed their behavior, even the tiniest bit.
I am ashamed to admit this. When the planes hit the towers, my first thought was for the lives which were lost, but my mind did not dwell on it, almost immediatley I thought to myself "I turn 18 next month." And that was when no one really knew how we would react, how big this would get, how it would all end. For all we knew, the draft might have been reinstated and my fear was being forced to serve. I was afraid I would have to go to war. Not that I would die. But that I might cause someone else to die. And this bothered me, I thought long and hard about it and war. Fighting for what you believe in. It is something almost alien to my nature. And I would romanticize myself in war, how I could write a novel and describe the faces I remember.
I have always had the ability to memorize faces. If I walk through the mall odds are I'll recognize someone but have no idea where or how. And my fear in going to war, if I were on the front lines, I would have the faces of dead soldiers engrained into my memory. I don't know if I could do it and remain who I am today. I feel sure it would change me. And that is why I salute the soldiers with such vigor.
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Cap and Gown Origins
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Having graduated last night I was struck with the urge to find the history of the odd cap and gown, after posting on the wonderful "Straight Dope" site message boards, I was told the true name of the cap was "the mortarboard" after the mortar spreader used by brick masons and such.
With my new found term I googled and got lucky with the first hit being this page. Which gave such wonderful information as follows:
THE CAP. In comparison to the gown, the mortarboard is relatively young. It descends from a favorite headdress of the medieval laity, the pileus, a close-fitting felt cap that was adopted by the Church in 1311 and became typical at the universities.
Quite an interesting answer.
Now I am off to enjoy the final night with my brother and sister-in-law before they leave for Georgia again. We are off to see Star Wars Attack of the Clones.
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Alright - here goes
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
Alright, so I have the frame work up. I'm gonna devote a good chunk of tomorrow to getting this page flying. As my best friend Josh pointed out this layout is not as flashy as the other one, but with changing from Blogger to Greymatter I ran into some trouble so I am working my way through this all before I get flashy.
I do want opinions on this layout, so please leave me a comment about what you like and what you hate about this one. As I said earlier, I'm just moving in and to give you a bit of perspective, the old page had several weeks of building put into it. This one is what I have come up with currently over two days. I am exploring how possible it will be for the old layout to reappear if I hear that outcry. But right now this is a simple yet elegant layout that works. And so it shall stay until I am ready to run it for its money.
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Moving in
The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
I always found a new web page to be much like a new computer or a new home. Something that was brand new and needed to be broken in, beaten into submission and brought into your trust. So here I am beginning this process - something both enjoyable and frustrating.
Such as now, I am attempting to change the author name from Alice (Through the Looking Glass) to Ronin...
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The following post was from my original blog on ronincyberpunk.com, it is archived here for posterity purposes
So this morning I wake up to do my radio show, end up nearly being late because I lost track of time. Get there, get the show running and as 8:30 comes around I get a call in and it is this woman named Berniece, she's well known to the station, she calls in regularly just to talk to someone. She doesn't listen to the radio, she doesn't like music, but she knows she can call the station and almost always find someone to talk to.
This morning she was calling me to talk about rats coming up the kitchen sink drain pipe, no joke. It was funny but odd too. The worst part is I was so busy laughing and enjoying the call I forgot to setup the next songs so I got caught flat footed and unfortunately had to survive several seconds of empty air while I struggled to get a song queued and come up with something to say.
Oh well, live and learn.
After the radio show I ran some on campus errands, came back to my room and began working on the new layout for my Chessblog. I'm very happy with how it came out, especially since the layout is cross-browser friendly (screwing the big resolutions horribly but guess what - that's your fault not mine JOSH).
About 12:15 I had a lunch scheduled with the sunday school teacher, and a guy who works with Campus Crusade named Josh (not the Josh above). It was a good lunch we went to a nice midtown noodle restaurant and it was an interesting experience. We had a pleasant meal doing some serious talking and getting to know each other.
After our lunch I came back got my stuff and headed for the class for the day, Calculus. I did horrible on my test, I'm really upset with myself and I'm going to go see the professor tomorrow to find out where it puts me grade wise. If I'm in bad shape I may just drop it and wait til next semester. We'll see. I can't have this dragging my GPA lower, to be a PL I have to break 2.3.
After a rousing class of Calculus I went to the "free speech" part of campus with a friend and met up with a group of people to pray. It was refreshing, I needed to lift up concerns and have others hear what burdened me. It's amazing how much weight can be lifted simply by saying it out loud to someone else.
Oh! I almost forgot I met a reader from my page today. I met Mike in passing and that was cool to finally see him face to face. He's another student here on campus and we hadn't met yet but we have now.
As for the rest of my day, it's been lots of studying and working on the Chessblog.
Alright, time to study more.
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